t w e n t y - o n e
“What strange creatures brothers are!”
—Jane Austen
Dad’s announcing his campaign to run for governor at our house today. Election Day is ten months away, which isn’t much time for campaigns. Mom and I are running around making last-minute preparations while Dad works on his speech.
I’m nervous because Zach’s going to be here.
Mom and Dad are finally going to meet him.
“Everything needs to be perfect,” Mom says, pointing to the west end of the family room. “Can you fit a few more chairs over there?”
I’m rearranging furniture in our family room to fit lots of people. There’s a section where people can sit in front of a podium where I’m sure Dad’s going to give his latest rally-the-troops speech about needing their donations in order to transform California into the modern American state it needs to be. No more dragging our feet on high-speed rail. More development for corporations that stay in California. I’ve heard Dad talk about them so much over the past couple of weeks, I’ve memorized all the key talking points.
Mom anxiously checks her phone. “I can’t believe the caterers are so late!” She’s on the verge of tears and I don’t know why. Under Mom’s cool surface, I can’t help but think she’s barely holding it together. So I suck it up and push my own problems to the side to help her keep things together as much as possible.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll tell them to go around the back and set up once they get there. You have to go mingle.”
“You’re a dear, Liv,” Mom says, hugging me. “I’m really proud that you’ve started to embrace your role in the campaign.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” I say, straightening the last of the chairs. “But this is too much for you to do by yourself.”
“Can you greet the guests? Show them where to come in?”
I nod and take my place outside the front door as Mom disappears to go find Dad. People start streaming into the house. I smile and shake their hands. Introduce myself. Lots of parents from my school who already support Dad. Many elected state officials. Assemblywomen and men. A couple of district attorneys. Lots of lawyers. Businessmen.
It’s nearing time for the event to officially begin when Zach and his father walk up the entryway. I realize that this will be the first time our parents actually meet each other in person, which is weird. Zach hops up the steps and kisses me on the cheek.
“Liv,” he says. “You look great.”
I hate the Rich-picked outfit I’m wearing—a sober dark gray structured dress with no personality at all—but I smile at him anyway. When I look into his green eyes, all of the stress of preparing for the gala begins to melt away. Zach somehow manages to make me forget myself. Being with him is like an out-of-body experience. My problems seem trivial when he’s around.
“Hi, Mr. Park. I’m Liv,” I say, extending my hand. Zach’s father is dressed formally in a charcoal gray suit and blue tie. I can see where Zach got his thick black hair and flawless skin. Mr. Park must be around Dad’s age, but he looks ten years younger.
He takes my hand. “Zach talks a lot about you. I don’t know why he hasn’t brought you over,” he says, glancing at his son. Zach looks at me sheepishly, like he’s been caught doing something wrong. “Though I’m sure you have a busy schedule with your father’s campaign. Anyway. Come by the house when you have time.”
“Thanks, Mr. Park. It’s a pleasure to meet you...” I’m only halfway done with my sentence when Mr. Park sees someone inside the house and calls out to them. He makes a beeline through the hallway, leaving Zach and me alone on the front steps.
“Thanks for coming,” I say.
I try to kiss him, but he pulls back.
“Not here,” Zach says. “It’ll end up as news.”
At first, I hate his response. Why should we have to be so careful all the time? Why can’t we end up on the news together? Does he not want to be seen with me?
“You’re being paranoid,” I say.
“I’m just being careful. I’m watching out for you. There’s a news van parked right over there,” he says, nodding at a couple of cameramen hooking up their equipment. “Do you really want to be known as the politician’s daughter who makes out with a TV actor on the front doorstep?” Zach must sense how confused I am by his response, because he takes my hand and pulls me into the house.
“But I’m—”
“I know you’re not only a politician’s daughter and I’m not only a TV actor,” he says, touching my neck. “You’re Liv and I’m Zach. But that’s how the world sees us, especially since we’re both so high profile right now. They’ll spin a story just for ratings.”
Even though I’m annoyed by not being able to kiss him when I want to, I know he’s right. The public pressure is only going to get more intense now that we’re dating and Dad is about to be officially in the governor’s race. Zach gives me a little squeeze on the neck, then releases me. “I have to go find Dad. He wants to introduce me to some people.”
