Page 49 of Becoming Us

“See you around,” I echoed flatly.

I watched him walk away, jealousy and unease gnawing at me in equal measure.

Why was Atty still talking to that guy?

Wasn’t I enough? Or was Mathew just a backup plan? Just in case Noah fucks up again, Mathew’s right there to step back into the lineup.

Sounds pretty likely to me.

I shook my head.

Atty wasn’t like that.

I could just ask him. This didn’t have to turn into a thing.

It didn’t.

Two days later, I finally got the all-clear to work out again. I’d been feeling like an absolute slob, parked on the couch all day. Even with Atty visiting and Ezra and I inching toward something that resembled friendship, I still felt off.

That conversation with Mathew kept replaying in the back of my mind, gnawing at me like a loose thread. I didn’t want to bring it up with Atty. Not if it meant picking a fight. Not when I still couldn’t tell if I was being rational or just paranoid.

I’d spent the whole morning on the phone with Richard and a couple of other guys, hammering out a new maintenance plan for the boat. It was a fucking money pit if I had ever seen one, but I couldn’t make myself sell it. My dad had loved that thing. Just thinking about it had me in a foul mood already, and I had hoped exercise would help burn off the stress.

It didn’t.

And to make matters even worse, Steve had warned me not to check the scale, said it didn’t matter. But the second I saw it, I stepped on before he could stop me. The number staring back at me wasn’t just higher—it wasforeign. Too high. Higher than I’dever seen. Steve noticed my wide-eyed stare and tried to smooth it over with talk about muscle mass and healthy gain. Said it was expected. Said it was fine.

But I knew better. I had mirrors.

Later that night, I stood in front of one of those mirrors, damp from the shower, the air foggy but not enough to blur what I saw. I didn’t need clarity to know what was wrong.

The softness clinging to my frame wasn’t supposed to be there. The curve of my stomach. The way my hips pushed at the towel. My reflection looked unfamiliar.

“Stop it,” I muttered.

It was just weight. That’s all. Weight came and went. I’d let myself slide, sure—but I could fix it. I could get back on track. It wasn’t permanent.

Not as quickly as before. Not now that your metabolism isn’t running on coke and stress.

But that wasn’t even the fucking point. Weight gain was good for me. I had always been on the underweight side of the spectrum. This was supposed to be a good thing.

I rubbed a hand down my face, then gripped my nose between my thumb and forefinger.

There’s always an easy way out.

I shook my head hard.

“Deal with the consequences. No easy way out. Work for it. Accept it, ” I whispered, barely audible over the roar of my thoughts.

I was fine. This was fine. One thought didn’t mean relapse. It was just a flicker. A habit. A reflex.

I patted my cheeks twice, sharp and fast, and reached for clothes. Atty would be here any minute, and tonight was supposed to be our first real date since I ditched the crutches and could walk on my own again.

I pulled on underwear, then reached for my jeans. They used to fit like a glove. Now they clung at the thighs, tight through the hips. I struggled with the button, sucked in, tried again. No dice.

My eyes flicked back to the mirror. They didn’t fit.

“Fuck,” I breathed.