Snapping out of the thought, I grinned at Jase and said, “He had to come to my house and insult my piano playing skills first.”
His face twisted. “You’re learning to play piano? Boring.” He dropped an arm over my shoulders but had to bend slightly because of our height difference. He was well over six feet tall, probably close to six-three. “Let me guess. Your aunt? The one that looks like there’s something shoved up her—”
“Yep, that’d be the one.”
He chuckled. “Want me to tell her what men really want? I could probably show her a thing or too so she could get a good visual.”
Unlike Lawrence, I had no doubt that Jason would try to hook up with my aunt. “I don’t need therapy, but thanks.”
Ren shoved his friend away and stole my arm again. “Come on. I want us to hang out downstairs. I challenged Rita and her latest boy toy to beer pong and need a partner.”
As he dragged me toward the basement stairs off the kitchen, I couldn’t help but tease him. “Is this the same boy toy you’ve been going after since you had that sociology class together?”
“Perhaps.” Translation: yes.
“You’re hopeless.”
“Hopelessly infatuated,” he corrected before shooting me another wink. As soon as he walked into the open living area where a pool table, flat screen, and few couches were set up, we got loud cheers from some of the other guests. There weren’t many people lingering down here because it was typically for “VIP” guests only, usually girlfriends of the fraternity, or whoever they were hooking up with at the time. Then there was me, the perpetual best friend slash third wheel. I was okay with it though because it meant I didn’t have to suffocate in the crowd of people upstairs.
I spotted Lawrence’s crush instantly hanging around Rita Malcom. She was a sweet girl that ran in a similar social circle as us. Her father worked with Theo as some investor—they might even be friends or something close to it if memory served. Rita and her father both showed up to the funeral where she’d given me a hug and her father gave me his apologies. For once, I’d believed somebody had actually felt bad that my father was killed. I didn’t talk to Rita much other than the occasional greeting in passing or during these where we were typically partnered up for whatever Ren forced me to take part of, but I could see her being a friend. An ally.
As always, I didn’t get a choice before I was teamed up with Rita to go against Lawrence and Ben. He was cute, around the same height as Ren, and the kind of preppy, clean-shaven guy that my best friend usually went for. He was on the lacrosse team at school, something Rita told me a while back when they first started hanging out. Like a lot of women who hung around this house, she was into any sports team and loved the attention from the players. She was sweet, but knew how to play the field, so to speak.
We lost horribly after forty-five minutes, and I downed one too many sour beers despite telling Lawrence I didn’t want to drink. I usually opted against alcohol because of the medication I was on for anxiety, something my therapist had prescribed a few years ago. I didn’t take them on days I knew I was going out because there was a chance this would happen. Truthfully, I wasn’t even sure if they worked that well. I had good and bad days where I felt more anxious than not. It wasn’t as debilitating as it used to be when I went out because media wasn’t parked in front of my building trying to get an interview. There weren’t paparazzi following me and snapping pictures from shrubbery or calling out my name to get an ugly photo that would be on every gossip site known to man. It was because of them that I got worse. Not just my anxiety, but…
Blowing out a breath, I cradled my stomach where a pink scar rested. How many times did TMZ make comments on my appearance? She’s gained weight. Stress eating is a sign of guilt. I thought she was a dancer? The comments on my thighs, the way I filled out my leggings on the way to practice, the tint of my skin or how and if I wore makeup, all came back to one thing: I was a Saint James, which meant I was guilty. Guilty of pretending I didn’t care about what my father had done to people or how he abused his power. Guilty of not caring about the state of the New York after my father was arrested. They crucified me in every way possible until I hated myself more than I already did. Because I did gain weight from stress eating. I did stop trying at ballet. I did stop caring. Not about others. About me.
I just…stopped.
My mood swings then had gotten me in trouble with Judith, our ballet teacher, when I stopped being able to do the routines as easily as before. She’d berated me for gaining weight and demanded I go on a special diet, making me see a dietary specialist to help me cut out the food I was “poisoning” my body with. Then there were the stretch marks. The little reminders on my stomach and thighs that told me I’d lost control when the trial began. It was televised. There were reporters everywhere. I’d snuck food everywhere I went with me to ease the pain, in the form of chocolate, carbs, and anything in between. I’d damaged the body that had once been naturally thin, and my metabolism did nothing to stop the transition
