Someone to Love Page 19

  I’m half listening to a judge tell a story about a defamation lawsuit some has-been celebrity filed against a plastic surgeon for telling a gossip magazine she had work done when Mom interrupts the conversation and asks me to come help carry food trays from the kitchen. Mom has always liked to put us to work. My brothers are supposed to be here to help out, but I haven’t seen them yet. Of course.

  After several rounds of food pass through the crowd, Rich finally announces that Dad will be making his speech. I’m really bored. Zach hasn’t spoken to me at all since he arrived, and I’ve had to stand next to Rich the whole time. Dad’s on his way to the podium and some of the guests are taking seats when I spot an empty drink tray that’s about to topple. I grab it. This is a perfect excuse to make a quick getaway to the kitchen.

  Dad’s already cracking jokes at the front of the room. I tune him out, set the tray on top of other empty ones in the kitchen, smile at the caterers and exit a side door that goes to the backyard. The yard lights are on, though I can still see some stars. The breeze feels good as I hear laughter from inside. I guess they like Dad’s corny jokes.

  Then I hear a voice from behind me.

  “I thought you’d come out here,” Mason says.

  He surprises me so much that I jump a little, nearly twisting my ankle from the heel of my stilettos getting stuck in one of the patio’s cracks.

  “You know the escape route,” I say.

  I haven’t seen him all night. He’s sitting in one of the patio chairs, peeling an orange and drinking from a bottle of water. It’s funny—Mason probably hasn’t had a drink since he went to rehab during college, but he’s the one who gave me my first beer when I was in middle school. I still remember how that beer seemed to represent a secret we shared that not even Royce could understand. A secret about needing to numb pain, about drowning out our need to be successful, our need to be loved.

  “Kitchen. Side door. Patio. Same as always. Dad telling his jokes yet?”

  “Something like that,” I say.

  Mason keeps peeling his orange. “Anyone else out here?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Good, then we can talk.”

  “Not you too,” I say, sitting down on a chair next to him. I flex my foot. I can already feel my ankle swelling. I should have worn the grandma pumps Rich picked out to go with my outfit.

  “Why?” Mason asks. “Who else was trying to talk to you?”

  “Mom is always trying to talk to me. About my feelings.”

  Mason sets his peel to the side and offers me a segment of his orange. I shake my head.

  “Can you blame her though?” Mason asks.

  “Yes.”

  “She’s just trying to get through to you.”

  “Right,” I say, kicking off my shoes. I wish this whole gala were already over. I’ve got at least another hour or two before all of the guests finally leave the house.

  “Well?” Mason asks. “Did she get through?”

  “No,” I say.

  “So much for talking.”

  I can hear Dad’s voice booming from inside the house. The crowd cheers at his speech. Honestly, I wish I were standing next to Rich right now, which is saying a lot.

  Mason leans toward me. “You have to get help though.”

  I look down at my ankle. “Don’t we all?”

  “Sure. But your condition...”

  “I don’t have a condition. I drink a little. So what?”

  “Don’t push me away,” Mason says. “You know you need help.”

  I stare at my brother. I wouldn’t let Mom break in. I won’t let him either.

  “Come on, Liv. I’m serious.”

  “Do I really have to tell you this again? I’m not you, Mason. I don’t drink to oblivion.”

  “It’s not only about how much you drink, Liv. It’s why you drink.”

  “I drink why anyone else does,” I say. “It’s social.”

  Mason crosses his arms. “So you’re telling me you’ve never had something to drink when you were alone? Or when you were angry or sad?”

  “It’s when I’m having fun with friends, like anyone else. I mean Jesus Christ, give me a break.”

  “You didn’t seem like you were exactly happy or having fun when I picked you up the other night.”

  “That was different,” I say. “It wasn’t my fault.”

  I rub my ankle. It’s already swelling up.

  “It’s not just about the drinking,” Mason says.

  “You’re barely ever here—you don’t even know that much about me anymore.”

  “You’re really going to make me say it?” Mason asks. His tone isn’t angry like I expected. He just sounds sad. “I didn’t tell Mom or Dad because I wanted to give you the chance to bring it up yourself, but now I wish I’d said something sooner.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Fine,” he says. “Bulimia.”

  I’ve thought that word a million times. I’ve read it all over the internet. Yet somehow hearing the word from someone else and directed toward me feels like a bomb has just been dropped on my life. I panic. How does Mason know? He’s barely around.

  I can’t let him tell Mom and Dad. They’ll make everything into such a big deal. I don’t want them to treat me like I’m sick or crazy or like I can’t handle life on my own.

  “Actually, I’m healthy,” I explain. “And you have no business saying anything to me about my weight, though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “You’ve always seemed to be so concerned about how I look.”

  “I’ve apologized to you about that more than once—please don’t hold that over me forever.”

  “I’m done talking,” I say. “I’m supposed to clear dishes after the speech.” I try to get up, but my ankle hurts too much so I sit down again.

