Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(39)

And the anger bursts forth, unhinged. “Yeah, I know,” I say. “We killed him.”





17





Arian





Vee is ridiculously happy about this secret party thing the team is planning for the boosters. I’m trying hard not to let on that I know anything about it—which isn’t hard, since I technically don’t. Ryder’s being more than vague, and that makes me wonder if they’ve even planned anything past the actual get-together.

I guess that’s not important, but I was hoping that it would be something classy. I know, a classy college football team party for their devoted fans and groupies. I’m delusional. But after the bonfire, where I was subjected to crudeness, a girl can hope. There’s still a big part of me that enjoys caviar and quiche over chips and dip. Wine and champagne over beer and heavily liquored-up drinks.

Rolling my eyes, I tap the button to slow the treadmill, and pull out one ear bud. Beethoven is doing nothing to soothe my nerves. I’ve been on an anxiety binge since I woke up, zoning out during every class, mentally coaching myself not to run off and find a bathroom stall.

I haven’t had to purge since…I think, since the day Ryder first asked me to the event. I’ve been sticking to my meal plans, exercise routines, and I’ve even gained some muscle mass. This is not fat, I remind myself. I’m going to weigh more as I become toned, but it’s that anxiously blaring voice inside my head that heightens the panic.

I have to keep control over my body—it’s the only thing I have control over.

I’ve been avoiding calls from Becca. The one I did answer, she was attempting to set me up on a date with Lucas. She had a reservation at a restaurant already in place, my outfit picked out, and kept coaching me on his current interests.

After that, I texted her with excuses about upcoming exams and needing to study. And really, since I rarely suffer the morning calls anymore, I feel less stressed. Even with the knowledge that this is temporary. But I’ve made a note on my calendar that I do better when I don’t hear from Becca.

“Oh, my God,” Vee whines next to me. “Jesus, Ari. How do you do this shit for so long.”

A reluctant smile pulls at my lips. I give her a halfhearted shrug. “Hang in there. The endorphins will kick in soon and then you’ll be thanking me.” And I totally get that Vee is messing around, but I’m still so invested in the idea that I’m always in the wrong, not doing things exactly right, that her scolding—even as a joke—makes me feel guilty for overdoing it. Again.

Baby steps.

I haven’t “gotten sick” for a good while. The rest will fall into place. Just have to keep focused on the goal.

Which is what, exactly?

Before, it was being healthy, mentally and physically, for myself…for some reason. Because I know that I don’t want to live the rest of my life this tightly wound. I’ll go mad. If I don’t keel over first. Not that I’m making light of my illness. But it’s just that if I have to go on for the rest of my life in this constant state of push-for-perfection anxiety…I can’t. The thought is too exhausting.

Sometimes I wonder if just going to sleep, peacefully, dreamily, giving up, would be easier. Of course it would be easier, I mentally shake my head at myself. But maybe it’s more about whether or not the fight is even worth the hardship.

“Damn, you’re deep in thought over there.”

Vee’s voice cuts through my thoughts like a sharp blade. Reality bleeds into my awareness.

Glancing over at her, noting her drenched hair and shirt, I say, “I’m in the zone.”

She laughs. “Well, clearly. But save some of that flow for Ryder.” When I give her a puzzled look, she clarifies. “I think that boy has it for you. Bad. You’re going to need all your wits to do battle at the party. Unless…” She tilts her head and nearly stumbles off the walker. “Shit.” She hits the button until the speed is reduced to a crawl. “Whatever. You know what I’m saying.” Then she’s off, not bothering to bring her heart rate down or finish her statement.

She heads toward the showers, and I’m left with her words pounding against my head.

There’s another reason for which I might want to get healthy. A reason that, even though I’m more than reluctant to admit it—openly to myself—seems far more likely the real truth. I know from personal experience that you can’t keep an issue like mine a secret from your other half in a relationship.

Unwanted memories assault me. Stephan always asking if I’m sick. Always offering not so helpful advice on how to get better. Be better. Just the always, always talking about it, until I was disgusted with myself.

When you’re broken, your other half makes it their purpose to fix you.

And despite my father’s desire to marry me off like some debutante from the eighteenth century, the real panic flares when I think about all those hours spent “getting to know the guy.” Even though I grew up with Lucas, we’re practically strangers. All awkward smiles and formal conversations. But then again, I doubt we’ll ever have to have a real conversation for the rest of our lives.

Then there’s Ryder. It will never happen between us in a million years. Hardly. Other than my parents practically banning him from my presence, there’s still the question of his intent. With his reputation and proven track record with the girls of Braxton, there’s a huge, gaping hole of doubt.