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  Sharing Spaces Book 3:

  Thin

  Alicia Michaels

  Thin

  Alicia Michaels

  Copyright 2016 by Alicia Michaels

  Edited by Melissa Ringsted (There for You Editing Service)

  Cover Art by Najla Qamber (www.najlaqamberdesigns)

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Epilogue

  Disclaimer: This book depicts fictional situations dealing with the issues surrounding bulimia and other eating disorders, self-harm, addiction, and suicide.

  The medical conditions and treatments described within are for the purposes of lending reality to the story, and should not be taken as medical advice.

  Sharing Spaces Series Bonus Books

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  Beauty and the Brain

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  Prologue

  The rug in my therapist’s office was insanely ugly. I’m talking so ugly it never should have seen the light of day. For some reason, during our sessions, I always had a hard time not looking at it. Kind of like a car wreck, you know? Traffic comes to a standstill because it’s so bad people just have to stop and stare. I kept studying the intricate patterns of stale-banana-brown swirling over pea-soup-green and thinking about how much it looked like vomit. Thinking about vomit made me squirm in my chair, because once I got on that thought path all I want to do was run to the bathroom, stick my fingers down my throat, and empty my stomach. The urge would become so strong, after a while my fingers actually started to itch. The only way to make the itching stop would be to give in to the urge, which of course I couldn’t do in my therapist’s office. So I clutched the index and middle finger of my right hand in a fist made by my left and tried not to think about it. But then, my leg started bouncing up and down, making the old chair I sat on squeak.

  It’s funny how an ugly rug can serve as a metaphor for your life. The existence of Kinsley Simmons, reduced to a car wreck so heinous, that people have completely halted their lives to stop and stare at it. My doctor. My therapist. My nutritionist. My parents. My friends. Look at Kinsley the freak; she’s 5’5” and 105 pounds, but still won’t stop dieting, purging, and taking diet pills. How did the perfect girl become such a hot ass mess?

  I suppose that was the point of the therapy, but five months of talking about body image and expectations have gotten us nowhere. Which is probably what prompted my therapist to drop this bombshell on me during the last week of my final month of college:

  “Kinsley, I think it’s time we discussed a new treatment option.”

  Tearing my gaze away from the rug, I glanced up at her and frowned. “New treatment? On top of the constant doctor, nutritionist, and therapy sessions? What’s next, a lobotomy?”

  “Kinsley, don’t be rude!” my mother snapped from her place in the corner.

  Her sharp tone was further enhanced by an East Indian accent, and the severity of the inky black hair scraped back into an impossibly tight bun at the back of her head. Sitting in the corner of the room in a pantsuit and heels, she gave me a look of reproach.

  That was so like her, being concerned with my manners at a time like this. I hated that she had been asked to sit in on this session. Wasn’t this stuff supposed to be private? Now I understood why the shrink had asked her to come into the room. Never mind the fact that I’d just turned twenty-one earlier this year; my team of doctors seemed to think my recovery had to be a ‘group effort’, which meant my family and friends needed to be involved. Because apparently my car wreck also needed a traffic jam of bystanders to witness my slow and painful death.

  “It’s quite all right,” said Dr. Brown. “Kinsley, do you feel as if your current course of treatment has been ineffective thus far?”

  Slouching in my chair, I gave my fingers a squeeze. The urge was driving me nuts, and I couldn’t stop thinking that I only had another hour or so before I wouldn’t be able to get rid of the apple and glass of water I’d had this morning.

  “I visit the doctor every month and he weighs me,” I said. “Then he checks to make sure I haven’t destroyed my esophagus or teeth. He asks me if I’m still having a regular menstrual cycle, and whether I’ve started abusing laxatives or sticking dangerous things down my throat like letter openers or nail files. Then I visit a nutritionist who asks to read my food diary, then lectures me about the appropriate amounts of each food group to eat. Once a week I come see you, and we talk in circles about my problems, but never really seem to come up with any solutions. So, I’m going to do what you always do and answer your question with a question. Do you think this bullshit is working? Because I don’t.”

  In the corner of the room, my mom gasped, but the doctor kept her from saying anything else with a wave of her hand. I refused to turn and look at her again, because I already knew what I would see—disappointment and confusion. I’d received that look from a lot of people since it became public knowledge that I had an eating disorder. No one seemed able to understand how perfect Kinsley had sunk so low, so fast.

  Clearing her throat, Dr. Brown jotted something on her legal pad. Her short, blunt brown bob was tucked behind one ear. Her eyes matched her hair, as well as her suit. I idly wondered if she even realized she was literally like a walking, talking, brown crayon.

  “We’ve made progress, but there has been very little considering the amount of time we’ve worked together. That’s okay, though. Recovery is different for everyone, and no two people have the same path to success. But your parents, your doctor, and I … we believe you could benefit greatly from a stay in an inpatient facility.”