Zach heads for the other side of the family room, where Mr. Park is talking to a small group of people I don’t recognize. While I mingle with more guests, Zach and I smile at each other from across the room, but I understand what’s happening here. Zach is in son mode. He accompanies his dad around the room. They help each other. It makes his dad look cool to have such an aspiring actor son who already has success. It makes Zach appear responsible and family-oriented to be mingling in this way.
I’m half listening to a judge tell a story about a defamation lawsuit some has-been celebrity filed against a plastic surgeon for telling a gossip magazine she had work done when Mom interrupts the conversation and asks me to come help carry food trays from the kitchen. Mom has always liked to put us to work. My brothers are supposed to be here to help out, but I haven’t seen them yet. Of course.
After several rounds of food pass through the crowd, Rich finally announces that Dad will be making his speech. I’m really bored. Zach hasn’t spoken to me at all since he arrived, and I’ve had to stand next to Rich the whole time. Dad’s on his way to the podium and some of the guests are taking seats when I spot an empty drink tray that’s about to topple. I grab it. This is a perfect excuse to make a quick getaway to the kitchen.
Dad’s already cracking jokes at the front of the room. I tune him out, set the tray on top of other empty ones in the kitchen, smile at the caterers and exit a side door that goes to the backyard. The yard lights are on, though I can still see some stars. The breeze feels good as I hear laughter from inside. I guess they like Dad’s corny jokes.
Then I hear a voice from behind me.
“I thought you’d come out here,” Mason says.
He surprises me so much that I jump a little, nearly twisting my ankle from the heel of my stilettos getting stuck in one of the patio’s cracks.
“You know the escape route,” I say.
I haven’t seen him all night. He’s sitting in one of the patio chairs, peeling an orange and drinking from a bottle of water. It’s funny—Mason probably hasn’t had a drink since he went to rehab during college, but he’s the one who gave me my first beer when I was in middle school. I still remember how that beer seemed to represent a secret we shared that not even Royce could understand. A secret about needing to numb pain, about drowning out our need to be successful, our need to be loved.
“Kitchen. Side door. Patio. Same as always. Dad telling his jokes yet?”
“Something like that,” I say.
Mason keeps peeling his orange. “Anyone else out here?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Good, then we can talk.”
“Not you too,” I say, sitting down on a chair next to him. I flex my foot. I can already feel my ankle swelling. I should have worn the grandma pumps Rich picked out to go with my outfit.
“Why?” Mason asks. “Who else was trying to talk to you?”
“Mom is always trying to talk to me. About my feelings.”
Mason sets his peel to the side and offers me a segment of his orange. I shake my head.
“Can you blame her though?” Mason asks.
“Yes.”
“She’s just trying to get through to you.”
“Right,” I say, kicking off my shoes. I wish this whole gala were already over. I’ve got at least another hour or two before all of the guests finally leave the house.
“Well?” Mason asks. “Did she get through?”
“No,” I say.
“So much for talking.”
I can hear Dad’s voice booming from inside the house. The crowd cheers at his speech. Honestly, I wish I were standing next to Rich right now, which is saying a lot.
Mason leans toward me. “You have to get help though.”
I look down at my ankle. “Don’t we all?”
“Sure. But your condition...”
“I don’t have a condition. I drink a little. So what?”
“Don’t push me away,” Mason says. “You know you need help.”
I stare at my brother. I wouldn’t let Mom break in. I won’t let him either.
“Come on, Liv. I’m serious.”
“Do I really have to tell you this again? I’m not you, Mason. I don’t drink to oblivion.”
“It’s not only about how much you drink, Liv. It’s why you drink.”
“I drink why anyone else does,” I say. “It’s social.”
Mason crosses his arms. “So you’re telling me you’ve never had something to drink when you were alone? Or when you were angry or sad?”
“It’s when I’m having fun with friends, like anyone else. I mean Jesus Christ, give me a break.”
“You didn’t seem like you were exactly happy or having fun when I picked you up the other night.”
“That was different,” I say. “It wasn’t my fault.”
I rub my ankle. It’s already swelling up.
“It’s not just about the drinking,” Mason says.
“You’re barely ever here—you don’t even know that much about me anymore.”
