Thin is in again, Georgia said when the boys left the table. When she said it, she leaned into J and let the words fall soft in the air, as though it were a secret.
It was never out.
It was a little out. Georgia sipped her drink. Just enough, at least.
Enough for what?
For hope, probably, she laughed. Hope for me. Georgia smiled and the flesh of her cheeks usurped her eyes. Then, she pulled out her phone.
J hadn’t been out with Georgia in a while, and in the likely event she wanted to leave this particular outing, she and her boyfriend, Noah, had come up with a code: Hey, what’s the time?
The last time they’d seen each other, Georgia tried on J’s jeans for a night out and said, perhaps too blithely, They’re just a bit big, unfortunately. She looked in the mirror and gathered the loose denim in her fists at her hips, then pulled the slack fabric taut to show off her figure—turning sideways to the mirror in that ritualistic way. She looked to J and said, I could pin them maybe?
At the bar, Georgia showed J a video of a girl sitting on her floor as greenscreen images of celebrities flashed behind her.
Everyone is taking their implants out. Reversing their surgeries.
I’m not sure a few people’s personal choices signify a larger cultural shift.
J, she said, and then nothing more, as if to highlight her credulity. J felt her skepticism often and wasn’t sure where it had originally come from, the idea that she didn’t understand the world or culture at large.
There were fries in the middle of the table that J and the boys helped themselves to. Georgia hadn’t had one, and her eyes watched carefully as J brought each fry to her mouth. Her gaze was soft with intrigue. Curious, maybe appetent. J thought of her mother.
When the boys returned with more drinks, Georgia and Tom talked about their upcoming vacation to the Amalfi coast in August. They were going with Georgia’s sister and her fiancé.
Tom’s grandparents live out there. I’m trying to get in shape. Georgia took a minuscule, bird-like sip of her drink. It’s just hard, she said. I have bad days.
Tom kissed her cheek and said something about gluten-free, flour-free brownies, and then Georgia told J that they could “do it” together if she’d like. It’s hard to do it alone.
To this, J put her hand on Noah’s thigh—forced pressure with her fingertips—then looked over his lap into his phone. Hey, she said. What’s the time?
_____
J worked as a filing clerk at a doctor’s office, and on her lunch breaks in the summers, she would drive to a nearby park and eat whatever Noah had packed her for lunch. That day, tofu, rice, broccoli, and three sugar cookies. She ate as a breeze swept through the park and kids did viral online dances in her periphery. J used her other hand to scroll on her phone.
A pop star got a nose job. The app had another update no one liked. A rapper had the fat from her face removed. Discourse on a New Yorker profile. Three bad takes. One good take. One user coined the term “sad girl brunch,” which was just iced coffee and veggie sausage until dinner. Everyone replied with pictures of their sad girl brunches. It was trending. Someone replied, You all need help. Another replied, Let girls have fun.
Below it was a video for a spicy penne pasta.
J sent the video to Noah. Tonight? she asked.
Let’s do it.
She put her phone down and ate the rest of the time in silence. The snippet of the song the kids danced to was on a raucous, interminable loop.
J’s mother called as they cooked, and J hovered over the phone’s accept button precariously before pressing it with an anxious jab.
I can’t hear you, her mother said. It’s too loud in there.
Oil popped in a pan, searing their meatballs.
We’re cooking. I can call you back another day?
We’ll work around it. What are you cooking?
Penne, Noah shouted into the phone.
That’s nice. It was muted, almost affectless. Are you two taking care?
They told her that they were. Her mother went on to tell J about her new boyfriend, Rome. He was a chef who owned an entirely black-staffed Michelin-starred restaurant in Chicago. She wanted them to come into town and try it out. J told her they would check their schedule.
Next weekend, her mother said. There’s a Juneteenth event, and I’d love for you both to be here.
I’ll have to see.
Do you have something nice to wear?
Of course I do.
There was a sudden halt of silence. Succinct, but penetrating.
