'Little One' Audiobook Preview

my headphones and into the center of my skull. "Clush forward now! Go one more

“mile! Go your feet at the pavement!" I tried to concentrate on the rhythm of my”

stride, the repetition of my toe heel strike against the concrete, but my stomach gurgles with hunger instead. The eight-mile run to pick up the cake had seemed like a good idea this morning. Something that would make me feel better about the sugar the day itself. I had pictured myself on the cab ride back, eyes closed in satisfaction, hands carefully clutching the thing I had earned, but seven miles in, all I feel is empty, and weak, like the center of me has been carved out

with a spoon. I'm caving in on myself. "Come on!" the virtual trainer shouts again. "One more mile now! It's going to be so worth it! I promise you that's right! Give me one deep breath through your nose!" I don't have to look at my phone to picture the trainer. I know her well enough by now. I can close my eyes and see her bouncing on the treadmill, her two space buns perched carefully atop her head, her forehead seeming to glow with effort instead

of actual perspiration. I imagine the giant fan that's probably just out of frame, the one that keeps her cool enough to find the energy to keep yelling things like, "This is what

“self-love looks like!" "Is it?" "And if you need to take a break, that's self-love too, y'all!”

I promise it is!" I almost laugh, and yet I'm so close to being done that I figure it can't hurt. I try it. I search for that kind of affection for myself, that kind of care, anything to make this easier, to keep pushing. Instead all I find is annoying, angry scream inside my chest. My lungs burning, begging me to stop, to breathe, to eat. Maybe, I think. Space buns is right. Maybe taking a break is the answer. Just this once. And it's that easy. Just like that, I've

entertained the option of giving up. You've given weakness a seat at the table, says another voice, one that seems to come from somewhere behind my eyes, trickling over the ridges of my frontal lobe, and now you need to ask it to leave. I realize now that I've stopped moving, that I'm doubled over in the middle of the sidewalk, pedestrians grumbling as I block their path, slow their pace. A cramp rips through my side, my face is burning, my skin raw and bitten from

the wind. I want to go home and run a bath, sit in it until the water goes cold. It sounds nice.

You know, it's always going to feel easier to stop. The familiar voice says again,

it will feel so easy that you'll be convinced it must be right, that you really are supposed to give in, to take the easy way out, to do the one thing that everyone else is doing. The feeling makes you think that giving up is normal, but we're better than that, aren't we, Catherine? A high tempo EDM song starts playing, synchronizing with the last big push of the guided run. The sound suddenly feels garish and wrong. The motivational messages

childish, self-love, please. I rip my ear buds out and stuff them in the pocket of my leggings, silencing the virtual coach, the uselessness of it all, and then I keep moving. Suddenly, all that pain from before is something sturdy and not it, a rope that works its way

between my ribs. I reach down into the center of myself, find the thing I know I can always control,

that ache I know so well, and I grab hold. I pull myself up out of the place where giving up is an option, and I push forward. Later, I drag my finger along the edge of the cake, admiring it. I watch as I indent the soft icing just above the circular base and study the writing on the top. Congrats on ten. It says, barely legible. The letters and numbers drawn on in chunks of thick, goofy icing.

Lazy work, really. Like a child did it. I sigh. It will have to do. Besides, I've seen worse. I can still picture the first one, a discounted

“weak old carrot cake, the only thing I could afford. I remember sitting in my speck of a kitchen”

on the first anniversary, elbows scrunched together on a table that folded down from the wall

because that was all there was room for. I had stared at the cake, sweating beneath a dented plastic cover, the messy neon orange blob of a carrot drawn on top seemed to say, "This is your idea of a celebration?" Really? No. I wanted to respond as I stabbed a single candle into the icing.

I will not be that person. A reminder of just how far I've come. Not a celebration, but an

“acknowledgement of how hard I worked to create this life. This year I splurged on one of those”

Instagram-able birthday cakes. The funfetti turned cool types that cost the equivalent of a

weeks worth of groceries and are always more aesthetically pleasing than they are delicious.

We don't usually do custom messages. The 20-year-old working at the bakery had insisted earlier when I picked it up seemingly exasperated at my request. It's kind of basic. I had smoothed down my baby hairs, all of them sweat soaked and wild from the run. I knew my face was beat red that I looked flustered out of breath and old to them, probably. I get it. I totally do. I started, then lowered my voice. It's just, I'm 10-year sober today. A lie. Sure. But why shouldn't I get something shiny and

special for a decade of survival? I gave up something all those years ago too. The 20-year-old side.

“All right, but he won't be pretty. I thank them effusively and gave them a big tip. I'm not a monster.”

10 years. I say out loud to myself in my apartment, staring at the cake. My mind charts all the things that have changed in that time. The career I have built, the apartments I have tolerated in order to find this place, a building with a door man and a gym, a trash shoot instead of a utility room full of garbage and mice. I should feel proud of myself, relieved to have another year of distance between me and before. But I don't. This year, it all feels harder. It's just the number.