  “You think you’re not obvious, but I can tell more than anyone exactly because I’m here the least. Every time I come back home, you look more skeletal. You never eat with us unless Mom forces you. You use exercise as an excuse to get out of things you don’t want to do. No one ever says anything to you because you’re so sensitive and you start attacking them.”

  “You don’t understand—having weird eating habits is just part of being a girl. It’s not a big deal.”

  “It isn’t? When I was your age, I tried to hide too. But I wasn’t hiding as well as I thought. I wish someone had just, you know, been there for me.”

  I feel bad that Mason is trying to help me, but I really don’t want to have this conversation with him. “I just have a lot of anxiety,” I say, at least sharing part of the truth. “I get nervous. I feel better when I don’t eat very much.”

  “You’re playing with your life,” Mason says. “You’re already thin. You don’t need to diet. It’s dangerous.”

  I stand up from my chair, forgetting the pain from twisting my ankle. “I’m not playing with anything. What do you care about what I do with my body anyway?”

  “Will you stop it? Just stop. You sound ridiculous. I’m not Mom. We’re not in therapy. I’m not Dad, and thank God for that, because you know he would freak out if he knew. You have a problem. You’re going to admit it. And you’re going to get some help for it.”

  This is the worst my stomach has ever felt. I want to get sick right here. Right now. I want to cut too. I want to cut and bleed and vomit and disappear into my room. I hate this. I hate what he’s doing to me. I want to tell him everything, but I can’t—I have to keep going. I don’t have a choice. I don’t have control over that anymore.

  The pain wants out. It comes up, heavy and heaving. It falls out of my mouth in a sudden sob—something I don’t expect.

  “You can’t do this,” I say. “You don’t understand.”


  “Can’t do what? Get you to admit your problem?”

  “Not here. Not tonight. Please.”

  “Just say it,” he says.

  “Please, you can’t say anything,” I beg. “I’ll take care of it.”

  “How?” Mason asks.

  “I’ll eat more. I’ll put on weight.” I start wondering if I’m telling the truth or not. I can’t tell whether I actually like bulimia or hate what it’s doing to me. I don’t even know who I would be without the purging or cutting, or any of it.

  “That’s not enough,” he says.

  “I’ll get help. Just don’t tell Mom and Dad.”

  “And keep this secret?”

  “Just a little longer. Please.”

  Applause sounds from the house. Dad’s speech must be over.

  “This isn’t the right place,” I say, hoping my brother will see how horrible and embarrassing telling our parents would be right now. “It’s not the right time.”

  Mason looks at me like I’m hiding something. He pauses a moment, then picks up his orange, shaking his head. “Fine. But you have to tell them soon. Or I will.”

  “I promise,” I say as guests begin walking out from the house into the backyard. I quickly wipe the wetness from my cheeks and start putting my shoes on.

  When I stand up, Mason gives me an awkward hug. I really don’t want to be touched at the moment. “We all just want you to be happy,” he says.

  “I know,” I say, pulling away. I spot Mom and Dad walking out the back door with Zach and his father. Rich is trailing close behind them, holding a clipboard close to his chest.

  “Good to see you finally arrived,” Dad says to Mason. They hug, patting each other on the back. Mason and Dad used to have a tough relationship.

  He wasn’t exactly the best example as a big brother either.

  “You look a little pale,” Mom says. “Are you okay?”

  Zach and Mr. Park stare at me, trying to assess what’s wrong.

  “I’m fine. I just rolled my ankle on the bricks.” I look down at my feet and realize that my ankle has swelled so much that I can barely tell where my ankle begins and my calves end.

  Rich shakes his head. “Where are the pumps I had set out for you?”

  “Not now, Rich,” Mom says, glaring at him. “I’ll get you an ice pack.”

  Zach steps next to me and puts my arm over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Blakely. You and Mr. Blakely are busy. I’ll get her an ice pack. I’m a great nurse.”

  Mason rolls his eyes. Like he’s ever been half as gentlemanly as Zach.

  “Looks like you raised your son right,” Dad says to Mr. Park.

  Zach and I are barely two steps away before our parents have launched into a discussion about some big real estate development plan for West Hills.

  “Thanks, Zach,” I say, barely able to hobble through the kitchen. “I feel so clumsy.”

  Guests are staring at us and I can’t tell if it’s because of my pathetic wounded-animal limp or because they recognize Zach from his show.

  Zach tries to take more of my weight on him, but I don’t want to crush him and I can feel myself resisting. It makes our walk even more awkward and I nearly knock him over. “Stop trying to keep your weight off me,” he says. “You’re tiny. I can handle it.”

  I’m about to argue with him to just let me plop down on a chair right in the middle of everything when Zach quickly bends down and scoops me up in his arms.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Normally I’d protest at someone picking me up, especially a boy, but I’m so exhausted from fighting with Mason I’m not even mad. Just stunned.

  “Taking you upstairs. You need to rest, and we’re never going to make it up the stairs with you fighting me like that,” he says, laughing. “Have you always been so stubborn?”

  “It’s my most endearing quality.” I lean against him, pressing my head against his shoulder. His freshly washed hair smells like fresh peppermint, which causes my muscles to relax. I’m trying not to worry how heavy I must be in his arms and just enjoy being held by him despite the pain throbbing around my ankle.

