Page 47

“Sit.” Mom’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Nonsense.” She nods to Thomas, who places a roll on my plate. The icing melts, dripping down the sides. “Just one bite. For your father’s birthday.”
“Mrs. Smith—” Brandon starts.
“It’s Lydia, dear.” Her eyes lock onto mine. “Naomi, don’t be difficult. One bite won’t kill you.”
But it might.
“She shouldn’t eat so much.” Brandon cuts in, “We have dinner reservations later. Business meeting with?—”
“At this hour?” Mom’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arch. “Surely you can have one small piece. Isn’t that right, David?”
“Do what your mother says,” Dad says. “This dinner is already awful enough.”
Mykel and Madison glance around, trapped in the middle of a drama we all don’t want to be a part of.
My mother spears her roll. “Take. A. Bite.”
Fine. She wants a show? I’ll give her one.
I grab the roll, tearing off a piece larger than I intended. Shit. The dough squishes between my fingers, warm and sticky. I won’t let her win. Without breaking eye contact, I shove it in my mouth.
The cinnamon burns, coating my tongue like sandpaper, and sugar crystals crunch between my teeth, each grain a separate torment. The sweetness turns metallic in my mouth, mixing with the bitter taste of panic rising from my stomach.
I want to gag, to spit it out, but I force myself to chew, counting each movement of my jaw.
One. Two. Three.
I swallow, the dough forming a lump in my throat. “Happy?”
“Was that so hard?” Mom turns to Madison. “Now, tell me more about this moving situation…”
The bathroom calls to me, its promise of relief just down the hall. But Mom’s watching.
Three hundred seconds.
I reach for my water glass, trying to wash away the taste of cinnamon, but it’s pointless.
The room spins. Two hundred and forty seconds left. My stomach churns, the cinnamon roll joining the meat, sitting like lead. I grip my water glass so hard my knuckles turn white.
I can’t wait that long.
“Excuse me.” I push back from the table. “Restroom.”
“Naomi.” Mom’s voice cuts through the fog. “We’re not finished.”
“I am.”
“This is your father’s birthday dinner.”
I bolt before anyone can say another word. The hallway stretches before me like an endless tunnel.
Almost there. Almost?—
The bathroom door locks behind me with a satisfying click. I turn on the faucet, letting the water drown out everything else, and kneel on the cold tile floor, shoving two fingers down my throat.