Miles From Kara (10 page)

“So, sleep?”

A smile lit his face. “Sleep sounds perfect.”

I pushed through the doors to the new cafe Sarah had begged us to meet at for lunch and peered around for the others. It was the first time in what felt like forever that it was just us, the girls, without bottles of testosterone walking around in guy form, voicing their opinions on all things irrelevant to a girl.

Colt and I had woken up that morning, wrapped in each other's arms, every single part of my body and soul happy in a way I had never experienced. He made me want to be me, the real me. It was like he saw something in me that no one else had ever seen, and I wanted everyone else to see me just as clearly as he did. We reluctantly said our goodbyes, and though I missed him, I was happy knowing that we would be together again later that night.

“Kar!”

I spun around and immediately saw Olivia standing at a table in the back, her hands waving frantically. I smiled. “Hey!”

I slid into the free seat across from Alyssa and grabbed the small paper menu from the center of the table.

“What's good?”

It took me exactly five seconds to realize that none of them were looking at their menus. They were all looking at me. “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what?' You know what. Or rather
who
.”

I sighed, faking aggravation, but I couldn't help smiling at their excitement. “Okay, fine! What do you want to know?”

Sarah grabbed a slice of bread from the basket our waitress had brought over and leaned in. “Tell me about the accent. Is it hot in bed? Does he talk dirty to you with his Aussie slang?”

I pushed back, giggling. “No! We . . .” I lowered my voice and peered around. “We haven't actually . . . yet.”

“Are you serious?” Alyssa half screamed, making my cheeks flame. “He looks like that and you haven't done anything yet?”

Olivia waved Alyssa away. “Hey, let off. It doesn't have to be rushed. And it's none of our freaking business anyway. She'll do whatever whenever it's right.” She shot me a grin, and I mouthed thanks. No one was as understanding about privacy as Olivia.

“But you like him?” Sarah asked as she nibbled on another slice of bread. She was the romantic of the group, always preferring romantic comedies to action flicks. Always talking about celebrity weddings and TV show hookups.

I smiled. “I do. So much.”

Our waitress came by and took our orders, before disappearing back behind the counter.

“What about you?” I asked Sarah pointedly. She and Taylor had been dancing around their feelings all summer, and if she could ask questions, then so could I.

“What about me?” she said as she toyed with her straw, avoiding eye contact.

“Um, Taylor.”

Her eyes flashed up and around to each of us. She opened her mouth to spit out an obvious argument and then shut it back with a shrug. “It's nothing really. We've hung out a few times. We're friends.”

“Do you want to be more than friends, though?” Olivia asked.

Sarah looked uncomfortable. “I don't know. It's complicated. He's just very . . . closed off. I don't know what he's thinking most of the time.”

Huh. That was not at all the Taylor I thought I knew. The Taylor we saw was very easygoing and quick-witted. I had a hard time picturing him being closed off.

Sarah sighed heavily as she reached for a third piece of bread. “Boys.” I eyed her, wondering when she'd given up her crazy-obsessive calorie-counting, but feeling relieved that she was going easier on herself.

Our waitress brought over our lunch, and we delved into complete boy talk, then school talk, then future career talk, and before long nearly two hours had passed and we had stuffed our faces with sandwiches and pasta salad and chocolate cake for dessert. I leaned back in my chair, regretting eating the final bite of cake, when Sarah said, “I'm going to hit the bathroom. Be right back.”

The rest of the table barely paid attention to her, but I waited until she had disappeared into the restroom and then followed her, stopping just outside the closed door. Sarah was always careful with what she ate, but today, she gorged herself. Like she was starving and was finally getting a bite to eat. Now, she was rushing off to the bathroom? Nothing about it felt right.

I leaned against the wall outside the bathroom door, and for a moment, I heard nothing. I breathed a sigh of relief, telling myself that my concerns were just in my head, but then came the distinct sound of coughing following by retching. I slumped against the wall, my heart pounding. Sarah had lost so much weight over the last few months, and I knew it wasn't just because of stress over grades. I had noticed the way she either ate practically nothing when we'd all get together or disappeared to the bathroom shortly after a meal. She knew better than to hurt herself like that . . . didn't she?