In bed, Noah said he thought going to the restaurant would be nice. When else would they get the chance to go to such a prestigious restaurant on someone else’s dime? She agreed, though somewhat hesitantly.
Since J had started talking to her mother less, she felt more at peace. A peace that lent itself to a kind of self-preservation by way of self-acceptance.
In other words, she’d decided to let herself go.
Not in the sense that she’d given up on health, per se, but she felt liberated by the absence of self-scrutiny. She ate when she got hungry and didn’t worry about calorie or carb intake. When she was full, she stopped eating. She enjoyed having a scoop of ice cream on their back porch some evenings, and Noah, ever the baker, always had desserts on standby. She ate them, guilt free and in full contentment. She’d even get a second piece if she felt she could stomach it—something she never dared to do in childhood.
It was the only time in her life she’d lived like this. It was nice—that was the only way to put it. A placid median. She didn’t feel beautiful necessarily, but she hadn’t felt revulsion either, which she had felt in the past. In fact, she rarely thought of herself at all. She’d forfeited that tedium—the futile task of self-thought—along with taking photos of herself, and for the most part, mirrors. It wasn’t a political stance or even an intentional one. Life got busy and this method was easy. And so, her body had softened into evidence of a life easily lived.
Like all vigilant young girls, she had been attuned to her mother’s small glances and masked comments. If her mother said she looked nice, it meant she looked thin. If she said nothing at all of her appearance, well. Maybe it was intentional. Maybe it was subconscious. She could never know for sure.
In middle school J would go to spin class with her mother in the morning, eat salads for lunch, and then exert the little energy she had at soccer practice after school. She followed a blog online that acted as #thinspo, that imparted health tips for girls of her height and weight. A girl in her class told her about the blog, and this girl wore a double-zero in jeans—a coveted and virtuous affirmation. J had also dreamed of the absence of a pant size—to only be measured by a number that held no value—so she began going to Weight Watchers meetings with her mother. At lunch with her young friends, she would track her points in a little notebook with a pinkie-length golf pencil while they blissfully drank chocolate milk and ate chicken tenders.
Two summers prior—when she was twenty-five—she’d fallen into a similar routine. She ate yogurt cups for breakfast, ran five miles daily, and then had salad for dinner. Her friends were going to a lake on the Fourth of July, so she got started in early June—lustful for a fast-acting, corporeal transformation. She followed a diet and exercise plan she found online, endorsed by a fashion model, and stuck to the routine, though further restricting her diet wherever she could find the room or will. By the last week of June, she was down to a meal a day (a yogurt cup) and was experiencing such horrible cramps every time she put food in her body that it scared her back into a normal dietary routine—the plan she was meant to be following. That was the only time she felt she may have gone too far—strayed from the core motivation of health.
J started dating Noah not too long after, and the amount of time it took to maintain that body overlapped with the time she wanted to spend with him. They ate out and he baked and at the end of the night she didn’t want to leave. She didn’t want to wake up early and go to the gym or eat salad while he ate steak. So she didn’t.
Now, thinking of seeing her mother, she became acutely aware of the skin on her bones and the way it hung and gathered. She knew what would happen. Her mother would be repulsed by her.
Noah got up from bed to get cookies.
You want any? he asked.
Maybe just one, she said.
_____
They drove up to Chicago the following weekend, listening to a pop album that had just come out. J scrolled on her phone while Noah drove. People online liked track five. No one liked track three. The pop star posted a video of herself dancing to her single while wearing her new shapewear brand. The physical CD had a discount code for the undergarments in the jacket.
Anyone got codes? someone commented. The physicals aren’t out in my country, and I have a wedding next month. Someone else replied, DM me.
J’s mother greeted them in the driveway with a kiss on both their cheeks. A playful chide: Why don’t you all come visit more? If not for me, for the city?
J said something about work. Noah agreed.
Work, work, work, she said, opening the front door. Nothing in life has ever mattered less than work.
