Somewhere between a car chase and another car chase, I start zoning out. There’s nothing left in the bag of potato chips but salty powder, and I so want a donut or something sweet, but I know Kattar next to never has any kind of dessert in his house.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye - weighing his mood against my bravery before I decide whether to say anything. The irritation in his face has relaxed into acute boredom, and he seems to have collapsed into himself, slouched into the corner of the sofa with one elbow on the armrest, like a human bean bag chair.

“Pst,” I tap his shoulder, and he glances at me mildly annoyed before making an unnecessary show of hitting pause and tilting his head at me with exasperatedly affected patience, both eyebrows raised.

“I was just going to ask if you have some chocolate or something…” I almost whisper, a little defensively.

“Questions about chocolate don’t drown out the dialog any less than questions about anything else,” he rolls his eyes with that same frustrated palms-raised posture.

“I think it might be actual blasphemy to call four ‘f-bombs’ and an adjective ‘dialog,’” I laugh lightly, “But let’s not argue that. Chocolate?”

He waves his hand toward the kitchen saying vaguely, “There are scones, but if you pick all the chocolate chips out, you still have to finish the rest of it.”

“Yeah yeah." Feeling like a grandma I raise myself a little wearily from the couch and totter to the kitchen - swing open the fridge. 

Considering that Kattar keeps his fridge at temperatures that would make the best freezer insecure, the scone is practically an ice cube. Popping it into the microwave for 2 minutes, I stare at my nails and watch a headstrong bumblebee ram itself up against the window half a dozen times.

Kattar’s phone is on the counter, and though the sound is off, it seems to flash with a new notification every five seconds.

Fan comments?

No, they look like emails and texts.

I recognize the single word “mom” as I glance in the opposite direction.

It’s none of my business.

Kattar is back to watching the movie when I return to the couch, licking my fingers.

“You unpaused without me?”

“You were falling asleep anyway,” he says a little defensively.

“So what? Does loyalty mean nothing to you,” I scold teasingly.

“No, I’m bred in the bone trash,” he says, holding his hands out, in a sort of confession shrug combo-

I think that was supposed to be a joke but-

“Just shut up,” I roll my eyes, popping a piece of scone into his mouth.

He frowns at me. “Didn’t you just get through licking your fingers?”

“Don’t pretend that bothers you now. I actually brushed my teeth this morning. You're welcome.” 

The frown doesn’t subside, though I know he’s faking it, as he rolls his eyes chewing the crumbly sweet mass-

“Seriously,” I can’t help but shake my head, forcing an awkward smile as I nudge his shoulder with my clean hand, plopping down on the couch beside him.

“Are you just attending night classes at ‘emo community college’ or something?”

“An emo community college would only have night classes” He smirks, looking at the palm of his hand. “But it’s the black hair.”

As if that has anything to do with anything.

We’ll just go with that.

He shakes his head subtly, running one hand through the end of his glossy mane unamusedly like he has no energy for somebody’s dumb prank.

He’s too pretty…

“I haven’t been able to get my hair cut or dyed in ages. I just had to trim the bleached parts off myself when it grew out ‘til you would’ve thought it was dip-dye. I didn’t want to go around looking 2010s-y.”

“Cough cough, diva,” I laugh into my fist.

“It wouldn’t kill you to get a haircut either,” he half-smiles now, taking up the end of one of my strands of hair like it’s a curly snake. “When was the last time you trimmed this fleece of yours? You’re starting to look like a Barbet.”

“Yeah yeah,” I roll my eyes, “I’ll probably get a trim before the photo shoot, but I can’t trim it too much or it won’t match the painting.”

“The what?” He looks at me bewildered, without letting go of my hair.

“The photoshoot,” I say, commandeering my curls out of his hand,“‘Still Life Journal’ wants to remake my painting ‘Eve’ as a photograph, with me as the girl in the river.” I pretend not to notice the way he colors slightly. “Which reminds me, do you still have my measurements?”

It takes him a minute to respond before he turns slightly like he’s going to look for his phone. 

When he remembers he left it in the kitchen he just rests his head on his hand.

“Um, yeah. They're on my phone. But they’re probably not going to be accurate now. It’s been a while.”

“Ouch,” I say playfully offended, putting my hand to my heart, “You could at least pretend to patronize me. I haven’t gotten that fat in a few months.”

“For all you know I might have been saying you got thinner,” he smiles just slightly, “I will neither confirm nor deny anything.”

“Fine, fine. Would you help me retake the measurements?” I sigh.