I contemplated going back to the table and ignoring my suspicions for now. I could be wrong. I didn't want to push her away by accusing her of something like this, but if she was really bulimic, she needed help. I'd seen a few bulimic girls at the center, and they always felt as though they weren't doing anything wrong. One had even ended up in the hospital. I didn't want that to happen to Sarah. She was my friend, and friends should look out for one another. Right?

Telling myself that I was being a good friend—or a demanding bitch, but that I'd been that bitch before—I crossed my arms and cocked my hip against the wall beside the bathroom door, waiting. The horrifying sound came from inside the bathroom again, and I placed my hand over my mouth, on the verge of tears because of what she was doing to herself. I wanted to bang on the door and demand that she stop, but that wasn't the right response here. I needed to show support quietly.

Another minute passed, and I peeked around the corner into the cafe, glad to see Olivia and Alyssa still talking away about study abroad options. The door to the bathroom pushed open, and I jerked back.

“Oh, hey,” Sarah said, her eyes wide. Her face was ashen. “I don't think I'm feeling very well.”

Relief washed over me. She wasn't bulimic. She was just sick. “Oh no! I'm sorry. Let's get you home.”

I waved the other girls to the door, saying that I was taking Sarah home, and then we were in my car, alone. I blasted the air on, pointing all the vents at Sarah, and started toward Charleston Haven. “Let me know if you start feeling sick again.”

She nodded, but she no longer looked sick. She looked sad. “I will. Thanks.” She fumbled with her purse in her lap, and when I glanced back over, tears were rolling down her face.

“Oh, Sarah. Are you okay? Do you want me to pull over?”

She shook her head. “No . . . I'm just . . .” Her head turned toward me, and I saw a hint of anger through the water in her eyes. “How do you do it? How do you eat what we just ate and stay so thin? It's like you don't even try. You're tiny. And you don't even try.”

My insides became sour, and I peered over slowly. “Sarah . . . you aren't sick, are you?”

“What?”

“Back at the cafe. You threw up. Did you . . . did you make yourself do that?”

“What?” This time her voice was high pitched and she had a horrified look on her face.

I closed my eyes briefly to give myself the confidence I needed to press on. I'd seen girls like her at the center. I knew they were embarrassed of what they did. The stigma of it. But that at root, they didn't feel it was wrong. Not like drinking or drugs or cutting. This was just throwing up. Everyone did it at some point . . . they just did it more frequently.

“Sarah . . . I've seen girls with bulimia at the center. You—”

“You don't know shit about me. How dare you accuse me of something like this! We're friends. I'm not some sicko at your stupid clinic.” She clenched her teeth together and crossed her arms, fuming, but the tears running down her face had picked up speed.

I parked outside our building and turned toward her, prepared to tell her that she was my friend, that I loved her, and that I wouldn't judge her no matter what. But as soon as I'd put the car into park, she bolted from the car, not even bothering to shut the car door. She never looked back, but I knew she was crying. Just like I knew my friend was bulimic.

***

I walked around the corner toward Helping Hands, my heart beating wildly in my chest for two different reasons. I ran through a million ways of asking Tori about bulimia on my ride over. I didn't want to tip her off to the fact that I knew someone who had the disorder. Knowing Tori, she'd threaten to fire me unless I contacted the person and forced her to come to the center. I couldn't let that happen.

But then separate from my worry over Sarah, my heart started beating to a new rhythm as I walked down the sidewalk, seeing the Applegate & Long sign just a few steps ahead on my left. I told myself to pay attention to the list of services printed on the window so I could ask Colt about it later without sounding like a moron. The truth was I hadn't paid attention to the services or the color of the building or anything else at all about the company, because every time I walked past it I became obsessed with the blond intern inside, hunched over a table, a concentration on his face that made him so beautiful that it was hard to look away.