There was a charcuterie board for dinner; cheese, grapes, prosciutto, paired with Rome’s favorite red wine. J chewed slowly and took a vine of grapes for herself. It reminded her of a time she’d gone to Quebec with Georgia to visit Georgia’s cousins and all they had that first night were finger foods. They stole glances at each other all evening, silently plotting for ways to escape and ransack a convenience store.
I have some clothes upstairs I found in an old closet, her mother said after the group conversation had dissolved into two. Her mother’s hand rested soft on her shoulder. Want to take a look?
Rome and Noah were deep into a conversation about tres leches.
J said, Sure, and they ascended the stairs.
They found their way into the master closet and her mother laid clothes in her open arms. Jeans, blouses, dresses, old tee shirts. Her mother had a habit of buying anything she looked at and then only wearing a small fraction of it. When J was a kid, their closets would be filled with unworn garments and once-worn special occasion dresses, never to be touched again.
I don’t know if they’ll fit, she said, but if not, I’ll give them to Bria from church.
I think they’ll fit fine. J filed through the clothes with her fingers like they were a stack of papers.
Well, you just let me know.
J went into the bathroom and closed the door behind her.
I’ve been working a new program since you last saw me, her mother said. I’ve lost fifteen pounds.
J’s mother was always working a new program, and J went through all the phases with her as a child living under her roof. The no-dairy phase, the keto phase, the no-carb phase. It wasn’t necessarily imposed on her, but when that’s the only food in the house, what other choice is there but to oblige? Though, occasionally, when she’d grown tired of the unseasoned, insipid vegetables and flimsy meat substitutes, she would scrape the food into the trash and then sit at a drive-through with her friends, scarfing Frosties and fries.
Then—cyclically—came the sticky ache of remorse. She’d return to her mother, ascetic, as they ate careful, small spoonfuls of food.
J tossed the shirts she didn’t want to the side and put dresses she did want in a pile. Then, she stretched her legs through the holes of a pantsuit and pulled it up.
That’s really nice, Mom, she said.
Dr. Burke’s got me on these appetite-suppressing injections. It’s actually very helpful. You know I could just eat all day if you let me.
J hadn’t ever known that to be true.
She got the jumpsuit to her chest and tried to button it, but it wouldn’t fit over her now much larger breasts. Her mother was in the background, going on about how nice it was to see her and Noah—grateful that their relationship persisted—and then led into a story about Rome and a rude customer at the restaurant the night before. Then after a pause she asked, Does it not fit?
No, it does.
Let me see it.
Ah, sorry. I already took it off.
J opened the door and her mother sat on the edge of the tub. Her slender arms lay gently on her crossed legs. It was true, her mother had lost weight, and she looked younger for it. From a distance, J thought, someone might mistake them for sisters.
_____
They went to Rome’s restaurant the following afternoon. The restaurant was sleek and polished. There was angular, abstract art on the walls and the waiters seemed to be all-knowing—ever present and simultaneously invisible. J’s napkin was replaced before she’d known she dropped it on the floor, and her water never made it past three-fourths empty. The food was small portioned and stacked in thoroughly considered staging. The food itself dissolved into her tongue in what felt like a scientific way—engineered to do just that, to be consumed with no effort. In a way, it didn’t feel like she was eating at all. The entire endeavor was guiltless.
Later, J told her mother she was happy they came. They were cleaning the dishes from breakfast, her mother washing, J drying.
I’m glad you came too. He’s talented, all right. She dunked a dish into the soapy pool of water and handed it to J. Noah do all the cooking?
Mostly.
That’s nice, she said, in a tone J couldn’t exactly decipher. He’s a sweet boy.
It is. J dried a dish. He is.
It’s nice having a man that can cook. You’re too young to remember, but your father never helped me. It drove me up the wall.
They shared a small laugh.
So, what’s his specialty? Is he making sure you have well balanced meals?
