the outing. Sophie would gossip about her so-called friends and their families, making believe that she and Andrew were far better than the scandals that happened in her social circle, and belittle me for my posture, what I put onto my plate, and how I didn’t call her back when she called yesterday.
She was the last person I wanted to talk to after getting home from Theo’s house. If he were anybody else, I’d have to worry about her chastising me about what happened at the party. Thankfully, he wasn’t the kind of person to rat you out. At least, not when things like this occurred. There were few times he spoke up about what I did in my life. The only time he chose to intervene, when I wished he hadn’t, had left us with a wedge between whatever friendship we’d formed over the years. Though Sophie, and many other family members, had told me I was silly to even call it that.
“Don’t be naïve, Adele. Theo is not your friend. He’s your father’s. A man like that has no use of a girl your age.”
Perhaps it was those words that left me huddled in my room for days after he told my father that I’d been starving myself—that I’d been purging, exercising too much, moody beyond help. If what my aunt said were true, Theo wouldn’t have even bothered to tell my father of my choices he disapproved of. Looking back now, I saw that wasn’t true. He cared, perhaps more than anybody, considering nobody else was willing to speak up about what I was doing.
The missed meals.
The extra hours of exercise.
The covered mirrors.
Throat thickening, I looked at the pricks on the wall where tacks held a sheet over the large vanity mirror once upon a time. Theo had done me a favor by telling my father, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t hurt.
“What are you doing, Della?”
“Are you out of your mind, Della?”
“You could kill yourself, Della!”
I could have. Theo was right. And while that was never my end game, it was a very likely possibility when I finally looked at myself in the mirror after he’d torn the sheet off in his rampage from weeks of me shutting him out.
“Tell me what you see,” he’d demanded. When I didn’t offer him a reply, he turned to me, spine straightened to full height, and told me what he saw instead. “I see a girl who has fallen too many times to the predators of the world who want nothing more than to tear her apart, but I know that girl is much stronger than she believes. One day, that girl will become a woman who wears her confidence proudly. Want to know why, Della?”
I’d known he was going to tell me why regardless of if I wanted him to or not, because those dark blue eyes were fierce with an intensity that racked my soul as I stood in front of him and the mirror in nothing but pajama shorts and a tank top that had emphasized just how little remained of my body.
“You will fall, fail, and break over and over in this world. But you will also rise, succeed, and put yourself back together because only you can. That doesn’t mean there aren’t people here who want to help—who aren’t willing to make a few threats to those worthy of the breath. Understand, Della?”
What I’d understood that day was that he wanted me to fight—for me, my father, and even for him. He would never say those words though because he knew better than anybody that I wouldn’t be able to love myself if I didn’t try for my own wellbeing. The important thing was that he wanted me to do my best, to fight, and I did.
I did, over and over, and fell just as he said. I failed. I thought negative things, found myself counting my calories, and skipping meals then saying I’d “forgotten” because I’d been busy. Sometimes it wasn’t even a lie. I’d be in the studio painting and would lose track of time until somebody found me. That was when I’d realized I’d lost a day in the kind of art I felt comfortable in.
My own.
Unlike my skin, my art was something I found unconditional love in. I could express myself in the way I captured silhouettes on canvas and paper exactly how I wanted, but never wishing I could be who I created. Ripley, my therapist, always told me