I tell myself the way to fit. Double digits. I'm 28 now and it feels impossible that a whole decade has passed. I close my eyes and picture the Scandinavian accented voice from my running app guiding me through the moment. Sit with your feelings, listen to them, meet them with curiosity if you

“lost, but never judgment, breathe through the… fuck it. I finally lick the dollop of icing that's”

been resting on my finger and my cheeks pucker at the sweetness. Already I know it comes next. First, a thin tendril of an idea. What if I plunge my open hand into the cake? What if I shovel it into my mouth and giant gulps? I follow the thought down deeper. I imagine I eat it all, then clock how much time it would take to throw out all the evidence by a new cake, emulate the writing in just the

right way and pretend the first one never happened. I am well practiced in reengineering the truth

of things like this. I push away the impulse as I reach into the cabinet for a plate, but I can already feel a panic attack building in my joints. My mind feels slippery. Every thought sliding through its grip instantly replaced by another, only for that one to slither away too. I picture a train barreling toward me, my shoes stuck between the tracks. We don't do this any more, Catherine. I whisper out loud, following the advice that a kickboxing instructor once screamed

through ragged exhausted breath, as Miley Cyrus's party in the USA blared in the background. Talk to you, anxiety. Like it's a do-year-old. They yelled. A toddler. Throw a get tantrum. You might not listen to you, but it doesn't matter. You are in charge. You are calling the shots, ladies. The whole class had erupted in cheers. Occasionally, this strategy had actually worked for me. I would crouch down and meet my anxiety. Note how small it was, how stupid.

Couldn't it see that everything was fine? That I was as safe as I have been for the last decade. Safe or than ever, maybe. But today, it doesn't work. I need a different strategy. I forced myself to move to the bathroom and splash water on my face, then dab it dry with a towel. I stare at myself in the mirror, gradually moving closer, until my nose is nearly touching my reflection. How? I cock my head to the side. My strawberry

blonde hair glued to my forehead with sweat. I know there is no point getting angry at myself

for a panic attack, especially not when I can understand what caused it. This day is always a mine

field. Still, there is something about the rage that feels good. Really? For a moment all I see is my mother. A size steadying myself on the sink beneath the mirror. A shoulders hunched toward my ears.

I close my eyes and picture a tens slide in photographic on Instagram. Each one an example of an

“effective form of self-care, a bubble bath, an audiobook read by a narrator with a vaguely European”

sounding accent, light stretching, a long call with a friend. None of it sounds good to me. I have no interest in being gentle with myself. I want to push myself around to bully whatever week part of me I need to until it eventually makes life easier. I owe myself that, tough love, a discipline. I look back up, meet my own stare, fucking pathetic. Finally, I feel myself start to relax. I throw the towel in the hamper and start to make my way back to the kitchen. Remembering

the cake still sitting there on the counter, sad, and sweating. I let my left hand drag along the exposed brick wall as I go, trying to feel the microscopic ridges of my fingers as they travel

across each bump and groove. I've always loved the feeling of something rough in the city.

“Something that could scratch you or catch on your shirt. So many of the apartments I looked at”

before this one were all clean lines shining smooth elevator banks, long stretches of seamless sheets of gray, perfectly straight lines going up, up, up, up. But I liked the bricks here, the friction, friction keeps you on your toes. I take a knife from a drawer and look down at the cake again, it should feel good, like a reward, instead it feels like a challenge. I slice into it, but hesitate before making the next cut, gauging the size of my portion. Before I can decide

between a wedge or a sliver, my phone lights up with a new email. I put the knife down and scroll through my inbox. There are dozens of new messages from editors and other freelancers, even more from publicists, all of them jockeying for my attention. Each of them is another reminder

“that I built this life myself, hitch by pitch, story by story, by line by by line,”

by lie. It wasn't as difficult as you to imagine. Sure, I know all about search engine optimization, I'd say in our 10-minute phone interviews. Obviously, I have a journalism degree from a respected but not flashy university. It's not like anyone was checking any of this, not for freelancer. I learned to fill whatever role someone needed me to fill. I could be the lightning-fast copywriter. I could be an expert interviewer, no deadline to daunting. I could be the no strings attached

mysterious one-night stand who lets you do that thing you secretly love, who doesn't expect you to stay the night or even want you to. I could be the friend who watches the bachelor with you every week, who holds your hair back when you throw up after a night out, who listens to your secrets. It's not that I didn't enjoy the work, the sex, the camaraderie, I respected it, even. The steadfast vulnerability of these people. I would look at them during yet another interview

or birthday dinner and marvel at it. The way they trusted me. I just didn't loot myself into thinking that it wasn't all transactional. They needed someone who would turn in clean copy, meet deadlines, not complain about writing yet another story about the best fucking Amazon finds under 25 dollars. They needed good sex, no commitment to feel wanted but not

needed never needed. They wanted to pretend that having brunch and paying $70 for bottomless

watery mimosas once in a while means were really close. Best pals. That's okay. I needed things too. Money. Sex. The kind of social life that doesn't make people wonder if something's wrong with me. At first, the assignments paid almost nothing, but ones editors saw how much money they could make from an optimized story about the best dog toy/mascaras/vitamin/vibrators. Then things started to change. And by that point, I could do that shit in my sleep. I've made a nice little career of it

now offering pristine copy on tight turn around as well as consulting services on editorial strategy. And most importantly, I can do it all on my terms. I'm about to put my phone down when I see the subject line. Story about your childhood. I feel a dampness start to settle on my forehead again. My stomach slowly cranking beneath my shirt. I open it. Hi, Catherine. I'm a journalist who's writing a story about a little known now defunct cult in central Florida. Big in the early

odds, I think. Does this sound familiar to you? I'd love to talk. Reese Campbell.

