TRIGGER WARNING: The following chapter contains depictions of an eating disorder. All insensitive comments or suggestions will be deleted and offenders muted.

If you or someone you know are struggling with disordered eating in the US, please call or text the NEDA helpline at (800) 931-2237 today.

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I spent the first part of my week reassuring Mary that everything went fine in Vegas, that her fiancé didn't make me want to murder him, or that Brett got him so high he hallucinated being in love with me. I'm always cleaning up their messes. And my own. 

I went to Vegas in my feelings, then left with Heath in his. I'm not sure where I went wrong in my attempt to tell him all is well with our perfect little contract as long as he sticks to it, or what I did to get my head bit off. But, it's not unusual for my delivery to come off as more abrasive than intended. Abrasive, bitchy, whatever.

After Heath canceled on me on Wednesday, I want to bring up the party. It would have been a gray area, especially with a potential girlfriend involved. He hasn't canceled on me for tonight, at least not yet, so I'm holding onto that shred of hope to get me through.

I don't want to go to this party—especially without a date. But at least I won't be alone.

My false lashes take me forever to get on with my hands shaking this bad. The Marchesa dress is the only thing lifting my mood. I lean back and check myself in the mirror. The black silk of the rigid top flows into the off-the-shoulder detail, splitting perfectly at my waist to create the long, draping skirt. A slit and hidden pockets make it next level. It's beautiful and perfect for this event, but beneath it is me. It looks better on the hanger.

I stab the crystal hairpin at the side of my updo, hoping it will distract people from noticing it is the remnants of a failed attempt at a different style. My finger catches when I pull it out. I hiss and look at it, realizing I've been gnawing it raw all day. Fuck it.

I slip on my shoes and slide my clutch into the hidden pocket.

Leaving my room for Rowan's, I take a breath, knowing I'll have comfort in his company. I lean into his doorway and find him sitting on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, his tux still laid out beside him.

"Rowan," I say. "You're not even dressed yet."

He turns his head to me, and I flinch when I see his face. His eyes are red with tears.

"What's wrong?"

He sniffles and looks away. "I got a 1350 on my SAT."

While that is a great score for most people, under the 1400 mark will not make an ivy league or our parents happy. "That's okay, Rowie. You can retake it." I reach for him and he turns away and wipes his eye. "What's going on?"

"You got a 1590 on your first try."

My brow creases. "That doesn't matter."

"How? How does it not matter?"

He's upset. I know how it feels to do well, then have my parents scold me for not doing better. "It doesn't matter because you can retake it. And even if you get the same score, it is one of multiple things colleges consider during admissions."

"Oh my God," he grumbles in frustration. "You don't get it!"

"Of course I get it. I've been right where you are."

"No! You haven't! Because nothing is hard for you!" he yells at me.

It's a shock to hear my quiet Rowan yell. And directed at me? "What?"

"You do everything Mom and Dad want, exactly how they want it, all the time."

"And you think that isn't hard for me?" I repeat him in disbelief. "I'm stressed out all the time. Anxious as hell trying to live up to their expectations."

"But you meet them every time! You have no idea what it feels like to try to follow in your footsteps, to constantly fail in their eyes because Teagan did it first or Teagan did it better," he sneers. "You make it harder for us every single day and you don't even see it!"

I'm at a loss for words. I don't know how to make things better. "It isn't—"

"You may have to live up to their expectations, but so do we! And while you're succeeding, winning, never making a mistake, I'm the one left to fail at everything! Try living while feeling like that!"

I gape, unable to speak.

Rowan never shows emotion like this. It's painful to know he has had this much animosity and said nothing to me before now.

Tears sting my eyes. "Rowie, I didn't know you felt this way."

"Well, I do! I hate you so much sometimes!"

"Rowan!" I turn to find Levi in the doorway. "Stop it. It's not Teagan's fault."

"Yes it is! You know it is!" he screams. Hugging myself, I cower from his anger. "I'm tired of it! I'm not going to Columbia with you and I'm not going to this stupid party!"

He storms out of the room, leaving me with Levi and a broken heart.

I love Rowan. I would never do anything to hurt him or make him go through the stress I do. To know he feels this way, that I have been causing him pain . . . My chest hurts so badly, my hand clutches it.

"He's just mad," Levi tries to comfort me.

"But is it true? What he said?" I ask him. Tears blur my vision. "Do you feel that way?"

He hesitates with a breath. "Well . . ."

I turn away in shame, a tear dropping while guilt wrenches in my chest.

"It's not your fault, Teags. It's Mom and Dad. They're hard on us all, but you are their obvious favorite. You do everything they want you to and you do it well, but that isn't—"

"Do you resent me?" I turn back to face him. "Tell me the truth."

"No, Teags. I swear. I mean . . . Yeah, I had some serious middle-child syndrome before the accident, but now they've lowered the bar to the floor for me."

That's practically the same thing. "I'm sorry," I cry. "I didn't know I was hurting you. I thought I was saving both of you from it by taking it on myself. I would never—"

"I know, Teags." He pulls me to him. I drop to my knees and let my head fall against his shoulder. He hugs me back. "Don't let it get to you."

How can I not? What is the point of everything I've done if it still hurts the people I love? 

"Darlings! It's time to go!" my mother calls from up the hall. I curse under my breath.

"Go. It'll be worse if Mom and Dad know what happened," he says. I nod and dab the corners of my eyes. Crying will have to happen later. "I'll tell them Rowan is sick," Levi offers.

Sweep it under the rug. That'll make it all go away.

. . .

I touch my clutch for the millionth time thinking it's vibrating, but it's not. Heath's not coming. As if that would make it better.

