The Disappearing Girl (7 page)

“What about you?” he asked, as he took a long sip of his coffee. “Any sordid details I should know about your past relationships?”

There were sordid details about my life, but not about my relationship history. “No, I had a boyfriend my senior year of high school, but we broke up before we both left for college. I’ve dated a couple of boys from campus, but nothing serious.”

“Your family lives in Red Bank?”

“Yes, my mother and sister. My father…” I trailed off and fiddled with the hem of my sweater before continuing. “My father died a couple of years ago.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said softly. His eyes held the question most people had when I brought up my father’s death, but Cameron was being too polite to ask it.

“Thank you,” I replied sincerely. “It was sudden. He had a massive heart attack while mowing the lawn. I found him in the backyard …”

Tears flooded my eyes. I couldn’t think about
that,
I scolded myself silently. Shutting my eyes, I saw my father slumped over, face down on the freshly cut grass. His brown hair was wet with perspiration and stuck to his cheeks, concealing his face. I screamed when I fell before him and wrenched him onto his back. My hands pounded his chest, doing CPR, frantically trying to bring my father back to life. A neighbor saw us and dialed 911. EMT workers pushed me aside while I continued in vain to get his heart beating again. My father was pronounced dead at the scene.

I never permitted myself the time to dwell on that day and what I had seen. My objective had been to focus on only the happy memories of my father. His death was too painful, the reason I couldn’t bring myself to visit the cemetery since the funeral. He was in his early fifties when he died, and I’d mistakenly believed we would have decades together. He was supposed to give me away at my wedding and be a doting grandfather to my kids.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Cameron said and scooted over to me. He intertwined his fingers with mine. I studied our hands and waited for the tumultuous feelings inside me to pass.

“I’m sorry. It’s hard to talk about my dad. We were close and his death still feels raw. He was so young.” I sniffed as the tears continued to threaten to spill over.

Since his death, my father had grown to mythic proportions in my mind. Everything was better before he died. My mother’s narcissistic tendencies and obsession with beauty were kept in check. My father treated her like the queen she imagined herself to be and limited the criticism from her Lila and I were forced to endure. She’d never been the affectionate type with us, but my father more than made up for it.

“I can’t imagine what that must’ve been like,” he said kindly. I shyly peered up at him and found myself mesmerized by his eyes. They held me in place, and I wanted to disappear inside of them.

“I’m guessing you didn’t picture comforting a crying girl when you invited me out for coffee,” I mumbled. “Are you close to your parents?”

His expression suddenly turned distant. Then I blinked, and the hardness was gone. I wondered if it was ever there in the first place. “Yes, they’re great. I try to visit once a week. They pull out all the stops for me when I’m there. I get a huge home-cooked meal, my laundry done, and enough leftovers to last a week.”

“A mama’s boy?” I joked.

His eyes were humorless. “I guess so,” he responded, but something sounded off about his tone. I couldn’t tell whether the mood change was from talking about his parents or my teary outburst.

As I took the final sip of my green tea, I said, “I have a presentation tomorrow for class, so I should probably get going to prepare.”

He nodded with understanding, most likely realizing how embarrassed I was about crying in front of him. Cameron was too unnerving. He was making me open up and talk about things I had buried deep inside myself. Being with him was effortless, and I was afraid to develop that kind of connection with someone I barely knew.

Clearing off our table, he held out my jacket while I slipped into it and then put on his own coat. I was silent when he walked me to my Jeep.

He broke the silence. “I would really like to see you again.”

“I haven’t scared you off yet?” I said half-jokingly.

“No way,” he asserted. “Your father died, of course you’re going to get upset talking about him.”

I broke away from his intense stare and surveyed the parking lot. “Are you parked close by?”

Cameron pointed to a car in the rear of the parking lot. My jaw dropped as I turned back to face him. “Are you serious?”

“Is it a deal breaker? Not everyone likes it,” he said with a chuckle. I was relieved to see his mood lighten. Something about our conversation had made him uncomfortable and I couldn’t pinpoint what had bothered him so much. Since we’d only met, I figured spending time together would allow him to open up in the same way I did.