I have the familiar sense that I need to leave everything right where it is,

“that I saw something I shouldn't have, and in order for me to be rational about this, I have to”

move carefully. I have to find the things I can control and sink my fingers into them. I set my phone aside gently, then assess the mess in front of me. The drooping cake, the knife. I can smell the frosting now, the air thick with sugar. My stomach rolls again, and then I am moving. I grab a black trash bag from under the sink and hold it open near the edge of the countertop, then use my forearm to slide the entire cake into the bag. I wanted away from me. I need it gone.

In minutes it's out of my apartment, then down the trash shoot. There is no possibility of changing my mind.

I take the knife to the sink, pausing before I run it under the tap. I want to lick the icing, but no, I won't. I let the discipline fill me up instead, the voice from my run echoing inside me again.

“It doesn't erase the email, the panic, the reminder of everything before.”

But it's something. It is solid, and within my grasp, I'm grateful that after all this time, it's still as true as ever. Maybe the most honest thing my father ever taught me. Hunger is a thing you can hold. Chapter two. Then, even the hottest mornings were mine. The mornings with fog so thick it felt like mud, like each gasp of air might fill your lungs with a steaming and visible sludge.

The mornings where every plant was connected by spider webs is intricate as lace, sticky wedding vails thrown over everything at night. The mornings that felt so obviously built for tougher creatures, things with skin like armor, blood chilled. I made them all mine. I liked mornings like these the most though. Hot before the sun had even crept over the horizon. The entire world sent to a low silent simmer, and me, in the very center of it.

I walked through the tomato garden until it swallowed me up. Parallel rows of scraggly ruby-studded greens stretching out on either side of me as far as I could see. I ran my hand over the leaves, fingertips brushing swollen drops of dew. Then looked up. The sky had ripened with color, sapphire now instead of deep navy. People would start waking up soon. The farm would come to life pulsing with chores and routine.

I closed my eyes, and inhaled, taking the deepest breath I could imagine, just like my mother had taught me. Imagine all that air filling you up. She used to say, "From your toes to the tippy top of your head, I remembered being a child, maybe four. Her standing next to me with her hands on her hips, elbows bent outward, face toward the sky. I had mirrored her stance, opening my mouth wide, and gulping the air down. Hungry for it. The tomato plants were still small that year,

but the air was sharp with their fragrance. My father stood from where he was crouched next to us weeding and did the same. "What do you smell, Catherine? I heard a mask. What do you taste?" I considered the question seriously. I still closed. Even then I knew the importance of getting these

details right. Green, I finally answered confident. It all tasted like green. This was exactly

what the farm felt like to me, from the very beginning. So bright and vibrant that even when you closed your eyes, the color of it was there, dancing. I looked up at him searching for approval. He nodded, face still turned toward the sun. "Nothing is this good," he said, stretching in our mouth and pulling my mother into him. She smiled. "Everybody wants this, and then they forget.

“They lose sight of what matters. But not us. He finished. Never us."”

It was this memory I returned to almost every time I found myself in the tomato gardens in the years after, the image of myself next to those young plants seared into me, a measuring stick. It was a reference point for the way the garden had slowly spread around us year after year, until garden wasn't really the right word at all. It was a field, a forest of life. My mind would worse through all of these memories, the way the farm had flourished and grown exactly as he said it would, and no he was right.

as I pulled a tomato from the vine and brought it to my nose, comforted by its familiar smell, sharp and summer warmed, instant comfort. A sound from behind me then, someone walking through the garden, I spun around and saw my mother there. Her forehead already shining with sweat, her face framed by a soft halo of red wisps of hair, courtesy of the humidity.

You know, she started, a cup of tea cradled between her hands. I always thought that teenagers

were supposed to sleep in all day. Isn't that what everyone says? I shrugged. I don't know. I didn't bother stating the obvious that sleeping all day was never an option at the farm for any of us. If it were, how would anything get done? She took a sip and studied me. She had been doing this more and more lately, looking at me like she was monitoring something. I hated it.

“Finally, she went on. Early start today. Remember? In fairness to her,”

I had forgotten. Sometimes on the hottest days we started classes early when the sun had barely risen.

It meant we could avoid having to sit in the stifling school room during the warmest part of the

afternoon. Right, I said, wiping my hands on the sides of my denim shorts, starting back toward the school trailer. Thanks. I had just stepped around her when she spoke again. You really love it out here, don't you? She said, her tone neutral, like she had peeled the emotion from the sentence word by word. It reminds me of how much there is to be grateful for. I responded, forcing confidence into my voice. Ah, my mother said, right, I see. I could tell by how her voice carried that she was still

facing away from me. Her gaze focused down the endless row of plants. I continued walking without