I tuck the clutch back into my pocket with a shaking hand. I clench it into a fist to get it to stop.

The room is freezing. My dress is too much and not enough at the same time. Everything about this night is fucked. Everything about me is fucked.

"Have we never told you about how Teagan came into our lives?"

Dad's mention of my name gains my attention. I look up and steel myself into a polite smile. With Heath and Rowan missing, our table is only six people, but three are the partners of a company my parents have been schmoozing for months. Energy or not, I know my role.

"We came across an orphanage while working in Ethiopia. She was so small, malnourished, but those big, beautiful eyes staring back at us had so much desire for life." He places a hand on my cheek and I return his smile. "We knew we couldn't leave her in that place. Just like her brothers, the moment we met her, we knew she was meant to be with us."

"It's amazing to see all she's become," my mother continues. "She motivates us to do more and to do better. To think of how different her life could have been, how her brilliance and light could have been wasted . . . It has been a gift to witness."

I fight to maintain my smile. Rowan's words clench my throat again. They always tell this story, not knowing how small it makes me feel, how triggering it is to be reminded that you could be dead or in misery had your parents not saved you. Feeling like I owe it to them to live in the compact and rigid box they've placed me into, yet my acceptance of it—my fear of leaving it—forced Rowan into a box that is even smaller.

"Teagan?" My dad looks at me as if expecting an answer.

"Sorry, what?"

"Did you want to join us?"

They served dinner long ago. Though it took time to get to my half-empty table, the mingling has already begun. "I'll join you in a second."

He nods. "Eat something. You've barely touched your plate." He turns with his companions, and everyone leaves the table.

I'm finally alone to drown in my deep, dark pool of self-hatred. Anxiety makes me want to cry, scream, tear the hair out of my head chunk by chunk, but I can't do any of it. I never can. Don't make a scene. 

Pillowy soft potatoes surround the slab of meat on my plate. Heavy cream and butter galore, no doubt. Lactose intolerance aside, the calories alone would have me swelling out of my ill-fitted dress. I take a big spoonful and put it in my mouth.

They are delicious, smooth, and feel like nothing as they go down. Bite after bite, I taste them, feel them sliding down my throat, filling my stomach more and more.

I take Rowan's plate, do the same, and then take some from Heath's.

The sweet mouse dessert is rich and fluffy. Perfect, really. A glass of water, then more potatoes. It isn't enough yet, so I ask for another mousse. Without a date, without a brother, it's so easy. Too easy.

Another bowl of mousse down and the feeling hits me. My stomach cramps as it tries to turn. I eat more. When the food tries to rise into my throat, I down as much water as I can manage.

No one sees me leave the table, no one watches as I go up the hall. When I reach the bathroom, I almost bump into someone as I go in. "Excuse me," I apologize, slipping past her and into the stall.

I wait for the door to close behind her, then I drop to my knees and shove my fingers to the back of my tongue.

It comes up easy, but it doesn't feel like enough until I do it again, then again. My stomach aches from heaving, my throat burns from the acid. The wave of relief from the pain makes me feel numb.

It's my body and my secret. It isn't the only thing I have hidden from everyone—just something that goes unnoticed under the pile of accolades and achievements hiding my inner torture. Perfection is painful, they say.

I leave the stall and go to the sink. Mouthwash sits next to fancy disposable cups in the array of lotions, perfumes, and sanitary products. I swish and rinse my mouth twice, the burning mint hiding what I've just done, then check myself in the mirror. The circles under my eyes look darker, the luster in my skin—or whatever is left of it—dulled by a hollowed gaze and smudged lipstick. I wipe my lips with a towel and focus on my numbness.

When I leave the bathroom, I immediately stop in my tracks. He stands just two steps away from the door in that perfectly fitted tux. "Heath."

"Hey," he says.

I let the door close behind me. "What are you doing here? I thought you weren't coming."

"I forgot my phone at home while getting my tux from the place. I texted you when I was on my way but you were probably already here," he explains. I would feel touched if I could feel anything right now. "Are you okay?"

"Huh? Yeah."

"You look sick." He seems to catch the meaning in his words. "Were you just throwing up?"

"No, I'm just having some stomach issues."

He looks at me like he sees through all my lies to the anxiety and pure emotional chaos I'm barely keeping inside. "Teags, what is wrong?"

My chest tightens and I feel like I can't breathe. I try to say something to hide it, but I can't manage a word. He can't see me break down. I refuse.

Turning away from him, I look for an exit, a way to run away from this, from everything that has happened today. I barely feel his hand in mine when he pulls me back to face him. "Teagan, you're shaking. Tell me what's going on."

"Stop it!" I snatch my hand from his. His eyes widen. "Stop acting like you give a shit. We don't talk, remember? We're having sex. That's it. We are not friends who talk about our feelings or admit that . . ." My throat tightens again. The tears burn my eyes. "Admit that everything is falling apart."

He looks at me as if he's surprised. "We're not?"

My brow tenses when his words hit me hard. I silently plead with him not to make me cry again.

"Do you want to leave?" he asks.

"I can't, I have to—"

"No, Teags. You don't have to do anything you don't want to," he tells me. The fervor in his expression almost makes me believe him. "If you want to leave, the door is right there. I will happily take you through it."

I look away, not knowing what to do.

"We're going. Come on," he tugs at my hand. I follow him. 

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A/N: Do you feel like you understand Teagan a bit better?

Mental health is so important. Please always take care of yourselves and never feel ashamed to reach out for help. It takes strength and you deserve it. Thank you for reading.