“N-” he hesitates looking at me like he wants to say something very different. 

“I can’t really take your measurements. You’ll have to do it yourself. I wouldn’t be able to reach properly from in my chair, and there’s not really any way to get us on a level plane unless we both l-”

He stops himself before he even finishes that statement, but I redden at the idea behind the silence.

“It can’t be done,” He smiles with a sort of finalizing shrug, “The cloth measuring tape is in my cabinet…” 

He stops for a second and seems to be thinking really hard about something.

“My medicine cabinet. There are a lot of prescriptions in there so don’t be surprised.”

My mouth opens without my consent - and I…

-Want to say something but think better of it, for once, nodding and making my way to the master bathroom. 

Of course, it would look like something out of a hotel. For all the color in his bedroom, the bathroom is uniform shades of black and gold with a faint accent of green in the curtains and soap dishes - fake flowers.

The sink is lined with rows and rows of hair products. Shampoo, conditioner, leave-in conditioner, mousse, hair gel, and hair essence.

If his counter is this packed then the cabinet-

I can only imagine. 

I shake my head sagely and brace myself.

I have like two combs, a brush, some conditioner, and shampoo and I still can’t keep it all from flying at me the second I open the cabinet doors.

I cross my fingers - but maybe I should be doing the sign of the cross - before I open the medicine cabinet - anticipating a plastic hailstorm.

Fortunately - of course, they would - all his bottles maintain their places on the shelves, like round-y white sentinels with child safety caps and-

Alic-

He wasn’t kidding…

I didn’t even know codeine came in containers that large. 

When mom-

No - don’t-

-think-

It’s..not my…

Circle-

–isn’t the. same-

But I wretch.

And keep vomiting bile and air - instead of breathing air - long after my stomach has already been wrung out-

Voices-

-didn’t mean it, she was trying to keep me safe-

My mind swims with ten thousand and one anti-drug lectures my Tia Maria made me attend. Sitting uncomfortably in the corner with my head down - and my face hidden by my hair - as far away as possible from the bored middle-class kids whose parents had signed them up because they were just ‘paranoid.’

“Who the-”

And sympathetic - pitying teachers who knew something was wrong-

“-even stupid enough to do drugs anyway.”

Probably thought something was wrong with me.

Please stop.

Was it just because she was worried or was it an embittered excuse to keep me away from Mom a little longer?

Thank you.

But it’s years late at this point.

There aren’t many experiences that hurt like-

There are two or three like-

Even as much-

-like-

Two or three or five-

Might call it “Captain Cody” “Doors and Fours” “Pancakes and Syrup.”

Stay away from me please-

Might call it-

“Wash, Cotton Candy, Trash, Cookies or Ice.”

Mom called it-

‘Chalk.’

*

I make myself grab the measuring tape and get out of the master bathroom-

Just use the one in the hall - or the walk-in-

“Alicia?!”

“Sorry, I’m just feeling a little queasy,” I mumble, but I’m not sure my sickness is loud enough for him to hear me.

I take my measurements quickly - almost certainly getting them wrong - and leave the measuring tape on Kattar’s bed. He’ll almost certainly be annoyed - but I have to just deal with that today-

“Took you long enough,” Kattar smiles a little teasingly as I drag myself back into the living room.

“I’ve gained a few inches,” I mutter, sitting at the opposite end of the couch, not looking him in the face.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as he’s washed in-

Worry-

About me, please.

I’m not okay.

“Is that something to cry over, bella?”  he smiles nervously, putting one hand to my burning cheek and trying to get me to look at him - and his words start to mesh into each other-

It’s just the accent - But that’s not what I hear.

“-It wouldn’t kill you to gain a few pounds. You’d lost too much weight back then.”

“Aish,” I shake my head trying to shake off my anxiety, but it clings to me like - “You sound like a mother…” 

“Ahhhh, that won’t do,” he shakes his head, cringing a little, “What should I say then? I prefer my sweetheart a little softer.”

“Not on your life,” I redden through the discomfort, “That’s too bad. Don’t go starting trouble.”

“I promise I won’t,” he sort of laughs - but there’s an uncomfortable color behind the flush - that only seems to increase - and settle into-

A worrisome, faded white.

I watch his face with a sort of uncomfortable heaviness, worming its way out of my stomach and into my chest like a parasite devouring my-

Which one of us should ask first- if?

Either one of us is okay.

When we know the answer has always been-

“You should eat something, Kat.”

I need…

“Cut it out. You’re just trying to get away with only eating the chocolate chips-”

I need help.