“looking back. The whole way imagining how things would have gone if I had answered her honestly”

and admitted the whole complicated truth. If I told her that I was beginning to suspect I'd given myself too much space. Sometimes, during all those quiet mornings, my mind had begun to wander, questions building and sticking to my skin like do. I knew they were wrong, but I found I couldn't silence them completely. I was that weak. I comforted myself with the commitment that they would remain safely within myself, but this only lasted so long. My father stood in front of all of

us. His hands gripping each side of a podium, a dry erase board covered with scribbles behind him. I could still see the faded remnants of a thousand other lessons if I squinted, layers upon layers of his messy cursive scroll. Despite the early hour, the room was as hot as ever, the door

propped open in a way that felt almost comical given the utter lack of breeze, but I never minded

school. Not even back when there were so many of us, everyone sharing desks, sweat sticky elbows, wedged together. One room schoolhouses had been a staple of rural communities for centuries, my father had told us. They fostered community in collaboration, bonding. I had seen it firsthand, my sister Lina and I working out hours of math and geography and spelling questions side by side, puzzling through it all, laughing about everything. School came easily to me. I excelled in most

subjects and beamed in the glow of my father's approval, a place where I felt safest.

“Maybe that's why I felt compelled to ask the question that morning. I'd let myself get too comfortable,”

too soft. I forgot that there was still more for me to learn. "What did you say?" my father said. I has fixed on me, his voice light, but a half-note sharper than usual. I took in his imposing figure as it moved closer to my desk, his long freckled arms were perched at his sides like wings, his hands on his hips, his armpits were stained with sweat. "Just wanted to make sure I heard you correctly, Catherine," he said, a sweetness in

his tone. His voice was almost sing-songy now. "What had I said?" It was as if the words had been born out of my mouth instead of my brain that they had fallen out like loose teeth as natural as it was horrifying. This had been happening more and more lately, cravings and questions and actions springing forth without my permission. "Think, Catherine, I just don't get it," I repeated. My brain moving on autopilot, recalling my last utterance, the beans, the same food every day.

her eyes were so wide, I browsed so high that the entire proportions of her face had shifted. "I don't mean like anything crazy," I explained, attempting to course correct. I felt my shoulders inch upward in a shrug. I was trying so hard to convince myself that if I was light and easy about this, then maybe he would be too. "Just something different." Like, "How'd you to be?" He had to remember, too, I thought, that things weren't so bad when there were fewer rules

that we were happy. A chair squeaked behind me, and I turned to find the rest of the class frozen and silent. Only Jesse had a small smirk on her face, like she was enjoying this, of course she was. When I shifted forward again, I realized my father had moved closer while I had been facing the other way. Now he was standing right in front of my desk, so close that I had to sink down in the seat and angle my neck upward to see him. When things were easier, right?

“He corrected? That's what you want? I considered the question for too long. I could feel myself”

digging a hole. "No, I focused my eyes on my hands. My fingers were swollen from the heat. It was the kind of humidity with no mercy, the air still and suffocating. I glanced toward the door trying to remember my morning in the garden, the tomatoes, the beauty of this place and this life. I knew I didn't want the easy way out. I wanted this. Exactly this. I wanted the open space and misty mornings. I wanted to sit in the treehouse with lina at dusk and watch armadillos

putter around the fields. Their skin like tiny sets of chain mail. There were so many good

parts of this place that always had been. I wanted more of them, not fewer." "Cattherin," he said.

"His voice warmer now, even friendly. It's okay. Really. You can be honest with me. With all of us.

“I slowly raised my head blinking at him." "Remember none of this works if we aren't honest about”

what we crave," he said. "This place? It operates on knowing your weakest self. If you can't be honest about those parts of yourself, none of it works. On a surface level none of us want to adjust, none of us want to learn. We want what's comfortable. What's easy. We can't even fathom that maybe eventually after some work other things will appeal to us more. That maybe our highest self really isn't met via a comfortable path. We all have to learn that the hard way."

"I nodded, cautious. He put a hand on my shoulder and squeezed. We were on the same team here," he said, "then gestured to the rest of the room. All of us. I felt my body start to relax. This was so much like an older version of my father, the one that was light and hopeful, supportive and warm.

“"You're right," I said. "I think I was just hungry." As soon as the word had left my mouth,”

I realized my mistake. His eyes narrowed and he cocked his head to the side like he was waiting for me to go on. His expression said, "Is that quite right, Katherine, try again, Katherine?" We were halfway through a 30-day moderation fast, something that we'd done together as a community since I was a child. At first, these fasts had lasted for a couple days at a time, but eventually, they had turned into more elaborate events, complete with more and more rules.

We had a massive garden full of spinach and carrots and tomatoes that we were still harvesting, selling and preserving, but we weren't allowed to touch any of it for ourselves. For two weeks, we'd eaten beans for every meal with zero exceptions. I should have known by then that this

was how it went. The first days of the fasts were always easy, with all of us feeling the benefits

right away. We were less focused on our next meal than we were on all the things that brought us here to the farm in the first place. Most importantly, we were all in it together. But then the days stretched on. By the second week, I'd always find myself in the same place, thoughts of food occupying every second of my days. I fell asleep dreaming of eggs scrambled with fresh parsley, of warm sourdough, still hot from the oven. I fantasized about slicing a ripe tomato and sprinkling

it with salt. And all of it served to remind me, the fast was necessary. The work was necessary.

The moderation essential, because my father was right. What I was feeling wasn't hunger, I wasn't

What I had was more than enough. I'd let myself forget so easily.

Sorry, no, that's not what I meant. I corrected myself. I have everything I need.

