Page 112 of Killer Body

Finally, I gain on him. Grab his sweater from behind.

“I wish it would go away, but it won’t. You have to tell me.”

The anger in his eyes is hot enough to blast this stadium of noise to splinters. I match it with my own anger, my own need. I’ll die before I as much as blink.

“Okay.” He chokes out the word, looks around as if someone can hear, but they can’t hear. They’re all on their feet, dancing, cheering for Troy. “It’s my fault.”

Perfect diction, no sign of tears.

Through the cheers of VivaTroy,I ask, “Why?”

“I’m a perfectionist.”

“So was she.”

“I made it worse.”

He’s thrown me a line I’d love to hang on to, but I know better. That’s why I’m here. He’s not the one to blame, not the reason. At worst, he’s a symptom.

I take his arm, say, “Come on,” and lead him down the steps to our seats. He’s no longer fighting me.

“She thought she had to try too hard,” he says.

“She always thought that, long before she met you. It’s the way we were raised.”

I can’t think about it, or I’ll be the one who falls apart. Just think about the stairs. One step, then another. We’ll be down there soon, ringside. Another round, another eternity, is over, and Troy sprawls in his corner, a satin dot on the black night of the ring below.

“You know about Julie Larimore,” he says.

“You mean that Lisa wanted to look like her?”

“If it hadn’t been Julie, it would have been someone else.” His voice offers no hope. His eyes are dark shields of pain, curtains down, no visitors, please.

Then the bell, and Troy goes for it. And so do I.

“When we were growing up, I knew what she did, even though I didn’t see it.”

“I didn’t see it, either,” he says. “She was too careful.”

I feel as if I’m the one who wants to vomit now. As we near our seats, I know what he’s going to tell me. Worse, I know what I should have told myself years before. We’ve both seen the truth. We’ve both managed to avoid it. And now, with Lisa gone, there’s no reason to lie.

I slide my arm down and squeeze his hand. “Lots of people have eating disorders,” I say.

“It wasn’t a disorder. She was just too much of a perfectionist.” He shakes free of my grip, rubs both hands together.

The hairs on my neck ripple with the recognition of what he can’t admit.

“She binged. She ate and ate and ate, then tried to eliminate the consequences.”

“I didn’t figure it out for a long time,” he says. We’re back in our seats, the fight before us only noise now. His voice comes out exhausted, yet relieved. “Then I found the syringes.”

I hadn’t expected this, but I let myself absorb his words, trying to keep from trembling, trying to pretend it is an interview, that I am an emotion-free reporter. “What then?”

“I had to confront her. She said they were some high-tech weight-loss drugs the Killer Body trainer had picked up in Mexico. I was worrying over nothing, she said. All she wanted was to be perfect by our wedding day.”

“And you believed her?”

“I thought I did. I couldn’t let myself think that she had a problem, not even when she’d go days at a time without seeing me.”