Dr. Lund regarded me strangely before he asked, “You told him about your past?”

Nodding my head slowly, I answered, “Yes.”

A slow grin spread across Dr. Lund’s face. Dr. Lund had many expressions: stern, concerned, intrigued, but never overtly impressed.

“Lexi, we have been having these sessions for years. In that time, the people who have knowledge of your disorder, the people you have told about your disorder, I can count on one hand: your daddy, momma, Daisy, of course, and me. You have not told your best friends at school, Molly, Cass, and Ally, because…?” Dr. Lund trailed off and waited for me to answer.

Playing with the edge of the sleeve on my shirt, I confessed, “Because I didn’t want them to see me as weak. I didn’t want them to see me as some victim they had to walk on eggshells around. I wanted to go to college and be someone else other than Lexington Hart, anorexic.”

Dr. Lund nodded thoughtfully, like only psychiatrists can. Bringing his steepled-hands to his lips, he asked. “But you told this boy, after only knowing him a couple months. What makes him so different from your friends?”

Shrugging, I kept my focus down. I didn’t want to tell Dr. Lund that I felt a spiritual connection to Austin. I didn’t want to tell Dr. Lund that, sometimes, someone could stumble unannounced into the train wreck that is your life and begin to pull you out of the heavy rubble weighing down on your chest. I didn’t want to share that Austin knew hardship too. That although our respective issues were poles apart in nature, we were kindred spirits in the fight to not let these issues destroy us as people.

Austin was bringing color into my gray scale life.

He was precious to me.

He was my secret, another one I wasn’t willing to share.

“Lexi, you do not have to tell me about him straightaway—it’s a very new stage in your recovery—but I would like you to consider what made this gentleman different from anyone else. I am sure you understand the gravity of your confession to him, and that pleases me.” Dr. Lund sat back in his seat, and I slowly lifted my gaze to meet his. Dr. Lund’s happy expression had turned into one of real concern. “But it worries me too. You’ve put your trust in someone, opened up to someone after years of hiding away behind the dark makeup and clothes.”

“Then what concerns you? I thought you said it was progression?” I asked quietly.

“That this could go one of two ways.”

“I don’t understand?”

“Lexi, this boy could bring you out of your shell, help you with your insecurities, give you a real sense of worth, one that is not measured by a scale. Or he could build you up only to cut you down, and you could find yourself in a darker place than you were only a few short years ago. You have to decide if he is worth the risk.”

I did consider what Dr. Lund was saying, but frankly, over the last few weeks, I’d been falling for Austin so hard that I couldn’t bear the thought of not speaking to him. Austin was the one person I could be my complete self with. There was no fakery, no acting around him; it was just me and him.

Austin is worth the risk.

“Take some time, Lexi. Think it through, and we can discuss it when you are ready.”

Dr. Lund scribbled the last few notes on his clipboard and shut it with a slam. “Time’s up.”

Standing, I moved to walk out of the room, when Dr. Lund said, “Oh and, Lexi, one more thing. If I keep seeing evidence of weight loss, I will be forced to submit you for an assessment. One or two pounds may be understandable with the amount of exercise you are doing of late. But any more than that and it will be a red flag that you are falling back into old habits.”

I glared at Dr. Lund coldly and, swiftly exiting his room, made my way to the bathroom across the hall. My heart was slamming in my chest.

Moving to the row of sinks, I forced myself to look at my reflection in the mirror.

I had lost weight.

I now stood at ninety-two pounds.

More than Dr. Lund suspected.

A slow grin began spreading on my face. Lifting my fingers, they brushed over my body. My collarbone was becoming more pronounced, just how I liked. My cheeks were defining, sallow and severe in shape, and lifting my long, loose dress and ignoring the instant repulsion at seeing the layers of fat on my dimpled thighs, I saw that the gap between my thighs was increasing. It was slight, but it was there. The thigh gap was everything to me—what I measured my weight loss by. It was the proof of triumph over will.

Yet it wasn’t enough. There was still too much fat. My jaw clenched and my hands fisted at my sides.