The Summer South Wind Never Returns

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The day I finally beat my anorexia, Dean Barnes handed me a room key.

Yvonne Harding, you're the rose I spent three years bringing back to life.

Tonight, I want to truly have you.

I went to meet him full of hope.

I pushed the door open, and a man who had to weigh two hundred and fifty pounds slammed me straight to the floor.

"Quit acting so innocent. Three months of chatting online, and you said the second we met in person we'd go to bed. Remember?"

I fought with everything I had, groped the ashtray off the corner of the table, and smashed it into his shoulder, then scrambled up, tripping over my own feet.

The next second, the door swung open.

Dean's childhood sweetheart stood in the doorway, doubled over laughing.

"Yvonne, honey, I took your photos and catfished this guy for three whole months. Called him big brother, called him my husband, the whole thing. Do you have any idea how hard I worked to land him for you?"

I was shaking all over. I looked past her, at Dean.

He only said, careless as anything:

"Don't look at me like that."

"I just lost a bet. They insisted on seeing whether you'd actually show up."

"Nothing even happened, did it? Yvonne, don't be a sore loser."

And then I finally understood. This love I'd taken for salvation had been filthy from the very first day, too vile to look at.

...

The man dragged himself off the floor, rubbing his shoulder, cursing.

"Catfish! You cheap little liar! Weren't you the one bragging about how thin and pretty you were, how eager you'd be?"

Martha Matthews was laughing so hard she was nearly crying.

"The photos are pretty, of course."

"After all, Dean took every single one."

She unlocked her phone and opened a dating app.

On the screen were photos of my life.

Me cooking in the kitchen.

Me curled up on the couch holding my cat.

And one of me sick, pale-faced, leaning against Dean's chest.

Every one of them, taken by Dean.

He'd said he wanted to document me getting better, little by little.

Except every moment he'd captured, he'd turned around and handed straight to Martha.

I pointed at the phone, shaking.

"So you took my photos, catfished him, and lured me to a hotel?"

"Yep."

Martha admitted it without a flicker of hesitation.

"That was the bet between me and Dean."

She turned to look at him, like she was reporting a job well done.

"I told him, give me three months and I'll reel a man in using your photos, and make you watch him throw himself at you in person."

"Dean, see? Didn't I win?"

The man turned on me, furious and humiliated.

"The chat logs, the photos, they're all right here. You said yourself that once we met I could do whatever I"

"Shut up!"

It came out of me almost as a scream.

"That wasn't me!"

The man didn't believe a word of it.

"Talking that filthy online and playing innocent in person. You make me sick."

Listening to the vile things pouring out of him, I went cold all over, like I'd fallen into a pit of ice.

I staggered to my feet and reached for my phone.

"I'm calling the police!"

But before my hand even touched it, Dean had already taken it away.

"Stop this. Calm down."

I looked at him, the tears just kept falling.

"I was almost assaulted, and you're telling me to calm down?"

Dean leaned down close to me, his eyes going cold.

"Nothing happened, did it? Do you really have to blow this out of proportion?"

"Or do you actually want everyone to know how cheap you are?"

My breath stopped short.

He stared at my bloodless face and went on:

"The photos are yours. The account is yours. You call the police, and everyone will know what you did."

"Your coworkers. Your friends. Your mother."

"You want them all to know that behind closed doors you're the kind of woman who propositions men?"

I looked at him, and it felt like my heart was being crushed, inch by inch.

He knew exactly how to hurt me.

He knew my mother's health was bad.

He knew that what I feared most was people looking at me with that filthy stare.

So every sentence cut deeper than the last.

Deep enough that I didn't even have the courage left to cry for help.

I bit down hard on my lip and tasted blood.

Martha walked over.

"Come on, Dean's only doing this for your own good."

"If you don't call the police, worst case, everyone treats it as a joke."

"But the moment you do, you become the slut who chases men down, then backs out once they show up."

Every ounce of strength drained out of me.