  That got my attention. Sitting up in my chair, I swiveled to face my mom. Glaring at her, I tried to swallow past the lump of sadness in my throat. Turns out, betrayal is a pretty tough pill to swallow. Try as I might, I just couldn’t get it to go down.

  “You want to have me committed?”

  “That’s not what this is,” Dr. Brown said before my mom could reply.

  When I turned back, I found a pamphlet in her hand, held out toward me. Taking it from her, I scowled at the photo of a smiling teen girl on the front. She was annoyingly average, and happy to boot. I hated her on sight.

  “Willow Creek Eating Disorder Inpatient Facility,” I murmured, reading the brochure’s front.

  Flipping it open, I quickly scanned the list of treatment protocols observed by the facility.

  “Therapy, nutritionists … how is this any different than what we’re already doing?”

  Setting her pad aside, Dr. Brown crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. “It is different in quite a few ways, one being that isolation from the outside worl
d with rigorous focus on recovery often improves a patient’s outcome. As well, the opportunity to interact with others who are going through the same things you are might help you to feel less shame over the behaviors caused by your disorder. At Willow Creek, you’ll live and interact with other young people just like you. You’ll eat with them, exercise with them, attend group therapy with them … your entire focus can shift to recovery without worrying about the pressures of school or expectations hanging over your head.”

  Speaking of school …

  “Finals are next week. Graduation is at the end of the month. After that I need to start turning in my grad school applications. I don’t have time to waste in some mental ward.”

  “From what I gather, even if you take your finals, you will still be unable to graduate as you are failing three of your five classes,” she pointed out.

  Damn. How did she know that?

  “And on the small chance you are able to graduate, do you honestly think you will be healthy enough to attend graduate school in the fall?”

  Staring down at my lap, I considered her question. I might suffer from Bulimia Nervosa and—according to Dr. Brown—Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but one thing I do not suffer from is delusion. I was not oblivious to what I’d been doing to myself for the past seven months. My baggy sweatpants and oversized T-shirt could only do so much to hide the evidence. Every time I stuck my fingers down my throat, or swallowed a diet pill, or exercised until passing out from exhaustion, I knew exactly what I was doing. I knew the risks, and the eventual side-effects. I knew, and did it anyway. Which is why I couldn’t honestly look her in the eye and argue that I would, in fact, be healthy enough to make it through next week, let alone the entire summer before graduate school.

  “The way things are going, you have two options,” she continued. “You can forgo the facility and take your chances, in which case you will end up in the hospital with a ruptured esophagus, minus a few teeth, and possibly infertile for the rest of your life. Or, you can give yourself a break from school, take the summer to get better, then return in the fall to finish your final semester and do it right. You’re a legal adult, so the choice is yours alone. We can’t force you to do anything. But I am strongly advising you to take me up on this offer. Willow Creek is one of the best programs in the state, and their spots fill up fast. I called in a favor and asked them to hold a place for you. You won’t have another chance like this for a long time if you pass it up.”

  “Our insurance only covers part of the treatment,” my mom said. “But your father and I talked and we agreed to split the remaining costs. Anything to help you get better again.”

  “You and Dad agreed about something? Dr. Brown, I may not need this treatment. Sounds like the apocalypse is coming.”

  She stifled a giggle, but her mouth quivered as if she wanted to laugh. Clearing her throat, she adopted a more professional expression.

  “Well, Kinsley? What’s it going to be? Treatment now, fresh start in the fall? Or ignore this chance, end up in the hospital later anyway?”

  Glancing down at the annoying girl on the front of the brochure, I tried to see myself in her. In the past I might have thought I was her. Straight-A’s, perfect boyfriend soon to become my perfect husband, cheerleader with several competitions under her belt, great group of friends, life goals all planned. Somehow, it all fell apart, and now that girl is the furthest thing from me.

  A fresh start, no matter how hard the road to it would be, sounded amazing. While I hated therapy, Dr. Brown seemed like a nice woman who genuinely wanted to help me. I trusted her assertion that Willow Creek was a better option, especially since losing me as a patient also meant losing out on the insane fee my parents paid for a mere hour of her time.

  Sighing, I forced a smile. “Fresh start it is. Sign me up for the metal ward, Doc.”

  Chapter One

  The apartment I shared with four other people hummed with activity and echoed with noise when I entered it, half an hour after my impulsive decision to enter the inpatient treatment facility. For a while, I just stood there, taking it all in. It smelled like pizza and coffee—final exam cramming fuel. Though, from the sound of things, very little studying went on.

  Where I stood at the foot of the steps, I could hear Chloe huffing and panting through the open door of her room. The thuds of her footsteps and the sound of rhythmic Latin music clued me in to her workout of choice for the day. Zumba. Eight weeks after giving birth, she was determined to drop the extra pounds she’d gained during her pregnancy. The girl was a machine—dropping most of her baby weight and managing to catch up on her classes after falling behind during her pregnancy. Balancing full-time work with full-time classes and extra online courses on the side, she had managed to achieve the near-impossible. Unlike me, she would actually walk the stage at the end of the month to collect her diploma.