  Zach carries me up the stairs to my bedroom while trying to explain to the guests that I’ve twisted my ankle. They all sigh at me and compliment him on his chivalry.

  He sets me down on the armchair in the corner of my room.

  I lean back against the chair and pull my ankle up over my knee. “Thanks. Sorry you had to do that.”

  “Stop apologizing,” Zach says. “Put your ankle up. I’ll get the ice.”

  I laugh at Zach being such a demanding nurse. “Yes. Sir.”

  While Zach’s downstairs, I hobble over to my bed and put my leg up on a pile of pillows. I try slowly inhaling and counting my breaths to reduce the pain.

  Zach comes back into my room and says, “Don’t forget that I’m your nurse. You have to do what I say.”

  I laugh. “All right, Dr. Nurse.”

  “Hey. That was pretty funny for a gimp,” Zach says. He lifts my leg and puts the ice pack underneath my ankle. The temperature makes me inhale sharply.

  “That’s cold.”

  “It’s ice,” Zach says.

  He hasn’t taken his hand from my leg. In fact, Zach begins rubbing my leg up and down. It feels so good, but I can’t get over the fact that he’s touching my cankle.

  “Your skin’s so soft...”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I moisturize.”

  He laughs. “Feisty.”

  “That’s one word you could use to describe me.”

  “That’s what I like about you, Liv. You’re not afraid to be funny. Or to show who you really are.”

  Does Zach really know who I am? Does anyone?

  “That helps.” I look down at his hand, which is now rubbing my foot. I make a mental note to get a pedicure soon. “I hope I don’t need crutches.”

  “Probably not. The swelling already looks like it’s going down.” He pulls the ice pack off my ankle. “You should take this off for a few minutes.”

  Zach sets the ice pack on the carpet, then walks to the other side of the bed. He sits next to me as I keep my foot propped up. “Liv? Can I say something?”

  “Yeah,” I say, not knowing how to respond. Is Zach going to break up with me? Is he going to tell me he’s back together with Cristina? Or that he’s too busy to date?

  “I’ve been thinking about this for a few days, and I was going to wait to tell you somewhere else, but...” Zach leans over and brushes my hair behind my ear. “I think I’m really falling for you.”

  t w e n t y - t w o

  “Gossip, as usual, was one-third right and two-thirds wrong.”

  —L.M. Montgomery

  I’m standing between Mom and Rich outside Dad’s office. He’s wrapped up in an exclusive interview with KTLA, verbally performing this high-wire act where he both praises and bashes the other candidates in the race for governor.

  It’s the usual spiel. Pete Zhang may have made $100 million via online marketing, but that doesn’t transfer to balancing state budget woes. Julianne Summerlin was raised in a small town in the Central Valley, then became mayor of Stanislaus, but so what? That doesn’t compare with being a congressman and especially the Speaker of the House during a time of terror and war. He goes on and on about his qualifications while I’m standing, smiling at the other journalists interviewing Mom.

  Only I feel the smile wanting to slip off my face.

  So I try to think of happy childhood moments. This is difficult because the cameraman is aiming right in my direction and I know millions of people will not only have access while they’re at home, in doctor’s offices and in every sports bar in LA, this stuff is going to be online too. And that’s what truly horrifies me. My face. Everywhere.

/>   It’s not like anyone is reading about my accomplishments. To them, I’m just one of Dad’s pretty accessories, someone to be shown off as a testament to his wonderful parenting skills. I have to think about something else.

  I force remembrances of amusement parks and chasing our old cat, Zoe, around when she was a kitten to help me retain my smile. That lasts five seconds. Maybe ten. The negativity creeps back in.

  Rich is standing next to me, making sure everything goes as planned. His cologne smells awful. It’s so strong I want to gag, but I can’t because of the cameras.

  “You’re wilting,” Rich whispers under his breath.

  “I’m trying,” I say through my teeth.

  “Imitate your mother,” he says, gesturing to her as she effortlessly charms the journalist who’s interviewing her. “Learn from her. She’s perfection.”

  “Why do I have to be here? No one’s looking at me.”

  “No complaining at public events.” Rich waves his hand like he’s batting my comment away. “You’ll seem ungrateful. And don’t wear that color next time,” he says, looking me up and down. “Yellow does not work for you. Try blue.”

  Why do I have to deal with public appearances when Royce and Mason never have to? I’m still in high school. I don’t need a control freak politician wrangler micromanaging my life. I need to be at home studying, drawing, thinking about Zach.

  Dad decided this would be a good time for me to help with the campaign. What did he call it? A “low-stress opportunity” to show off the Blakely family to the public.

  I don’t have to say or do anything. Just show up, look nice, or at least try to, because the polls say that having a beautiful family somehow makes a candidate trustworthy. Even though I won’t be interviewed, videos or photos of me will show up everywhere. That means I have to trust hundreds of strangers, these people who are hungry for drama, to make me look good. This is why I have to appear cheerful. This is why I, apparently, should not wear yellow.