“Wait, Cullen,” she whispers.
Kneeling down in front of her, I stare into her eyes as she reaches for my face. “It wasn’t you, was it?”
I wince, letting out a long sigh. “Of course not.”
Another sob racks through her body as she wraps her arms around my neck. The way she squeezes me tight, clutching to me like her life depends on it, changes everything. With my arms around her waist, I hug her back.
Is it too late to fix the damage I’ve done? How the fuck was I supposed to know fucking with her would end with me feeling this way?
“Oh, Cullen,” she says through a wet, strangled gasp.
“It’s okay. I’m here,” I whisper.
There’s a pounding at the door, and I know it’s the paramedics, so I take her with me as we walk toward the front to open it. They ask us a million questions, stare at me skeptically, and then they take her to the back of the ambulance to give her a quick checkup.
When the police arrive, we go through the whole thing again, and I can feel them watching me the same way the medics did. She won’t let go of my hand, and I don’t want to leave her.
“Are you sure you don’t need a more comprehensive exam?” the male cop asks, and she cringes. Fuck, we both do.
“No,” she replies, shaking her head and they’re staring at me again. I know how this looks. I know with my piercings and tattoos and abnormally dyed hair, I look like trouble. To them, they see a woman who’s being manipulated, and to them it probably was me.
“Sir, would you mind giving us a moment to talk to her alone?” the cop asks, and I feel my jaw clench. She squeezes my hand tighter.
“It wasn’t him,” she replies immediately. “I know what you’re thinking. Trust me, I get it, but it wasn’t.” When her eyes meet mine, there’s certainty in her expression and it calms me. She knows it wasn’t me. They could haul my ass away, make me sleep in a jail cell, but as long as she knows it wasn’t me, that’s all that matters.
The cop lets it go, and after she assures them she’s fine and doesn’t need to go to the hospital, they leave. I drive us to her house in her car, and the entire time she doesn’t let go of me.
Getting out of the car at her house, the cool air nips at my skin. I notice the way she clutches her arms tighter to her body, and I find myself staring at her. So many thoughts echo through my head.
Her and I have balanced on this strange plane of familiarity. We belong in each other’s lives but not because of intimacy or love, but because of trauma. It binds us in a strange climate of distrust and vulnerability. I don’t truly know Everly any better than I might know an actual girlfriend or friend, but I’ve rooted myself in her life without consent because somehow I got the impression I was entitled to.
She didn’t deserve that. My rational brain knows that, but for some reason, my rational brain is struggling for control these days.
“Are you okay?” I ask as we step inside her dark house.
“Yeah.” She’s still so shaken, and I find myself feeling completely inadequate. Nothing I say or do is enough. This woman was nearly killed tonight, strangled on the desk of her office by a complete stranger, and I’m standing here talking to her like I haven’t tried to make her life a living hell for the past two weeks.
“I should probably go,” I mutter, keeping my place by the door, suddenly afraid to come inside.
“What?” The genuine shock on her face is endearing.
“You’ve been through enough. I’ll let you get cleaned up and rested.”
She lets out a heavy sigh, sounding very frustrated with me as she turns away. Spinning on her heels in the kitchen, she glares at me.
“Fine. Just go.”
That’s it?
“I’m not your boyfriend, remember? You told me that on the phone tonight. And you’re right. I’m not your boyfriend. I would be a terrible fucking boyfriend, Everly. All I know is how to be cruel and controlling. If you need someone to come over and hold you while you cry, well then you better call your friend, because I’m not that guy.”
“Fine!” Her voice cracks as she yells, but she doesn’t move from her spot, like an angry statue staring at me from the kitchen.
“You really shouldn’t be so angry,” I argue back. “I’m offering to leave you alone. It’s the nicest fucking thing I’ve ever done for you.”
She scoffs, her eyes filling with tears, and it’s like nails on the chalkboard. I’ve made her cry before, all those times because I was antagonizing her with a purpose, but now, she’s not crying because of me. She’s crying for me, and I hate it. I need to get out of here right now.
“Just go, Cullen. I think we’ve tortured each other enough.”
“It’s over. I’m done.”
“Thank you.” Her voice sounds so small.
My hand rests on the doorknob, and I don’t understand why it’s so hard to leave. I need to. I should, but something is holding me here. I’ve gotten so comfortable in this house, with her, my fucking professor, that I’m finding it hard to walk away.
But I do. With a quietly muttered goodbye, I open the door and disappear into the darkness. The bus isn’t running this late, and I could probably afford a ride if I wanted to, but I walk. I need to physically put the miles between us right now.
17
Everly
I barely sleep all night. Tossing and turning in my bed, I can’t stop thinking about the attack and Cullen leaving. When sadness tries to occupy my thoughts, my brain tends to go into overdrive, like some sort of defense mechanism to keep me from thinking too much.
And with how miserable I’m feeling without Cullen here, my thoughts are out of control.
Someone tried to kill me tonight. That much is obvious to me. And I think Cullen is still under the impression it was just a campus predator, but I know better. If he wanted to rape me, he would have.
Is this because I’ve been closer to Cullen, and someone isn’t happy about that? Who else would even care?
I always knew there was a risk when I got involved with the Ayers case, but that was so long ago. I assumed it had all passed since then. So why now? Is George Ayers just now seeking his revenge?
Sleep finally wins the battle against my anxiety just before sunrise, and I sleep restlessly. It feels like one foot in dreams and one foot out, as if I’m keeping an eye out for him, waiting to feel him climb into my bed, touch me, kiss me, take my body for himself.
Somewhere in the past couple weeks I just stopped feeling guilty about the lust that burns between Cullen and me. It’s not just a desire or a hunger, it’s a need, and in some sense, I know we belong to each other, and not because he pretends to own me or control me but because we were born from the same wound. I hurt him without meaning to, but deep down, I remember my feelings that day. I wanted to hurt him. I wanted a ten-year-old boy to suffer, and that was far more cruel than anything he’s done to me since. Making his wound my wound too.
In my fitful dreaming, I see his face in the courtroom again, but instead of the dark haired emotionless boy, I see the white haired man who radiates pain. I feel the daggers of his hatred as he stares at me across the aisle, and I ache for him. I beg him to hurt me, make me pay, make me whole.