There was a caution in her voice that gave her away.
Mother.
What? Honey, I’m just talking.
Well, let’s talk about something else.
Silence fell between them for a long while. There was only the sound of the water in the sink. The cicadas’ chirps coming through the screen door. J knew they were only delaying the inevitable.
Her mother broke the silence by saying something about a music group she saw on the news—said she thought J would like them. J told her she would check them out.
They were good dancers. You don’t dance anymore, do you?
Not since I was ten.
You were really good. You should start again. It’s important to stay active. You know the women in our family . . .
She didn’t finish the sentence and J didn’t pry for more. They continued the dance of washing and drying.
Her mother sighed. Her tone slipped into something cautious, though sincere.
I want to say something, she said somewhat smally, but I don’t want you to be upset with me.
Okay.
Will you be upset with me?
Depends.
They were looking at each other then, wet hands dripping onto the wooden floor.
Her mother dried her hands on a maroon decorative towel.
Well, as your mother, she said as though rehearsed, it’s my responsibility to look out for your health. And I just think, you know. She paused and picked up a dish. Are you being healthy?
I’d say so.
Okay.
There was a half second where they pretended this was the true conversation.
I think you’re a stunning, stunning girl, Jordan. You know, the women in our family struggle with weight. Health too. I want you to be around for a long time. I want to be around for a long time. Her mother was looking at her, eyes glazed. She put her hand on J’s back and water seeped through the shirt and onto her skin.
And if you’re ever interested in those injections, she added, I can ask my doctor to prescribe them for you too. They help so much. He’s a family friend.
J didn’t say anything in response. The conversation died thereafter.
When J climbed back in the bed, Noah asked if everything was okay.
J just shrugged.
She thought about telling him—leaving in the middle of the night, back to the sanctuary of their home. But she laid next to him in bed, rolled on her side, and watched the cars pass by her window. Car after car; the lights painted the dark in liquid motion. She thought they were beautiful.
_____
For her lunch break the next week, Noah packed jerk chicken, rice, and two cookies. She scrolled on her phone in the park while she ate, as always. There was a viral dance trend. A beginner’s guide to intermittent fasting: a thread. A Florida government official was under fire for leaked text messages. The pop star was trending because of the shapewear promotion—people found it to be unethical. Someone posted, People should be able to do what they need to feel good about themselves. Someone else replied, Y’all don’t even get it.
J ate the chicken, most of the rice, and threw the cookies away.
She texted Noah, Grocery store later?
He sent her a thumbs up.
In the store she got all the usual vegetables, just more of them, and decided on no bagels; she was the only one who ate them anyway.
We’re almost out of ice cream, Noah said, pivoting into the frozen aisle. The usual?
Get whichever one you want.
J was texting Georgia. She was shopping for her Italy trip and sending pictures of outfits she tried on.
j: green dress looks so cute
georgia: literally the only one i like on me lmfao
georgia: i fucking hate shopping
georgia: these mirrors make u look so disgusting. kms
j: i know
j: the trick is to turn around while you cnge
j: **change
j: or just shop online
j: (like me)
georgia: ur so smart babe
georgia: i’m gonna go for a run in the morning before work do u wanna come
georgia: it’s usually really dark and i get scared lol my sister refuses to go with me
_____
J and Georgia ran three miles. They alternated between running and walking a few times; J hadn’t worked out in several months. Georgia assured her she didn’t mind—that J wasn’t slowing her down—but J felt indicted by her sluggish pace. She listened to a podcast for most of the time—which had so many ads it disrupted the immersive flow of the program. A discount to an accessible mental health app. A twenty-eight-day detox tea. A monthly meal kit. They ran again the next morning and the morning after that. They got black coffees after their runs and ate for the first time at noon. It all aligned with their intermittent fasting window; no food before noon and none after eight.