“Are you kidding me? What’s not to like?” I demanded incredulously. “Can I check it out?”

“Of course.”

We crossed the parking lot and I stared in awe at his metallic blue Mustang. It looked like a model from the mid-1960s, but it had been restored to its former glory. The paint looked fresh, and it sparkled in the sunlight. “What year is it?”

“A 1967,” he replied. Giving me a sidelong glance, he remarked, “I bought it last year after talking to the owner at a classic car show.”

He opened the passenger door for me, and I slid in and got comfortable in the black leather bucket seat. It was a two-door model, and the interior was as pristine as the bodywork. Cameron climbed into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine revved to life, and I found the loud rumble of the motor satisfying.

“Wow, you have the best car ever,” I sighed. I grazed my fingers lovingly over the dashboard.

“I think it’s really cute how excited you’re getting about my car,” he joked.

Leaning toward me, he caressed my cheek with his thumb. I tilted toward him and pressed my lips against his. I set the rhythm of the kiss, starting out slow, leisurely exploring every bit of his mouth. As the fire built between us, my kisses turned fast and passionate.

I pulled away with a whimper. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the coffee shop.” I motioned to the inside of the car. “This is surprising. I figured you’d drive something more businesslike, a sedan or something.”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “I have a shitty job; I have to find ways to have fun outside of work.”

“And what other ways do you like to have fun?” I asked flirtatiously.

Without any warning, his mouth crushed against mine and I parted my lips for him. As we pulled apart, the tip of his ring finger traced a line across my swollen bottom lip. “I also have a motorcycle. You’ll have to take a ride with me once the weather warms up.”

I blanched. “I think I’m too much of a wimp to ride on a motorcycle.”

His eyes danced with amusement. “You’ll love it, I promise.”

I rested against the seat and took a minute to study him. “You’re a credit card rep who has a muscle car and rides a motorcycle. You’re certainly unique.”

“I like you a lot, Kayla.” Cameron’s tone softened. “Will you have dinner with me?”

I almost groaned out loud. Why did so much of our lives have to focus on food? “That sounds nice,” I said noncommittally.

“Are you free Friday night?”

“No, I’m going home for the weekend. My mother wants to spend time with me for my birthday.” That was the nice way of putting it. In actuality, my mom wanted to continue her reign of emotional damage until I was close to imploding.

“How about Thursday then?”

Since I was free on Thursday, we made plans for him to pick me up from the dorm at seven. My anticipation level would be at an all-time high waiting for our date all week. Maybe Cameron would be able to help me rediscover what happiness looked like.

Chapter Nine

The stomach cramps began at eight in the morning. They woke me from a deep slumber and I clutched my mid-section in agony. I made it to the bathroom with only seconds to spare.

After leaving Starbucks, the cookie began to haunt me. Along with the cake and pizza from the night before, I suspected the weight I’d worked so hard to lose would creep back on. All the nights I went to bed crying because I was ravenous would be for naught.

By the time I returned to the dorm, it would’ve been too late to throw up the cookie. With this in mind, I ended up pulling into the closest pharmacy. I combed the store until I found the aisle with the digestive aids. I had no idea how effective the laxatives were and chose the box labeled maximum strength.

As I swallowed two pills, chasing the medicine down with a sip of the bottled water I purchased, I skimmed the directions on the back. The laxatives would produce a bowel movement within twenty-four hours and should be taken with plenty of water. The recommended dosage was two capsules, but I swallowed another two to be sure the pills would empty out whatever was left behind from my two days of snacking.

I cried out as I sat miserably on the toilet the next morning. The cramps stabbed at my gut and wouldn’t let up. Once I finished going to the bathroom, I thought the worst was over. But instead, the ache continued and I was unable to get off of the toilet. There would be no possible way I’d make my presentation at nine-thirty; it was ten percent of my grade in Press History, and I was already struggling in the course.

I was in the bathroom for over an hour. My roommates would be getting up soon and I felt humiliated about the stench emanating from the bathroom. Despite spraying half a can of air freshener, the area still remained toxic. Slinking out of the bathroom, I rushed into my room and gently shut the door. If I pretended to be invisible, I wouldn’t have to face my roommates.