“He nodded, then winked at me. Bingo. I'd said the right thing. We all do, don't we?”

He shrugged. And yet temptation remains. The easy way out is a spectacularly appealing as ever isn't a Catherine. No, I wanted to say he didn't understand. This wasn't me. I didn't want the easy way out. I wanted to reach inside myself and find the thing that kept doing this. Hi, Jacking My Will Power, asking the wrong question, making the wrong choice. I wanted to kill it. I'm sure you all have some of these same questions, too. Right? He asked the rest of the room

strolling back behind the podium, mindlessly thumbing through piles of paper. You know you can talk about it here. We're all human. The room stayed silent. He shrugged. Suit yourselves. He said. But actually, I think it's pretty admirable that Catherine voiced her most basic raw craving.

That she entertained the easier path for second and admitted it. How else would we ever get

better? How would we ever be able to make each other better? I for one. I'm proud of her.

“I heard Jesse snort from the back of the room. You know, I think that's all for today.”

My father announced before walking toward the door, pausing before he turned back at us. Go enjoy the day. Class dismissed. Just like that. It was over. He was gone. Hell yeah. Can't said before cracking his knuckles. The sound sending a ping of discomfort of my spine. I hated when he did that. It's not even lunch yet. Kent was 17 and deeply tanned. His arms roped with muscle from working outside, helping my father with the hardest parts of running the farm.

He was also Jesse's twin brother, and though Lina and I were only a couple years behind them, he might as well have been decades. The age gap seemed to render us entirely invisible to Kent, and make us a source of constant bullying from Jesse and her best friend, Mora. Mora was closer to R.A. at 16, but due to fully laughed at a free joke Jesse attempted. No matter how stupid. Jesse exclaimed with a laugh, a sharp chuckle that eventually dissolved into a long-knowing sigh.

"Just trust me. We haven't heard the last of that." I rolled my eyes. It was just a question, I said. "You heard him? It's fine to question things." I could hear the desperation in my voice. "Yeah, well," Jesse said, following Kent's lead and walking out the door, Mora following behind her snickering, "Well see, won't we?" When a stuck her hand out toward mine, pushing her thick-framed glasses back up her nose with the other.

“"Let's get out of here." I think the insides of my eyelids are starting to sweat.”

I hesitated for a moment. Jesse's words and my own paranoia echoing in my head. But in the end, I decided that I was right. It was just a question. Chapter 3. Now. I don't know, doesn't it feel just a little coldish to you? My friend Stella asks, as she takes a sip of her oat milk latte? Seriously, think about it. After barely sleeping last night, I texted Stella this morning to see if she

wanted to hang out. We've been friends for years now. Close friends. If you were to ask Stella, but I sugarcoded most of the details of my childhood when we met. And how close can you really be with someone who doesn't know the truth of your life? Not the big stuff, at least. Not the ugly stuff.

I considered briefly that this was an opportunity to finally get it all off my chest. I have

the urge every six months or so, like my body needs to expel the truth, vomit it up, be done with it. But I know that once I began, I wouldn't know where to stop. What the whole back? I mean, you pay what? Thousands of dollars for the thing? Stella goes on? You ate months on and for it to arrive. You let this whole king piece of equipment take up precious precious square footage in the middle of your living room and for what? To feel like you're part of a cool girl's

club and let some trainer turn to influencer tell you you're a rock star. Only to then abandon

afford your monthly spot at Pilates instead. She hops out a breath of air, then takes a sip of her latte. Purses her lips. Help us, thanks. I consider reminding Stella that it was she who had insisted I'd try soul cycle a few years earlier. She who told me that berries would change my relationship with my calves. It was also she who had begged me to do sunset rooftop yoga because Savocina just hits differently during golden hour. But Stella is my friend, someone who fills an

“important slot in my life, so I keep these thoughts to myself. It's definitely a little intense.”

I reply shrugging, but people love it. Whatever works, right? Stella lowers an eyebrow at me from across the table. A look that says, "Come on, I thought we were here to talk shit." But she knows she won't get it from me. This is part of our thing too, our dynamic. I am the friend who rises above, who definitely avoids snarky gossip and tiptoes around passing judgment, but somehow, still manages to be fun. What I'm thinking of now is my own stationary bike,

sitting in the corner of my bedroom covered in laundry I need to put away. I had abandoned it for in-person classes once again, just as Stella predicted. There was more accountability this way. I'm also remembering how I've tried all the green juices. She has recommended the leggings, the early morning wake-up calls, the meditative yoga flows,

“gratitude exercises, social media cleanses that seem to always require announcing said cleanse on”

social media. #BreathWork. I could act like I was above all of it as much as I wanted to, could laugh off the infomercial like endorsements of meal planning I'd seen from a friend on TikTok.

But Stella and I were weak in all the same ways. The only difference was I never talked about it,

and Stella couldn't stop. Come on! Stella rolls her eyes again, pushing me. Does it even really do anything for your body? I hear you burn more calories just from walking to and from the train every day. Who knows? I shrug allowing a hint of a smile. I imagine a halo hanging above my head, rather than what is really there, a running tally of how many grams of carbohydrates are in Stella's drink. It's a force of habit. God knows it certainly hasn't done anything for Eva.

