Dig

by L.A. Ferro

I've just started slicing into my chicken breast when I look up and notice Aria has yet to touch her plate, and that's when I'm slapped with the realization of what this is. My girl has an eating disorder. The beer, the comments about not being what I want, her insecurity with her shirt, the wrap. The wrap was probably all she ate all day. Fuck. This hurts. I grab my plate and move to sit beside her instead of across from her. "What are you doing?" She shuffles in her chair to move when I do. "No, sit. I just want to be closer to my girl." "Holden—" She starts, but I hold my hand up to stop her. "Can you do me a favor?" She narrows her eyes at me, trying to get a read on me, so I say, "I want you to sit on my lap." She rolls her eyes. "I already told you I need to eat dinner." When she moves to pick up her fork, I take it from her hand. "Come here."