Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
“Are you all right, Lacey?”
She jumps and turns around. There’s a piece of paper clutched in her fingers and an expression in her eyes like she’s drowning. All I want to do is reach out and save her.
Chapter Eight
Lacey
Mr. Blomqvist seems out of breath, as if he ran all the way up here.
I straighten quickly and try and smooth out my expression of panic. I only got halfway through my affirmations, and my heart is still racing. “Sorry. I know I shouldn’t be in here. I just needed a moment.”
I had to come to his office. It’s calming, being in here. The tidy space, the bonsai, the sofa. The reminder of him. This is the only place in the last year where I’ve felt comfortable eating with another person present.
Mr. Blomqvist comes in and stands next to me. “It’s all right. I was just worried about you.”
“I wasn’t going to fall down any stairs,” I say with a weak smile. “Promise.”
He doesn’t return my smile. We stand in awkward silence together, looking at his plants.
“Shouldn’t you be downstairs?” I ask. “I thought you were supposed to introduce the professor who’s speaking tonight.”
“Someone else is.”
I don’t know if I believe him, and it makes me feel wretched that he’s up here with me when he’s got other responsibilities. I’m being unprofessional and a liability, two things that only make my anxiety worse. Doctor Loftin tells me I can have a normal life if I learn to manage these situations, but I don’t think I believe her. The taste of wine in my mouth makes me want to throw up.
Mr. Blomqvist breaks the silence first. Studying the ficus, he asks quietly, “Why did you take the job when I was such an asshole to you?”
I look up at him in surprise. His expression is serious and hard as granite. I give him a one-shouldered shrug. “I have to say yes to things that make me seem normal. I wanted to leave as soon as I saw it was you, but once I’d talked to you, you didn’t seem so bad. Demanding people don’t frighten me. Actually, I kind of like them.”
The words pass my lips like a forbidden confession, skating close to what I really want to say. Actually, I kind of like you. “You never asked me why I need to eat in secret. You probably think I’m really weird.”
Still looking at the bonsai, he says, “I think you’re under a lot of pressure to be a certain way and do certain things. Otherwise, I don’t think much other than that you’re a lovely and capable young woman.”
I look up at him sharply and find him gazing back at me. My heart explodes in a shower of stars. I can’t help it. He said I’m lovely.
I imagine what it would be like if he took me in his arms and kissed me. I know it could never happen. He must be fifteen years older than me and doesn’t think about me like that. He’s probably got a girlfriend. I still want to share more of myself with him, because right now the only person who understands me is my therapist, and how sad is that?
“I don’t feel lovely and capable. Social events are hard with people eating and being loud. Work is more manageable. I thought I could manage it, anyway.”
Mr. Blomqvist doesn’t say anything. From anyone else I’d assume the silence meant he was uncomfortable, but I know he’s just listening.
“Here,” I say, passing the list of affirmations to him. The paper is worn and falling apart from so much unfolding and refolding, but my handwriting is still legible.
“You were looking for this in your bag that night?” he asks, reading the words.
I nod, looking at the paper in his big fingers. He’s got beautiful hands. I wonder what they’d be like to hold onto. I kissed boys in high school when I was still more or less functional around people, but at university when you’re supposed to go on dates and have casual sex, I was too tired, sick and anxious for any of that. I’ve missed out on so much. I’m still missing out.
“They’re an antidote to the other things my mind yells at me.”
He nods as if he understands, and passes the paper back. I remember what he said about not focusing on things you can’t control. What must that be like, not to have your mind screaming at you all the time that you’re disgusting and unworthy?
“I’m so jealous of you,” I whisper. It just slips out. When I talk to my therapist, everything’s so goal-oriented and structured. How was your week, what was the hardest moment, did you eat. Over and over again. With Mr. Blomqvist, I feel like a person. He’s my boss and I should be careful about how much I share with him, but there’s no one else in my life like him and I crave to be closer to him.