It wasn’t until that fourth run that she’d felt a sort of shift—a warmth for Georgia that had been long dormant. She watched Georgia closely. The intention of her steady, moderate pace. The geometric bend of her knees. Her unrelenting dedication to the craft of her new body. There was something so focused about her adherence to that lifestyle. It was absurd, almost admirable.
_____
After a few weeks, no one was talking about the pop star anymore. There was a consensus: People should be able to do what they need to feel good about themselves. The single on the album was number one on Billboard for four weeks and J began listening to it every day at lunch. Noah had packed her pasta, asparagus, and a brownie. She ate several individual pieces of rigatoni, the asparagus, and the corner edge of the brownie. There was an exposé online about a famous model’s mother, how she only allowed her daughter to eat a handful of pistachios and applesauce for weeks when she was a kid. The model described it as cruel, but said that in a roundabout way, it taught her about discipline.
It wasn’t right, the model said, but we are products of our upbringings. And I probably wouldn’t be me had I not gone through that, would I? I’d be some other woman.
J scrolled through the article. There were images of the model as a young girl, her bones protruding through the thin layer of her pale skin the way groceries might pierce a plastic bag. The model’s young body swam in her size-small clothes. Her face was gaunt and gray.
J thought again of her own mother and her transgressions. She imagined gabbing with the model about their upbringings over coffee—swapping stories—and then felt slightly taken aback. J’s mother’s health fixation was irritating at most, and never so destructive. She imagined the model talking about her forced starvation, weary eyed, intermittently sipping her latte. J couldn’t bear the thought of bringing up her own stories. Her mother’s biggest crime was suggesting spin class. Healthy habits. There were invasive comments here and there that—sure—ate at J’s adolescent mind, but her mother’s concern over her body had never manifested in such a physically depleting way. She was always given a choice. It was never by force. And the women in their family did, in fact, have health issues. Blood pressure, heart problems. Low mobility in old age. They put on weight easily—J had known this all her life.
It’s always best to get ahead of it, her mother said to her once as a teen while driving to school. Then she added: When you get a man, he’ll say he won’t care. But he will. I promise you, he will.
The night of her senior prom they’d gotten into an argument after her mother made a motion for her to suck in her stomach while she was taking group photos. J had excused herself after the photo was taken and locked herself in the downstairs bathroom of her friend’s home. She cried into a hand towel embroidered with a family of swans.
Jordan? Her mother’s fingernails raked softly on the wooden door. Jordan, don’t ruin your make-up.
J didn’t say anything. She wiped a paper towel beneath her under-eyelid to clean up the smudged and running liner.
I’m sorry, her mother conceded after some time. It’s how I care for you. It’s how my mother cared for me. Her mother lowered her voice and reached her hand through the gap under the door. I don’t know any other way, she said, in a frail voice. I don’t. I really don’t.
_____
J called her mother after work. The number had been dialed before she could make sense of why she’d done it or what she might say. She could hear in her mother’s voice she was surprised, too. They hadn’t spoken since the night they did the dishes. Her mother asked about Noah and work, and then J asked about Rome, before her mother cracked an easy joke and most of the tension dissipated.
An hour in she told her mother she’d been going on runs with Georgia—had been more intentional about her eating habits.
That’s good to hear. She could hear her mother walking outside in the background. I’ve been fighting against blood pressure most of my adult life. I don’t want that for you.
J said she didn’t want that for herself either.
They talked for a while longer about basic things. The news, the president, it being the hottest summer on record. Her mother suggested a yoga instructor on YouTube and J said she’d give her a try.
Then, she heard her mother walk through the front door of her house and shut it behind her.
I need to get ready for bed, her mother said finally, in a yawn at the end of the call. I have to get up early for a doctor’s appointment.
A doctor’s appointment? J was in bed watching an old vlog from a model at New York fashion week.
I have another round of shots tomorrow.
Oh. J paused the television. The model stood static—her thin arm halfway through a narrow shirt sleeve.
In bed that night, while Noah watched a video on his phone, she said: I think I’m gonna get those injection shots.