“You’re really going to make me say it?” Mason asks. His tone isn’t angry like I expected. He just sounds sad. “I didn’t tell Mom or Dad because I wanted to give you the chance to bring it up yourself, but now I wish I’d said something sooner.”
I don’t say anything.
“Fine,” he says. “Bulimia.”
I’ve thought that word a million times. I’ve read it all over the internet. Yet somehow hearing the word from someone else and directed toward me feels like a bomb has just been dropped on my life. I panic. How does Mason know? He’s barely around.
I can’t let him tell Mom and Dad. They’ll make everything into such a big deal. I don’t want them to treat me like I’m sick or crazy or like I can’t handle life on my own.
“Actually, I’m healthy,” I explain. “And you have no business saying anything to me about my weight, though I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You’ve always seemed to be so concerned about how I look.”
“I’ve apologized to you about that more than once—please don’t hold that over me forever.”
“I’m done talking,” I say. “I’m supposed to clear dishes after the speech.” I try to get up, but my ankle hurts too much so I sit down again.
“You think you’re not obvious, but I can tell more than anyone exactly because I’m here the least. Every time I come back home, you look more skeletal. You never eat with us unless Mom forces you. You use exercise as an excuse to get out of things you don’t want to do. No one ever says anything to you because you’re so sensitive and you start attacking them.”
“You don’t understand—having weird eating habits is just part of being a girl. It’s not a big deal.”
“It isn’t? When I was your age, I tried to hide too. But I wasn’t hiding as well as I thought. I wish someone had just, you know, been there for me.”
I feel bad that Mason is trying to help me, but I really don’t want to have this conversation with him. “I just have a lot of anxiety,” I say, at least sharing part of the truth. “I get nervous. I feel better when I don’t eat very much.”
“You’re playing with your life,” Mason says. “You’re already thin. You don’t need to diet. It’s dangerous.”
I stand up from my chair, forgetting the pain from twisting my ankle. “I’m not playing with anything. What do you care about what I do with my body anyway?”
“Will you stop it? Just stop. You sound ridiculous. I’m not Mom. We’re not in therapy. I’m not Dad, and thank God for that, because you know he would freak out if he knew. You have a problem. You’re going to admit it. And you’re going to get some help for it.”
This is the worst my stomach has ever felt. I want to get sick right here. Right now. I want to cut too. I want to cut and bleed and vomit and disappear into my room. I hate this. I hate what he’s doing to me. I want to tell him everything, but I can’t—I have to keep going. I don’t have a choice. I don’t have control over that anymore.
The pain wants out. It comes up, heavy and heaving. It falls out of my mouth in a sudden sob—something I don’t expect.
“You can’t do this,” I say. “You don’t understand.”
“Can’t do what? Get you to admit your problem?”
“Not here. Not tonight. Please.”
“Just say it,” he says.
“Please, you can’t say anything,” I beg. “I’ll take care of it.”
“How?” Mason asks.
“I’ll eat more. I’ll put on weight.” I start wondering if I’m telling the truth or not. I can’t tell whether I actually like bulimia or hate what it’s doing to me. I don’t even know who I would be without the purging or cutting, or any of it.
“That’s not enough,” he says.
“I’ll get help. Just don’t tell Mom and Dad.”
“And keep this secret?”
“Just a little longer. Please.”
Applause sounds from the house. Dad’s speech must be over.
“This isn’t the right place,” I say, hoping my brother will see how horrible and embarrassing telling our parents would be right now. “It’s not the right time.”
Mason looks at me like I’m hiding something. He pauses a moment, then picks up his orange, shaking his head. “Fine. But you have to tell them soon. Or I will.”
“I promise,” I say as guests begin walking out from the house into the backyard. I quickly wipe the wetness from my cheeks and start putting my shoes on.
When I stand up, Mason gives me an awkward hug. I really don’t want to be touched at the moment. “We all just want you to be happy,” he says.
“I know,” I say, pulling away. I spot Mom and Dad walking out the back door with Zach and his father. Rich is trailing close behind them, holding a clipboard close to his chest.
“Good to see you finally arrived,” Dad says to Mason. They hug, patting each other on the back. Mason and Dad used to have a tough relationship.