I was the victim.

And they'd cornered me until I didn't dare cry for help.

The most laughable part was that the man who once held me when I was in the deepest pain, whispering don't be afraid, was now covering my mouth with his own hands, pressing every cry for help back down my throat, bit by bit.

"Yvonne, Martha only chatted with him. She didn't actually hurt you."

"It's already done. Why can't you be a little more gracious about it?"

I laughed, out of nowhere.

"I'm the one whose photos got stolen, who got lured to a hotel, who was almost assaulted!"

Dean's brow furrowed.

"You're too worked up right now."

"I spent three years treating you. Not so you could turn into a lunatic who only knows how to scream."

The word lunatic hit, and the world went black at the edges.

Three years ago, everyone said I was fat, said I was ugly, said I didn't deserve to be loved.

Dean was the only one who stepped up and told me, "You're wonderful."

And now it was still this same man.

Shoving me back into the mud with his own hands, and sneering that I looked ugly while I struggled.

I lifted my hand and slapped Dean hard across the face.

Before he could react, I swung back and struck Martha too.

"You two make me sick."

The words done, I turned and ran out of the hotel.

My stomach heaved without warning.

I braced myself against a trash can on the roadside and threw up, my whole body shaking and shaking.

Everything blurred in front of me.

The next second, I went down hard on the side of the road.

When I woke, the nurse had just finished changing my dressing. She reminded me,

"You've got acute gastric bleeding. You can't let yourself get worked up."

My phone lit up.

A message from Dean.

Yvonne, I never meant to frighten you.

I was right outside the whole time. If anything had happened, I'd have burst in that same second. How could I ever let you get hurt?

For three years, Dean really had been good to me.

When I wouldn't eat, he'd sit at the table and feed me, one bite at a time.

When I jerked awake in the middle of the night, he'd hold me and soothe me, patient: "Don't be scared. I'm here."

When my changing body made me break down sobbing, he pulled me into his arms.

"Yvonne, you don't have to turn into anyone else."

"Just staying alive is already brave enough."

He made me believe he was someone I could hand my whole life to, made me lay every fragile part of myself bare in front of him.

And now he was using that fragility as a chip in his bet with Martha.

Another message came through.

Martha didn't do it on purpose either.

Just apologize to her and this whole thing goes away.

I stared at the screen, and my stomach twisted again.

Of course. His apology had never been about comforting me. It was only ever about getting me to comfort Martha.

Out in the hospital corridor, someone pointed at me.

"That's her, isn't it? The woman online who threw herself at some guy for a hookup."

"I heard she even faked having an eating disorder, fishing for sympathy."

I froze for a few seconds, then pulled up my phone.

There was a video going viral online.

In it, a man had me pinned to the floor, my clothes in disarray.

But the first half had been cut. All that was left was me scrambling up, slapping him, and finally running away.

The caption read: Girl arranges a hookup, gets there, decides he's too ugly, then loses it and starts hitting him.

The comments were a flood of filth.

I clicked into Martha's account. She'd just posted a long statement.

I didn't want to say too much about a friend's private business. But seeing everyone pile on the guy, I still feel I have to say a fair word for him.

Screenshots of a chat were attached.

Martha, can you introduce me to a guy?

I want to give it a try. I'm tired of playing the innocent one.

Those messages really did carry my avatar and my name. But I had never said a single word of that.

Martha replied in her own comments:

She's just emotionally unstable since she got sick. Everyone, please don't attack her too hard.

I'll stay by her side through her treatment.

It looked like she was clearing my name. In reality she'd dumped every bit of dirt onto me.

A few minutes later, a voice message from Dean landed.

"Just kowtow to Martha and apologize, and this is over. She'll take the video down, in a few days no one will remember what got said online, and you won't have to be afraid anymore."

I listened to it and slowly closed my eyes.

He was still doing it. Shove me into the pit first, then stand on the edge and tell me not to be afraid.

