Binary Star by Sarah Gerard Read Free Book Online

trees.
    We lie in the grass in one square, then another. We sleep with magazines over our faces.
    John, I need to tell you something.
    He’s sleeping.
    Can I hold your hand?
    Why are you crying? he says.
    Do you love me?
    What do you want me to say?
    That you do.
    Okay. Of course I do.
    John bought me this mirror for my birthday. Or John used his parents’ money to buy me this mirror for my birthday. John used his parents’ money to buy me a gift card. I used the gift card to buy this mirror for my birthday.
    I look at myself for hours each day.
    I see myself and in that sense I’m real.
    I practice saying no to various kinds of food.
    No, thank you. I’ve already eaten. I’m cleansing. I’m fasting. Making myself pure. Eating vegan. Eating raw.
    No, thank you. I’m an activist. I’m starving in solidarity with Ethiopians.
    No, thank you. Another time.
    We go out to The Cheesecake Factory the night of my birthday. It’s June. We drink wine and eat vegetables covered in butter.
    John refuses to acknowledge the butter because he’s been drinking since the afternoon. He says it is something else, but he won’t say what. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to see it.
    It’s not about personal purity.
    But it’s also about purity.
    John, is it ethical for a vegan person to eat here, even if they’re eating vegan food?
    He’s not listening.
    I read somewhere that the Bistro Shrimp Pasta has over 3,000 calories, I say.
    Huh.
    I have taken too many laxatives before the meal. I nearly pass out in the bathroom and sit on the toilet with my head against the door, trying to see the tile. Everything is black.
    My legs are weak. My heart is pounding.
    John.
    I vomit and feel better for having done it.
    John, help me.
    I try to stand and collapse.
    I spend the rest of the meal drinking water. By the time we leave, John is talking in his sleep at the table. This is how he wins every time.
    On the way home, I buy a bag of pretzels at Walgreens. I eat the whole bag while John is sleeping and then I throw it up. The bile gets stuck in my nose and burns. I swear I’ll never eat again.
    I lie to myself.
    I walk away from the mirror. I look back.
    I walk around in circles before the mirror.
    The next day, John’s face is slick and heavy in the morning light and he says that he doesn’t want to drink anymore. I put my head on his chest and kiss his neck.
    I’m so glad.
    Oh, Jesus. Your breath smells horrible, he says.
    I’m sorry.
    It’s worse than just normal morning breath. Go brush your teeth.
    In the bathroom, I look up pictures of bulimia teeth on my phone.
    It is raining in Savannah. All the gutters turn to streams.
    John, I’m not starting a revolution tonight.
    I’m not sure. Give me time. It’s the only thing I eat.
    I can’t lean one way or the other. I lean in a circular motion.
    Revolution is a pattern of return.
    You want to return to where we started. So do I. I also want to run away.
    A runaway star moves through space at an abnormally high velocity.
    It breaks free of its orbit or else it’s hurled free.
    There’s no resistance.
    Moving away from its source, going somewhere, going anywhere else.
    Anywhere else, it doesn’t even matter.
    The red giant is inflated and tenuous.
    We go golfing in Savannah with a friend we make sightseeing in the historic district. We had no direction, so we bought a Rough Guides and went where it told us to go.
    Our friend is the son of a Savannah politician and invites us to his country club. The golf course undulates green into the distance. The day is bright and atmospheric and crisp. John hands me a Nike hat.
    You need shadow on your skin. You’re very pale.
    I’m very cold. Aren’t you?
    We should have brought sunblock, he says.
    Aren’t you cold?
    Not really.
    I ask our friend how far it is to each hole. He doesn’t answer, but hands me a small white sphere with craters on its face.
    You’ve got a tight lie.
    Excuse me?
    They haven’t fed the grass. Your ball