He removed an earbud.
Injection shots?
The ones my mother gets.
Oh. He considered it for a moment, and then said, I didn’t know you thought about that stuff.
The assertion itself wasn’t emotional. It was presented plainly, as any banal observation would be—like pointing out the weather or time.
What stuff?
Like, your weight.
Well, I look a bit different than when we first started dating.
He gave a lopsided, noncommittal smile, as if to say he noticed, but hadn’t said anything. J pretended to be unaffected by such an unfeeling expression.
How do they work?
I’m not entirely sure. I think it sends some chemical to your brain that convinces you you’re full.
The video on Noah’s phone began playing again. She could hear the high pitched, fast paced sounds coming out of the free earbud.
Noah scrolled past that video and began the next one.
So, he said. It’s almost like being full is a state of mind.
I guess. In a way.
How strange.
He turned back to her and said, as though he’d read it somewhere: What matters is that you’re happy with your image. Noah squeezed her leg three times quickly. Let me know if you need rides to or from the doctor.
J nodded and then Noah put his earbud back in.
_____
Her first shot was a week later.
The doctor said I’m not obese exactly, she told Georgia on their run, but that it’s good I’m making a change now.
I tried to do that, Georgia said, mid-stride, and my sister laid into me for it. Plus, my doctor said I don’t qualify. She picked up the pace. How did you swing that?
My mom hooked me up somehow. I don’t really know.
If only I could get them before Italy . . .
Georgia trailed off dreamily. They passed an elderly woman and a couple their age. Then a gaggle of preteen girls hitting the pavement hard in their Chuck Taylors. J could hear one in the distance complaining about her ankles.
_____
For lunch, Noah had packed her grilled chicken and kale, but she wasn’t hungry and just went for a walk in the park. She was listening to the pop star’s album while scrolling on her phone. It was a dull day online; no one had died, and everyone’s favorite girl of the month hadn’t yet entered the week of her inevitable takedown.
J saw a girl from high school online modeling a PR package from the pop star’s shapewear brand—raving about the proportions and restriction.
She watched the video a few times on a loop; the narrow contours of her typically slightly wider body being effortlessly held in, pinched. They had the same body type, too. She considered this, then drove to the nearest Target to buy the pop star’s album.
On the shapewear website, she entered the promo code, chose express shipping, and then headed back to work. She’d grown hungry by one o’clock.
_____
The internet had become a hotbed for discourse. Sad girl brunch had evolved to e-cigarettes and hot black coffee. Then, to real cigarettes and black coffee. McDonald’s joined in on the fun—posting a picture of their yellow bird mascot with a dollar coffee and a hash brown. Birdie the Early Bird’s favorite sad girl brunch! A few following posts teased the potential of a limited-time promotional deal, but the backlash they received caused them to issue an apology on a stark white page with the golden arches at the bottom as if it were custom stationery.
McDonald’s does not endorse the normalization or commodification of disordered eating habits. The intern in charge of that tweet considered it a “harmless, humorous” internet trend. We have alerted them of their wrongdoing, and they have been let go.
J found this reaction extreme. Everything online was layered; all ironic—insincere. The uninformed sincerity placed onto the tweet made it something it was not. She found this more and more, the misplaced readings and myopic views on culture from outsiders, even insiders, overly opinionated regarding modern survival. The takes had become trite and derivative. None of them considered agency or intention—the invaluable self-defense tactic of control.
There was also a national shortage of the injection shots J was taking. People online were furious about it—critical of non-diabetics repurposing a lifesaving medicine for vanity reasons. J’s co-workers talked about it one afternoon as they walked to their cars, and there was a debate segment about it on the local news network.
Tom brought it up at brunch. Georgia had this particular brunch annually on the first weekend of every August. She mentioned potentially canceling it that year once while she and J were on a run, but her sister had convinced her otherwise.