He wasn’t exactly the best example as a big brother either.
“You look a little pale,” Mom says. “Are you okay?”
Zach and Mr. Park stare at me, trying to assess what’s wrong.
“I’m fine. I just rolled my ankle on the bricks.” I look down at my feet and realize that my ankle has swelled so much that I can barely tell where my ankle begins and my calves end.
Rich shakes his head. “Where are the pumps I had set out for you?”
“Not now, Rich,” Mom says, glaring at him. “I’ll get you an ice pack.”
Zach steps next to me and puts my arm over his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Blakely. You and Mr. Blakely are busy. I’ll get her an ice pack. I’m a great nurse.”
Mason rolls his eyes. Like he’s ever been half as gentlemanly as Zach.
“Looks like you raised your son right,” Dad says to Mr. Park.
Zach and I are barely two steps away before our parents have launched into a discussion about some big real estate development plan for West Hills.
“Thanks, Zach,” I say, barely able to hobble through the kitchen. “I feel so clumsy.”
Guests are staring at us and I can’t tell if it’s because of my pathetic wounded-animal limp or because they recognize Zach from his show.
Zach tries to take more of my weight on him, but I don’t want to crush him and I can feel myself resisting. It makes our walk even more awkward and I nearly knock him over. “Stop trying to keep your weight off me,” he says. “You’re tiny. I can handle it.”
I’m about to argue with him to just let me plop down on a chair right in the middle of everything when Zach quickly bends down and scoops me up in his arms.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Normally I’d protest at someone picking me up, especially a boy, but I’m so exhausted from fighting with Mason I’m not even mad. Just stunned.
“Taking you upstairs. You need to rest, and we’re never going to make it up the stairs with you fighting me like that,” he says, laughing. “Have you always been so stubborn?”
“It’s my most endearing quality.” I lean against him, pressing my head against his shoulder. His freshly washed hair smells like fresh peppermint, which causes my muscles to relax. I’m trying not to worry how heavy I must be in his arms and just enjoy being held by him despite the pain throbbing around my ankle.
Zach carries me up the stairs to my bedroom while trying to explain to the guests that I’ve twisted my ankle. They all sigh at me and compliment him on his chivalry.
He sets me down on the armchair in the corner of my room.
I lean back against the chair and pull my ankle up over my knee. “Thanks. Sorry you had to do that.”
“Stop apologizing,” Zach says. “Put your ankle up. I’ll get the ice.”
I laugh at Zach being such a demanding nurse. “Yes. Sir.”
While Zach’s downstairs, I hobble over to my bed and put my leg up on a pile of pillows. I try slowly inhaling and counting my breaths to reduce the pain.
Zach comes back into my room and says, “Don’t forget that I’m your nurse. You have to do what I say.”
I laugh. “All right, Dr. Nurse.”
“Hey. That was pretty funny for a gimp,” Zach says. He lifts my leg and puts the ice pack underneath my ankle. The temperature makes me inhale sharply.
“That’s cold.”
“It’s ice,” Zach says.
He hasn’t taken his hand from my leg. In fact, Zach begins rubbing my leg up and down. It feels so good, but I can’t get over the fact that he’s touching my cankle.
“Your skin’s so soft...”
“Thanks,” I say. “I moisturize.”
He laughs. “Feisty.”
“That’s one word you could use to describe me.”
“That’s what I like about you, Liv. You’re not afraid to be funny. Or to show who you really are.”
Does Zach really know who I am? Does anyone?
“That helps.” I look down at his hand, which is now rubbing my foot. I make a mental note to get a pedicure soon. “I hope I don’t need crutches.”
“Probably not. The swelling already looks like it’s going down.” He pulls the ice pack off my ankle. “You should take this off for a few minutes.”
Zach sets the ice pack on the carpet, then walks to the other side of the bed. He sits next to me as I keep my foot propped up. “Liv? Can I say something?”
“Yeah,” I say, not knowing how to respond. Is Zach going to break up with me? Is he going to tell me he’s back together with Cristina? Or that he’s too busy to date?
“I’ve been thinking about this for a few days, and I was going to wait to tell you somewhere else, but...” Zach leans over and brushes my hair behind my ear. “I think I’m really falling for you.”