Disclaimer: I do not own Life with Derek. Never will.

A/N: Decided to change things up a bit and have Derek's P.O.V. on the whole situation. A pretty small chapter. Enjoy!

Chapter 6…How Sick Is She?

x o x x o derek's p.o.v. o x x o x

My words floated around my head. "I just… care about you Casey." My god. Am I that much of a sap? And is that oh so soap drama-sounding statement even true?

I heard some obnoxiously anxious knocking outside, followed by Casey's muffled voice saying, "Open the hell up!"

I shook my head to myself. It must be the bathroom door. She's probably going to do that… Thing she does… Ugh. I can't even think about it without gagging myself.

This whole charade has been rather… Disturbing. I still remember that night at the dinner table.

"Casey," Lizzie said, breaking the silence and practically slamming her fork down on her plate. "I'm sorry, but I can't take anymore," she said, shaking her head and looking over at Casey, a mixture of worry and anger.

I took interest quickly and watched as Lizzie took a deep breath before saying, "Casey is… Bulimic."

I swear my heart stopped.

I heard necks practically snap as we all turned to look at Casey as if she was the only one in the room. Her eyes were blankly looking at Lizzie, lips pursed tightly. She looked around at all the faces before stopping on mine, connecting eyes with me. I know I must've looked stupid with all that food practically falling out of my mouth and back on my plate. But all my thoughts about anything but Casey were completely clouded.

What? But Casey's so perfect. So unlikely to even consider doing something like that.

Wait. She does look pretty awful. All gaunt and pale, like she's sick. But… Seriously, it can't be true…

Suddenly Nora stood up from the table and grabbed Casey by the forearm, gently coaxing her out of the chair. Once she stood, her eyes were only on her mother and we all watched as Nora led Casey out of the room and down into the basement. We stared after them for a few seconds before exchanging a few looks across the table.

"Lizzie," Marti said. It was her first word all through dinner. "What does buh-lee-mic mean?" she asked, her brows furrowed in obvious confusion.

My dad coughed uncomfortably. I swallowed the food in my mouth. I looked around the table at all the faces, like Casey had done. No one seemed about to answer and my eyes stopped on Marti's, hers on mine. She had her elbows up on the table and was propping her head up with her fists.

"Well," I began, actually knowing what bulimia was. But to explain it to a seven year old?

"It means she's sick," Lizzie said, looking over at me with the stern look on her face that clearly said 'She won't understand.' I just nodded at her and turned back to Marti.

"Yep," I said simply. "She's sick."

"How sick is she?" Marti asked, eyebrows still bent towards the center of her face.

"I don't know, Marti," I said, using her name instead of her nickname. "I don't know…"

The sound of a door slamming stung my ears and pulled me away from my memories. A shiver ran like a freight train through my nervous system and my ears perked at the sound of the sink running water full blast. I sat up in my bed and looked at the wall beside me like I could see through the walls and into the bathroom. Like I could see what Casey was doing right now. I tried to imagine her, kneeling over the toilet, puking. It was so hard. I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes until I saw rush into my eyes. I opened my eyes to a blurry version of my room. I looked back at the wall and noticed wetness on my cheeks.

Oh God. I'm crying, I thought to myself, wiping the tear's damp trail away with the back of my hand. What's wrong with me?