All the other guests had long since left. The four of them, as well as Georgia’s sister, sat on the back patio and messed over the remaining fruit and mimosas. There was a bottle of champagne going around when Tom said: It’s all fake outrage.
He poured champagne into his and Georgia’s glasses.
America has an obesity epidemic, he continued. We can’t use medicine to fight that, too?
Come on, Tom, Noah softly chided, a grin pulling his face.
You’re being intentionally obtuse. Georgia’s sister, Rem, filled her glass. This is a lifesaving drug that is being taken and used like a fad diet.
If helping with weight loss was outside the drug’s realm of function, then why do doctors prescribe it? Tom looked to Georgia and Georgia investigated her glass. Here’s my thing. Tom wiped the shine from his top lip. The world is falling apart. None of us have futures as it is. You might as well be able to enjoy the body you’re forced to occupy.
Rem rolled her eyes—exhaustedly brought a hand to her forehead.
We can’t go around qualifying every destructive act with our impending doomsday. If so, why don’t we all quit our jobs? Start killing each other? Why treat each other with any kindness at all? Rem looked to Georgia, who was still preoccupied with the mundanity of her glass. She hadn’t spoken much that morning and was playing with the same few pieces of spinach from her deconstructed omelet.
We let people “empower” themselves by abiding by patriarchally imposed ideas, she continued. All they’ve done is gaslight themselves into believing that conforming is a revolutionary act.
I suppose you also believe that McDonald’s intern deserved to be fired.
This was the first thing J had said in a long while. She didn’t care for the debate. She hadn’t spent much time with Rem over the years, but she knew they both wore their stubbornness with pride. Georgia often said they had that in common.
Yes. Rem took a sip of her drink. Good riddance.
You’re no fun. Tom grinned and tossed a grape playfully in Rem’s general direction. It rolled between two wooden planks on the patio floor.
She shrugged.
I just feel language has lost its meaning. Everyone’s going around saying and doing things as if none of it means anything. Words mean things. You can’t slap irony on every transgression and call it a joke.
Tom joked about Rem’s unrelenting nature and her being a lawyer. She gave a smug smile and said that’s how she won all her cases.
After a while the conversation became about media and the latest scandals—celebrity couple affairs and tax evasion. Two bottles of champagne were gone, and the long vine of grapes had been stripped down to its earthy bare bones.
When Tom and Rem began talking about the upcoming trip, Georgia excused herself to start cleaning the house. J told her she would help.
They split duties. Georgia washed dishes and J wiped the counters, threw away trash. J attempted to talk about a reality show they both watched, but Georgia could only offer a few small nods, or a dry one-word answer here and there.
J had sensed a retreat in Georgia in the last week and a half and felt that distance as they moved around each other in the narrow confines of the kitchen. She’d become more reserved, talking less about her life or the trip, and on their runs J did most of the talking, if they talked at all. She’d grown listless—a look and air of bewilderment regularly circling around her. It’d become a chore to draw her out.
They talked a bit about the mental health app that was being sued for taking money out of people’s accounts for sessions they never had, and then about the singer who had died from an overdose. They exchanged variations of, I couldn’t believe it, and Did you know they were our age? Before long there was nothing more to say—they’d said it all—and they finished cleaning in a still silence. What did they usually talk about anyway? J thought later during the car ride home. Why had they stayed friends?
_____
The rest of the afternoon was mundane and prolonged. The seconds crawled slowly into minutes, into hours. Noah played video games and J went for a walk through the muggy August heat. Sweat consumed her entire body and her muscles ached. In a peculiar way, the bodily strain felt euphoric.
For dinner, Noah ordered a large pepperoni pizza. J got a side salad.
They ate together at the dining room table. This wasn’t a common occurrence, but they were trying to be more intentional about their time together.
Noah shoveled the thick pizza slices into his mouth. Piece after piece, his teeth tore into the breaded flesh.
Is the salad good? When he asked this, his mouth was entirely open.
It’s fine enough.