  To my left, Christian sprawled on the couch in the living room, his cast-wrapped leg propped on the coffee table, crutches within arm’s reach. He would have to walk the stage at graduation on those crutches, but he was lucky to be walking at all after having his tibia snapped. Two surgeries in four months, and tens of thousands of dollars in metal rods and pins got him back on his feet, but he was going to need major physical therapy over the summer. Of course, I’d miss most of that.

  The blender in the kitchen whirred noisily, the sound of ice being pulverized causing my left eye to twitch. Our newest roommate, Kara, was a smoothie fanatic. Seriously. There were fruits and veggies out there I didn’t even know could be whipped into drinkable form until she moved in. I hadn’t really gotten the chance to get to know the girl; she’d only lived with us for a few months, moving into the room that became available when my best friend Jenn started shacking up with her boyfriend. Despite having been a bit annoying at first, she seemed nice and actually fit well into our little group.

  I heard the front door open behind me, and turned to find Chase and Luke coming back from classes.

  Wearing his uniform of blue jeans and a band t-shirt—Queen this time—Luke clutched his guitar case in one hand, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He’d started wearing his hair a bit longer on top and shaved on the sides, though a few golden brown strands always hung in his eyes. A pair of headphones dangled around his neck, attached to the phone in his back pocket. I could hear music coming from them, but couldn’t decipher what it could be.

  Dressed in a button-up shirt and tie for work, Chase held a stack of books in one hand, and his faux-leather satchel in the other. His mop of brown curls hung messy around his head, giving him a boyish vibe. Before putting on his work clothes for his job at an organic pharmaceutical lab, I’d spotted the T-shirt he wore underneath. Its slogan read: Earth without trees is like pizza without cheese. Apartment 4C’s resident tree-hugger loved all things green … including Kara’s smoothies.

  “Yes, it’s smoothie time!” he exclaimed, dropping his satchel by the door and trotting past me into the kitchen. “Hey, Kins,” he added, turning to smile at me over his shoulder.

  “Hey, Kinnie-Minnie,” said Luke, draping an arm me.

  His heavy guitar case threw us off balance, causing me to lean left into him.

  “Hey,” I replied. “Where’s Jenn?”

  Wrinkling his nose at me, he gave me a little jostle. “Damn, is no one ever happy to see me?”

  Nudging him with my elbow, I broke away from his hold, following Chase into the kitchen.

  “Of course I’m happy to see you, it’s just … well, I have news and it’ll be easier to talk to everyone at once.”

  Catching on to the severity of my tone, he raised his eyebrows. “I think she went shopping. Her mom’s in town and they’re on the hunt for a graduation dress.”

  Graduation. Another thing I would be missing out on.

  Shopping for a dress. Something Jenn and I usually did together, but I don’t get out much lately. Being close to home means there’s always a toilet nearby when I need it.r />
  “She left hours ago,” Luke continued. “I’ll just call and see where she is.”

  Leaving him in the entryway with his phone, I ventured into the kitchen where Kara poured smoothies into plastic bottles for her and Chase.

  “Hey, Kinsley,” she said in her high, nasal voice. “Smoothie?”

  I paused, my fingers twitching as anxiety slammed into me. I could feel Kara and Chase watching me as I thought over every piece of food I’d put in my mouth since waking up. An apple and a glass of water.

  Smoothies are okay. Liquids are lighter … can make you feel full … easier to purge.

  Chase’s brow wrinkled in concern. “Kins?”

  Blinking, I forced myself to smile. “Smoothie sounds good, Kara. Thanks.”

  Nodding, she retrieved another bottle from the cabinet and filled it. Before she could place it in my hand, Chloe appeared and snatched it out of Kara’s grasp. Dressed in yoga pants and sports bra, sweat glistened on the surface of her sun-tanned skin.

  “Post-workout fuel,” she said, raising it to her lips. “Thank God.”

  Chase glared at her from the opposite end of the counter. “That was for Kinsley.”

  Chloe raised an eyebrow at me while swallowing a mouthful of smoothie. “Have you eaten any real food today, Kins?”

  Shit, now the food sheriff is on to me.

  Ever since Chloe first suspected me of abusing diet pills, she’d been watching me like a hawk. When I’d collapsed because of heart palpitations, she’s the one who found me and called the paramedics. I might have died without her.

  Which is why her censure felt worse than anyone else’s. Knowing I might disappoint the person who had saved my life, only for me to go on destroying my body made me feel even worse.

  Clearing my throat, I lowered my eyes. “An apple.”

  Chloe smiled. “Good. How about another solid meal? I’ll make you a salad.”

  Salad. Same stuff as in the smoothie, only in solid form. Only slightly harder to purge.