Stella says under her breath referencing a mutual friend of ours. Stella, I say chiding her gently,

“she knows that this is where I'll draw the line that I don't engage in body talk. I once told her”

an elaborate story about a track coach who monitored what I ate and commented on my body during

practices, ultimately sparing an eating disorder that had wrecked my early twenties. It was such a

familiar tale that I assume she often forgets, confusing it with similar stories from other friends. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. That was shitty. Stella says, "Qnome just Stella's, she looks fucking great." And there it is. The thing I love about Stella, the thing that made me want to keep hanging out with her after we first met on a press trip to the Hampton's hosted by a sunscreen brand. It had been an eight-hour day that included a free breakfast, a lecture on SPF,

a nearly six hours of sitting in stop and go traffic which triggered her motion sickness. Stella had looked at me from across the aisle of the bus, Barth Bag readyed in front of her and shrugged. Do you think their plan is to break us down enough physically that will give the product to good review out of fear they'll make us do this again? Stella's charm is her honesty. Her stream of consciousness commentary on the world. No filter. No shame either. She often showed up at

coffee and opened with three words, "I'm a mess." Then launched into a list of the things going wrong in her life, the things she hated most about herself that day. For a long time, she waited for me to echo her complaints, name what I hated about myself that day too. A ritual of shame that I'm sure she had engaged in with every other female friend she had, but I couldn't do it. I could relate to the self-loathing sure, but I couldn't pretend that her complaints and mine

were stemming from the same mostly harmless brand of insecurity. When I looked at Stella, I saw exactly what the rest of the world saw. A beautiful woman with a near-perfect body, whose mom maybe did slim-fast ones talked about it a few too many times and gave her a complex. I told her this

of course, at least the first part, every time the topic came up I reminded her, your gorgeous,

your perfect. You don't need to change a thing, but I was disgusted when she said it back to me. I was so sick of being lied to that I took the topic off the table altogether. Honestly,

why anyone would buy a spin bike and promptly abandon it for something else. I think people are

“just chasing the high of being a part of something, a community, a way of thinking. That doesn't”

make it a cult. Stella nods, her lips person together as she takes another gulp of coffee, brown gunk has accumulated in the corners of her mouth that she's yet to notice. Maybe, but all I'm saying is that the whole thing does sort of give me the same, "Hey, want to join me for Bible study vibes that my roommate gave me in college." Stella says, "She acted like it was a totally normal thing she was doing inviting me, being friendly, meanwhile I had just told her how my honica was

over winter break." It's like, "Hello, not for me, no matter how great and fun it might be." "And did you go?" I asked, "To the Bible study?" "Hell no!" Stella tilts her head slightly stopping herself. "Wait, actually no, that's a lie." One time she told me that the youth pastor was very hot,

“so I did go. Bad choice. A lot of closed-eyed singing and every guy there wore the most”

aggressive v-neck. Like, do we really need to see your bare sternum, sir? No, we do not.

Jesus never asked for that. Fair enough. I say chuckling. Like you said, Stella explains,

whatever works for people, right? It's harmless, I guess. I should focus more on my own shit. I don't point out to her that I didn't say it was harmless. He'll be horrified to learn. I am still literally losing my mind over Jeremy. She adds, "Before I can reply, hit the sickness, I swear." Stella also fulfills the stereotype of being the friend whose choices and men make it very easy for me to stay off the apps and avoid long-term relationships altogether. Stella's latest love

interest, Jeremy, told her that they were twin flames before moving to Argentina on a whim,

“explaining via Facebook Messenger that it was all good, because they were destined to meet again”

in another life. "Oh, Stella, I say softly. She waves away, my pity, setting her coffee down on the table between us." "What about you?" she asks. "Are you seeing anyone, or are you still mastering the whole wildly independent and thriving thing? Making the rest of us look bad?" "My love, life, or the lack of it, maybe?" is one of the topics that usually triggers my impulse to spontaneously blurred out the truth. It exhausts me, having to constantly explain

why I only do casual, why I refuse to let Stella set me up with someone. It's easy enough to not along with all her theories, all the reasons why I avoid commitment and connection. A bad breakup she uses, not quite. A viewer of change, she suggests, maybe, a complicated childhood. She asks, "You could say that? It's easy. Yes, but it gets old. I smile, roll my eyes, still as boring as ever. Nothing new to report. Smart girl. I check my phone for the time,

then reach down together my bag from the ground. Well, I should probably don't tell me you're leaving me already. Stella cuts me off. I haven't even told you about hinge guy yet. Good news. Excellent Jeremy distraction. Extremely impressive by-steps. Bad news. He smells like eggs. Hmm. I process this information nodding seriously. Rotten or hard-boiled. Stella leans in. What if I told you it's somehow both? Okay. I laughed standing. We'll get to that

next time. I promise. I just have somewhere to be right now. She raises an eyebrow, clucking her tongue loudly behind her teeth. Look at this busy, mysterious lady. I have to go to the library. Stella's size disappointed. Of course, I should have known. I simply can't compete. Stella has made fun of my deep love of public library since we met. You do realize this isn't actually a Nora Efron film. She had said to me once when I had asked her to meet me on the steps

of the city's flagship library. It's marble columns rising dramatically behind us. If this was a Nora Efron film, I'd be at a bookstore. I told her. Oh, I see. She teased. So you're the even

cooler version of Meg Ryan and you've got mail. I just laughed. I never minded the jokes about my

reading habits. I always understood that for most people the library was more a character than it was an actual place to Stella the library was whimsical. Fairy tale rather than function. To me, it was an necessity. I went most weeks to read or learn or simply calm myself down

in the city. It was my lifeline to people and a constant bottomless source of information.