A wilted romaine leaf got stuck to one of J’s molars.
She watched Noah chew. Teeth painted with marinara. Rogue pepperoni pieces wedged into the space between two teeth. On their first date they’d gone to an expensive steakhouse downtown—Noah’s treat. She wore a green dress she could no longer fit, and he wore a red tee shirt and jeans. When the entrees arrived, they joked about the difference in their eating etiquette. Her, with her polite, moderate-sized bites. Him, carnivorously tearing into the red meat. He’d finished his prime rib before she’d gotten halfway through her filet mignon and there was a trail of mashed potatoes left down the center of his shirt. This joke persisted throughout their relationship. How enthusiastically and shamelessly he consumed food, never leaving without bits of his meal left on his shirt or debris scattered around the table.
In that moment, as he ate his pizza across from her—brash and frenzied—it felt like a malicious act. She’d begun to feel pangs of this specific sensation recently—as though he taunted her with food. The food he ate, the food he cooked for them both. As if to say, look what I can do! while she considered every bite. As with her mother’s occasional, inscrutable looks in her childhood, she couldn’t tell if he was doing it on purpose or if it was all in her head.
She texted her mother before bed, typing then erasing multiple things before saying: send me that Yoga instructor’s page again, forgot to check her out
Her mother sent her a link not too long after, then asked J to send her a photo of herself. She missed her.
J sent a photo of herself in an Ohio State tee shirt and a purple bonnet. Her mother responded with an audio. My beautiful, beautiful girl. You look amazing!
J looked at the photo. Her body consumed by the shirt’s size. The sharp contours of her face. She didn’t recognize herself for a moment. She wasn’t used to seeing herself this way. J knew, with certainty, that her mother was telling the truth.
_____
When J got up the next morning, Noah was still asleep. He crowded the edge of the bed. Amber morning light was diagonal across his skin. Noah’s body was firm and angular; musculature geometrically sound, as if freshly taken out of a mold and placed onto his skin. She watched the light on his frame, the gentle ebb of his breath. His body was defined and beautiful. He didn’t do anything for it. What a life, she thought, and then there was an immediate revelation upon this revelation. It was epiphanic, and in a way, metamorphic. It made her never want to come home again.
She called Georgia while in the car to see if she could bring an extra bottle of water to their run. She didn’t pick up. She didn’t pick up the following two times, and once J made it to the park, she called her again.
Hello? Georgia’s voice was frail and echoing.
You’re not coming?
I’m not feeling well.
If it’s not contagious, you should come. You couldn’t even give me a heads up?
Georgia didn’t say anything for a while, and then cautiously uttered: I really can’t.
Don’t make me run alone. It’s dangerous.
So don’t run.
You know how I am. About routines and all.
It was quiet on the phone for a moment, and J heard the sound of birds in a far-off tree. A semi-truck lugged itself onto the interstate.
My sister cornered me last night. She tried to stage an intervention.
What?
She’s worried about me.
Worried about what exactly?
There was a beat. It felt like forever.
I don’t want to go to Amalfi, Georgia whispered.
You have to be kidding.
J began to walk at a powerful pace. She turned on her smart watch and tracked her steps.
No. I really don’t.
Explain it to me.
I just don’t feel well. We’ll be going to the beach every day. The thought of it . . . she trailed off. You know—I just think it would make it worse. I don’t know.
J blew air out of her nose.
I’m sorry, Georgia. I don’t know what else to say.
It was quiet and then she added: I hope you feel better soon. That it’s nothing too bad. Whatever it is. You’re not giving me much here.
I just feel exhausted. Georgia’s voice was barely discernable in her quiet whisper.
Exhausted from what? I don’t understand.
J, Georgia said again—snobbish, patronizing.
J was tired of that tone. The accusation of it. She knew this life. She played by its rules. So, she hung up and began to jog. In intervals, speeding up and slowing down. Then at a full sprint, not stopping at all.