As I collapsed on the bed, I came to the conclusion I didn’t care that much about my Press History grade. Nothing else mattered in my quest to be skinny.

“Christ, Kayla, you look so small! How much weight have you lost?”

Brittany stood in my doorway while I dressed for my date with Cameron. I had on a camisole and black pants and was browsing through my closet trying to choose a shirt. Brittany scrutinized my body, her eyes narrowed, and I could see her trying to calculate how much weight I’d dropped over the past few weeks.

“I don’t know,” I said nonchalantly, “maybe ten pounds.”

The accurate number was nineteen pounds. I weighed myself religiously at the same time each morning and again before bed at night. During winter break, I’d been one hundred forty-five pounds. That morning the scale had displayed one hundred twenty-six. In only six weeks, I’d dropped three dress sizes.

“What kind of diet are you doing? I barely see you eat anything at all.”

I was flustered. I had tried to hide the shameful things I was doing to become skinny. I always ate alone in my room, and I only binged and purged when my roommates weren’t around. I had tried to simply eat five hundred calories a day to keep up with my weight loss. Yet, after a day or two, my stomach would twist in protest and I found myself craving the food I’d been denying myself. I couldn’t stop eating until I greedily consumed enough junk food that my belly felt close to explosion. As I vomited the food into the toilet, I would finally feel a stillness inside me. I hated passing the mirror as I exited the bathroom, my cheeks flushed and my eyes red-rimmed, the evidence of how I was powerless against food plain on my face.

“I told you about my resolution,” I said. “I’m really trying to watch what I eat. I’m not following a set diet.” I continued the exploration of my closet, praying Brittany would stop her line of questioning.

As I dug a red sweater out of the closet, Brittany snorted with distaste. “You’re not seriously thinking about wearing that, are you? It’s a date, not another day for you to bum around in your hideous sweaters.”

Elbowing me out of the way, she reached in for a white top with the tags still attached. “Wear one of the shirts I bought you for your birthday.”

“It’s see-through,” I pointed out. It was a sheer white lace top with a floral design stitched into the fabric.

Brittany rolled her eyes. “You don’t wear it without anything underneath, you’d be arrested. Keep on the black camisole you’re wearing. I’d change into a skirt, too, but since you dress like a nun, I’m guessing you’ll stick with the black pants.”

Assuming she’d harass me until I submitted, I put on the top. I shifted uneasily, hating how much my body was on display. Gazing into the full-length mirror on the wall, I criticized every bulge visible. The only thing I saw in my reflection was how horribly fat I appeared. This was what my life had become inside of my mind. The mantra of
fat, fat, fat
on constant replay.

“I look awful,” I protested.

“Are you on drugs, Kayla? Cameron’s tongue is going to fall out of his mouth when he sees you.” Chewing on her thumb thoughtfully, she added, “You better wear your sexiest pair of underwear, too.”

“I’m not sleeping with him tonight. It’s our first date.” I picked up a hairclip from my desk, gathered my hair into a loose bun, and clipped it to the nape of my neck. My makeup bag was on my desk and I began to apply my mascara.

“I beg to differ. It’s your third date, and by most standards that’s when you’re supposed to have sex for the first time.” Brittany perched on my desk, observing me.

“How do you figure? We’ve never been on a real date yet.”

Brittany counted with her fingers. “The night at the bar for your birthday, the day after when you went to coffee together and now tonight.”

Smiling wryly, I asked, “Is that how long you waited to sleep with Kurt?”

Brittany stuck out her ample chest and huffed, “Yes. Our first date was when he walked us home from the gym, our second date was when we went to dinner at The Court and the third was when he took me to ice cream after dinner.”

I giggled. “I think calling that three dates is a stretch.”

Brittany rolled her eyes and changed the subject. “Where’s Cameron taking you to dinner?”

“La Villa Rosa. I told him to pick a place and he said they have good Italian food there. I’ll be too anxious to eat much anyway so it doesn’t matter where we go.”