A quiet place to watch the world where I knew that no one would ask a single thing of me. I learned how to be alive in libraries. I learned how to be alone. Stella stands to hug me goodbye. Thanks for listening to all my bullshit. She says, "You know it goes both ways, right?"

“I squeeze her back. Greatful that she can't see the look on my face as I remember the email again.”

Unease claws at me from inside my throat and I make myself swallow it down. As mild brightly as I pull away from her. Of course, but I really do have to go now. Hence the truth. Today I have things to do. I remind myself. I have things to learn. Things to fix.

I decide to walk the twenty blocks to the library, studying myself. The whole time I bite the

inside of my cheek, thinking about how easily I could have corrected the half truths I've fed Stella for years. I know how it would go if I cracked. I know she would eat it up, drool over the entry of it, the drama. You poor thing. It's just like those docky series on Netflix. She would say, eyes wide as saucers as she leaned forward, hanging on my every word. She would

“give me the reassurance that I've always fantasized about. Tell me I'm not broken beyond repair”

or royally spectacularly rotten. You're a victim, Catherine, she'd say. But that's the thing. I couldn't stand that either. I couldn't bear to look her in the eyes and let her lie to me about that, too. Not when I know the truth. Chapter four. Zen. If the farm was a body, the main building was its heart. The building itself wasn't much to look at. It resembled a giant dilapidated vinyl covered box with smaller and equally ugly vinyl covered boxes jutting off it. Everything

flexed with a lime-green mold. The handful of windows were all cracked or broken. The remaining glass perpetually dirty. Compared to the four gardens that surrounded it, each two acre plot of land bursting with life and color, the main building was nice or. But it was also our kitchen,

“our living room, our gathering place. It was impossible to imagine life without it.”

The entire property my father told us had once been home to a camp for troubled children. It was part summer school, part discipline and stilling rural boot camp, and eventually shut down in the sixties. Even then it was primitive, but it had everything a community would need to be self-sufficient. It was exactly what my father had been searching for. When he bought it at an auction, it had been abandoned for almost three decades. The 200 acres of farmlands surrounding it were deemed

largely useless, hopelessly overgrown and infertile. No one could see it's great potential. My father explained to every new person who came to the farm. No one but him. He looked at that massive flat stretch of land and the rundown buildings that sat on it and saw something more, somewhere for all of us together and grow together. It all served to illustrate his greatest gift that he could look beyond what the world had put in front of him, and instead, see possibility.

Our dining halls sat at the center of the main building, a space that was once a gymnasium theater cafeteria hybrid for campers. Now, ancient and weather-worn picnic tables lined the room, though the original basketball hoop remained in place, the net was long gone, the stage perfectly

intact behind it, both always looming in the background of our meals.

Havid doesn't room stemmed from the dining hall, most of which were former offices and storage closets that had been turned into highly coveted private bedrooms. This was where my mother's and my room was, and where my father had been before he moved to the new cottage. Compared to the bunk house where most people slept, including Lina, staying in the main building had its disadvantages. The rooms were dark and often damp, but they were also consistently

10 degrees cooler than anywhere else thanks to the thick-sender-block-lined walls. The kitchen was my mother's favorite place on the property, where I would find her during quiet moments in between chores, a low-sealing addition off the back of the main building, it was filled with sprawling stainless steel prep tables, stacks of perpetually stained to inch thick butcher-block cutting boards, and a walk-in fridge, complete with a lock on the outside

he explained, giving into the allure of the cold air and wasting precious energy.

“For Lina, though, there was no better place than the stage,”

still lined with velvet, moth-eaten curtains that she would often pull closed and pin up, creating elaborate musty forts to read in during the endless rainy days of spring. Over the years we had collected hundreds of books. When we were younger my father would return from yard sales with boxes full of curling paperbacks, and heavy dust-covered text books in the bed of his truck. Winna and I took it upon ourselves to stack and organize them in the shadowy

corners of the stage. Eventually my mother fixed up a set of shelves for us, then too more. The library was born. From then on, whenever I couldn't find Lina, I knew to check the stage first. I couldn't even count how many times I had found her there, flat on her back, arms stretched above her, a yellowing paperback in her hands. Winna's love of books and being alone meant that

“people often assumed she was shy or meek, but they didn't understand her. Lina was sharp”

and precise. She deliberately saved her energy for the things that mattered the most. She seemed to feel no need to perform her personality to the world, to prove herself. It was one of the many ways

we were different. To me it was always what was outside that made our homes special. The second

you left the main building you were surrounded by the four gardens, each divided by a long grassy path that led to the school room, the bunkhouse, the old barn, and my father's cottage respectively. The layout meant that for most people, getting to a meal or a chore required walking through all that beauty, thrusting yourself into the center of it. Every day contained a moment where you'd look around and see only green, smell only earth. My favorite days were full of moments like this,

meandering afternoons spent outside, just like the one Lina and I had after my father dismissed us from class. There were plenty of chores to be done, like always, but plenty of time too. Daylight seemed bottomless at that time of year, stretching on and on as Lina and I roamed around the farm. It was such a perfect afternoon that neither of us noticed it had turned into evening or that we were late. By the time we walked into the main building for family meal that night I felt relaxed and

“loose, loopy from the sun. What had happened that morning felt a million miles away?”