That afternoon, Dean and Martha came to the hospital together.

Dean's voice was heavy.

"Yvonne, apologize to Martha and I'll get someone to take the video down."

I looked up at him and almost laughed.

"Why should I?"

He frowned. "You slapped her. That's still not enough?"

"And what about me?"

"You're fine, aren't you?!"

The moment those words dropped, the last flicker of hope in me went out for good.

Martha came over to the bed.

"Yvonne, I know you don't like me. But I really do think of you as his wife."

As she spoke, one of her fingers hooked suddenly.

The IV stand crashed over, the needle dragged across the back of my hand, and blood welled up.

The pain made me suck in a sharp breath.

But Dean's first move was to steady Martha, bending to check her hand.

"Martha, are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Just a bit startled."

He turned back, his brows knotting hard.

"Yvonne Harding, do you have to be this aggressive all the time?"

I looked at him and suddenly felt filthy. So filthy I didn't even want his concern anymore.

That night, my company suspended me. The reason given was a disorderly personal life.

And my mother, after seeing the video online, had a heart attack and was rushed into the ICU.

When I got to the hospital, Dean was standing at the payment window, having paid a sum for me.

He saw me and said, flat, "Just apologize to Martha and I'll pull the video and clear your name."

"Your mother's medical team, I can help arrange that too."

I stood there, cold all through.

"So you came here to force me into an apology?"

"No one's forcing you."

Martha's face was all innocence. "You did something wrong yourself. You should just bear the consequences."

I stared at her.

"You faked the chat logs, filmed me in secret, put the video online. So who exactly did something wrong?"

Dean's voice dropped low.

"Yvonne Harding, do you really have to be this stubborn? Fine, then. Let your mother keep lying in there."

I tilted my head back, fixed my eyes on the ceiling, and forced the tears down, bit by bit.

"I'll say it one more time. I did nothing wrong, and I won't apologize."

When I went back to pack my things, there was a party going on inside.

The second I pushed the door open, laughter drifted in from the living room.

"She actually thinks Dean likes her?"

"A sickly little thing too scared to even eat. If it weren't for the bet, who'd waste three years playing along with her?"

My feet stopped dead.

"Back when Dean first met her, he said she looked clean. Like a flower that had never touched the mud."

"So I bet him I could ruin her."

"That's why I hired people at school to spread it around that she was fat, that she was ugly, that she was disgusting."

"She was so easy to fool back then. A few people insulting her, freezing her out, and she really stopped eating."

"What was our group chat called again? The fattening project? Dean updated her weight in there every day. Watching her drop from a hundred pounds down to seventy was honestly hilarious."

Every word out of Martha's mouth was a knife, driving into me.

Three years ago, I developed anorexia because of the bullying.

Back then, everyone said I was fat, said I was ugly, said I didn't deserve to wear pretty dresses.

Dean was the only one willing to come near me.

He ate with me every day, went with me to the hospital, shielded me from all those vicious stares.

I made him my lifeline.

I never knew the source of those rumors was Martha.

And Dean was the one standing at her side, watching me sink.

Martha laughed and patted his chest.

"She's already been dragged through the mud by the whole internet, her anorexia's back too. She really is rotted straight into the dirt."

Dean was quiet for a moment, then said mildly,

"That's enough. It's your birthday. Stop talking about her."

Martha lifted her head and saw me standing right there in the doorway.

"So this is Dean's little bride-to-be?"

The instant she saw me, Dean's expression shifted.

I didn't demand answers, didn't scream or cry. I only said softly,

"So you really never loved me."

A flicker of irritation surfaced in his eyes.

"Yvonne, do you not know how you got through these three years?"

"I'm the one who nursed you back to health. I'm the one who walked you out of your anorexia."

"Without me, you'd have..."

"So I'm supposed to thank you?"

I cut him off, laughing until tears came.

"Thank you for driving me into an illness, then playing the savior?"

Martha sneered from the side.