Something had happened that night at the hospital. Colt's care for Maggie and his refusal to leave me had somehow bound me to him. I felt obsessed and a little unsettled, but I loved it. I loved feeling something for someone again. And I loved the endless possibilities that lay before us. Preston and I never had that intense beginning, where you wanted to see the other person all the time, where you were excited to learn his quirks. I had already known Preston's quirks. And though Ethan and I weren't as close as Preston and me, I had still known him very well, too. I remembered what he looked like in third grade. This was different. Better. Exhilarating.

I stepped before the wide windows and peered through, my gaze instantly locking on Colt, seated in the same spot he chose every day. Everyone else was working at open cubicles, typing on their computers, but Colt sat behind the drawing table every time I'd seen him. I sighed at the sight of him, this time dressed in black slacks and a dark blue button down, sleeves again rolled to the elbows. I was shocked the firm required such formal business attire in the middle of summer, but I wasn't complaining. I was used to seeing Colt look like a tattooed bad boy. Seeing him dressed in such sharp contrast to that appearance set my insides on fire.

I stared freely at him, basking in the sharp lines of his jaw, the hint of curl at the ends of his hair, the way his arm flexed on occasion as he drew. And then his deep brown eyes lifted, finding me, and I was pinned in place. He pushed out from behind his table, his eyes never leaving mine, and started for me. I swiped my tongue across my bottom lip, preparing—hoping—that once he reached me he would have no choice but to press his full, succulent lips against my—

“Kara?”

Shit.

I blinked hard. There I was, standing in front of his work, steps away from mine, having a full-out fantasy. Stupid, Kara. Stupid!

“Uh, hey.”

A crooked smile stretched across his face. “Why do I get the feeling I'm missing something?”

“Uh, you aren't. Nothing. I was just heading to work and saw you and thought I'd—”

He took a step toward me. God, I loved when he took that step. It felt so personal, like it was just for me. I'd yet to see him step into anyone's space the way he stepped into mine. He tilted his head toward me, just beside my ear. “Were you watching me work?”

“I . . .” I wanted to deny it, but this was Colt, seer of all things Kara. I closed my eyes and cringed. “I watch you almost every day.”

“Then I guess I should confess something,” he said. My eyes flashed open, worry working its way through me, but then he said with a laugh, “I already knew you've been watching me.”

I slapped his arm and he laughed harder. “You knew? Then why make me feel like a stalking moron? Why haven't you come out here before?”

“What can I say? It turns me on when you watch me draw.”

I tried to hide a grin and failed. “Oh really?”

“You have no idea.”

I reached for his hand, threading my fingers through his. “Do you have a drawing table in your apartment?”

His smile returned. “I do.”

“Then maybe we could hang out at your place tonight. You know, if you want. I could watch you draw.”

He lifted my hand to his mouth and flipped it over, before pressing a kiss to my palm. “See you tonight then.” And then he turned back toward the firm, leaving me standing there, my heart a crazy flutter in my chest. I walked away and peered over my shoulder, to find him standing in the doorway to his office, watching me go.

“Stop staring at me,” I teased.

“Can't help it.”

I shook my head, smiling, and focused back on making my way to Helping Hands on wobbly legs. I'd be lucky if I got any work done now. Colt's house . . . tonight. I smiled again, until I slipped inside the center and my gaze stopped on the person standing just inside the door.

Maggie.

“Hey . . . what are you doing here?” I asked, starting for her. “I thought you were supposed to be resting.”

Maggie had been placed on moderate bed rest in conjunction with the medication to stop her contractions. We had talked a few times, and she had promised me that she wouldn't try to get out without asking someone to help her.

“I am. Or I have been. My dad's just driving me insane. I guess he's trying to make up for everything, so he's hovering. I needed a break.”

“Does he know you're here?”

She hesitated. “Not exactly.”

“Maggie!”

“Well, I'm nearly seventeen. I don't need to tell my dad every time I go for a drive, and I had something important to tell you.”