I smelled at first, my nose crinkling instinctively, something rancid, rotten, laced with ammonia. Then I noticed the room was missing its usual meal-time din, that the only sound

was a faint buzz above me, a fly looking for a meal. I reminded myself that quiet wasn't always

a bad thing, especially since Crystal and Bianca left. The couple had showed up last year with a two and four-year-old. For six months, there was no corner of the property that didn't seem to echo with the children's whales, their whining. When the constant screeching annoyed me, I reminded myself that the four of them were bringing some much-needed life back to this place, building it up again. The rest of us were teenagers now, and it was nice to see small footprints in the garden's

dirt again. My father had seemed so much like his old self when they arrived, that I felt myself relaxed. I slept better. I worried less, but they had left two months ago, out of the blue. Bianca had relapsed my father explained we couldn't have helped her even if we wanted to. The pole of the outside world was too strong for her adult mind to resist. Today's quiet was different, though. It was as thick as the smell suffocating me. Instinctively, I started walking

toward the long line of yellow plastic folding tables where we always served ourselves buffet style.

The usual bowls were there, but as I approached them, I saw there were no beans in any of them tonight. Instead, there was shit, steaming, stinking, shit, heaps of it. My eyes darted from the bowls quickly, stomach rolling, and my mother came into view. She was sitting at a picnic table in the far corner of the room. Her hands neatly folded in front of her. I could practically hear her voice in my head. What did you do, Rin? But she didn't say anything to me then.

No one did. I realized then that my father must have walked out of our classroom with this very moment in mind. He must have spent the afternoon skulking through some distant cattle farm just for this. I wanted to melt into the floor. And then I heard the door close behind me. His presence announced by three short claps. I go away. Now this, family, he gestured toward the serving bowls.

true discipline, true moderation, real restraint. I turned to face him and blinked four times,

“as if that could magically will him away, but he just stood there staring at everyone but me.”

During class this morning, Katherine asked for something different and well, here we are. He announced, casually gesturing toward me. No beings for the rest of the week just like you wanted. It was only Tuesday. I'm so, I started scrambling as I realized what my mistake would mean for everyone else. My face burning with shame. His head snapped toward me tilting slightly. Hungry. Isn't that what you said? That you were hungry? I turned my eyes to the ground humiliated.

I could feel Jesse and Morris glares from their spot at the picnic table closest to me. He stepped away from me, turning toward the rest of the room again. Well, he shrugged, turning

“his palms toward the sky like he wasn't sure what else he could say. Don't let me keep you all.”

Family me was sacred, after all. And then he was gone. I could feel everyone in the room still staring at me. The silence interrupted by hushed indisernable mumbling. I fucking told you.

I heard Jesse say. My father always had a flare for the atrics, for drama. It was part of why

he was always able to hold our attention in class, to draw us into a lesson again and again, but this was extreme even for him. He had been more unpredictable lately. His mood falling with each person that left, and it had been months and someone new moved in. Still, his punishments had always been a private thing before now, an opportunity for reflection rather than a public humiliation. This felt like something new. I was just about to apologize to the room when I heard

the door open again. I turned to see my father re-entering in a light jog laughing. Goodness, look at your faces. Of course I wouldn't subject you to eating cow shit. He laughed. I mean, there's no point in that when the only person with a lesson to learn here is Katherine. He added lightly, turning toward me. So, Katherine, this is your meal. Your responsibility, your lesson. Though perhaps we can all learn something from this today,

can't we? My father leaned toward me again, whispering now. Let it build you up, little one. Let it make you stronger. You can do that. Can't you? I saw Jesse's head nodding eagerly out of the corner of my eye, even as humiliation pulsed through every limb I knew that I deserved all of this. I needed it,

“even. It was the only thing that would help me learn self-control. Yes, I said. Thank you.”

It was then that I noticed Lina was standing next to me, fists clenched at her sides. She was so rarely angry, but when she was, it was obvious. She was almost shaking now. I knew she wanted to protect me, but didn't she get it? He had no choice, but to create this moment for me. Teach me this lesson. It was a type of pain that one day, I would know was a gift. She opened her mouth to say something, but before she could speak, my father started talking again.

And for the rest of you, a surprise outside. Discipline and willpower will always be rewarded.

He turned to walk outside and waved for the room to follow him. Everyone rushed out the door, thrilled by the possibility of a surprise and likely grateful to be away from the disgusting smell. It wouldn't be the first time he had done this, a reward for discipline. I thought of how good that first family meal after a moderation fast tasted, how much more I appreciated every bite and flavor. It wasn't just another meal, but something earned and deeply satisfying. A small glimpse

into how good all of life would feel one day. If only we put in the work first. I thought of those quiet mornings in the garden again. How lazy I'd let myself get. How I had so easily listened to

that poisonous, greedy thing inside me that clawed for more, more, more. No. It was never hunger I was

feeling, not even once. It was always an empty hole where my willpower should be.