"What's the big deal? Aren't you all better now?"

"If you recovered, that just proves we didn't do anything wrong back then."

I looked at her, my chest closing up.

"You drove a living person to the point she was too afraid to eat, and you think you did nothing wrong?"

The smile on Martha's face went cold.

"So what do you want?"

Then she smiled again.

"Here's an idea. You're the one who's terrified of food, right? Eat this piece of cake, and I'll take the video down."

She picked up a slice of cake off the table and held it out in front of me.

Dean looked at me.

"Yvonne, it's Martha's birthday. Don't make a scene."

I stared at that cream cake, my stomach heaving.

Martha went on,

"Just eat it, and I'll have Dean contact the best medical team."

"You can't leave your mother lying in there all for the sake of some so-called dignity, can you?"

Dean stepped over beside me, his voice pressed low.

"Yvonne, don't gamble with your mother's life to make a point."

"If you don't eat, no doctor will dare take on your mother's surgery."

"Eat it, and this can all be over."

In that moment, I finally understood. They'd known my weak spot all along.

Shaking, I took the cake and ate it, bite after bite.

The cream clogged my throat, and I could barely breathe.

Martha clapped and laughed.

"See? It's not so hard, is it? You're doing just fine!"

I forced down the nausea and swallowed the last bite, my tears falling into the cream.

Dean came over and wiped the cream from the corner of my mouth.

"There. That's better."

His tone was as gentle as it used to be.

But all I felt was cold. I pushed his hand away and turned to leave.

That night, back in my rented apartment, I threw up until I couldn't breathe.

On my phone was a message from Dean.

Yvonne, I've taken the video down and cleared your name. Stop putting yourself through this.

I looked at the utility knife on the edge of the sink, picked it up, and my whole body was shaking.

I didn't want to die.

But in that moment I was just so tired.

Too tired to know how to keep living.

That was when the door slammed open.

Dean rushed in and wrenched the knife out of my hand.

"Yvonne! Have you lost your mind?"

His eyes were full of terror.

"Isn't this what you all wanted? For me to get worse, crazier, more pathetic, so your little bet counts as a win."

His face went pale with panic, and he gripped my shoulders.

"That's not what I wanted."

"Marry me. I'll give you the grandest wedding there is."

"From now on, I'll love you properly."

I looked at the seriousness in his eyes, and I suddenly thought of the way he'd held me three years ago.

Back then I'd been thin as a sheet of paper.

He'd said, Yvonne, don't be afraid.

But only now did I understand. Some people pull you out of the mud.

Not to save you. Only so that one day you can fall even deeper.

His eyes reddened.

"Yvonne, trust me just once. Just once."

I looked into his eyes and couldn't tell whether the sincerity there was real or not.

I said nothing, and moved my gaze off his face.

He pulled me into his arms and said he'd never let me get hurt again.

That night, once he was asleep, I picked up his phone.

I opened the chat history and scrolled through it, line by line.

On the wedding day, the second that big screen lights up, think she'll faint from crying right there?

Dean, are you really going to announce at the wedding how she got played?

Of course. The final step of the bet. She has to completely fall apart.

I stared at those lines, tears dropping onto the screen one after another.

So even this wedding was a lie.

His so-called making it up to me was nothing but a way to drag me onto the final trial stand.

I bit my lip and copied every chat message and the full video onto my own phone.

On the wedding day, the seats were packed with guests.

The officiant smiled and asked:

"Miss Harding, do you take Mr. Barnes to be your husband?"

Dean held out his hand to me, his eyes certain of the win.

"Yvonne, answer me."

I looked at the hand reaching toward me and said, calmly:

"No, I don't."

The whole room erupted.

The smile on Dean's face froze in an instant.

"Yvonne, what are you saying?"

"Since today's a wedding, let everyone see exactly how we ended up here."

I pressed the remote, and the big screen lit up.

Dean stared at the screen, the color draining from his face bit by bit.