Whit’s right. Bryan was going to rape me against that tree. I should’ve never left the party with him. I only just got there, and I’d already had too much to drink. My entire night is ruined, and I’m sure I ruined Whit’s too.
I don’t know how long I cry like that, but it feels like an eternity. Shuddery breaths leave me and I hiccup as I slowly pull away from him so I can look into his face.
It’s the same unfeeling, cold Whit staring down at me. “Are you through?” he asks.
I nod, hiccupping once.
He grips my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. “Don’t fuck around with strangers. I won’t always be around to rescue you.”
Overwhelming hatred races through my veins, making my blood boil. “You’re not my hero,” I spit at him.
“I am tonight. Was last time too. I can’t keep saving you, Savage. Eventually, you’re going to find yourself in this position again, and I won’t be around. What will you do then? Huh?” His fingers squeeze my chin, but I remain still, not about to show more weakness in front of him. “That asshole almost raped you. He had his hands all over you, and you fucking asked for it, dressed like you are. What did you expect?”
Tears start flowing again, streaming down my face, but still I say nothing.
“You’re a fucking mess, Savage. Figure your shit out. Before you end up dead and buried in the ground.”
He shoves me away from him, heading back toward the house.
And this time, I let him go. I refuse to follow after him.
Fuck Whit Lancaster.
Fuck him.
Twenty-Six
Summer
Late November is when they all say the first snow comes to campus, but this year, it arrives a little earlier. On the eighteenth to be exact, in the middle of the day while I’m in class, bored and staring out the window, light flurries begin to fall, eventually turning into bigger flakes. They stream steadily from the dark sky throughout the afternoon and by nightfall, the entire campus is blanketed in winter white.
The teachers can’t stop talking about the unusual cold front as they mess with the hissing radiators in our classrooms, complaining about the temperature. Lancaster Prep is housed in beautiful historic buildings, their heating and cooling systems archaic. This prompts a debate in American Government, my last class of the day. Students want modernizations to the buildings, arguing that it’s the twenty-first century. Don’t we deserve central heat and air? The teachers agree, but say modernizations would destroy the integrity of the buildings.
This turned into a debate for the rest of class, and I was bored out of my skull. As usual. All I can think about is how badly I want out of here.
But I have nowhere to go.
It’s a strange day. We’re all distracted, staff included. We’re two days away from Friday, the last day before Thanksgiving break. Everyone is anxious to leave the newly formed winter wonderland our campus has magically turned into. Conversations buzzed during classes throughout the day, louder than usual about vacation plans. Tropical getaways, shopping excursions, visits with family—though those are deemed boring. Passe. It’s as if we’re in prison and they’re about to finally let us out.
I wish I could go somewhere. Anywhere. But I’m not leaving. Mother and I spoke often leading up to this week. Stilted conversations on the phone I wish I could replace with the occasional text, they’re so awkward. I don’t mention the break, and neither does she, but it’s there.
We both know it.
As the date draws closer, it hovers between us, until she finally mentions she’s going on a short trip to the Caribbean with a group of friends. Will I be okay alone? She needs the escape, she’s quick to explain, not allowing me to answer her yet. After everything she’s been through, all the suffering throughout the last year. The fire, the insurance claims, handling the estate, the legal fight she’s facing with the first Mrs. Jonas Weatherstone.
What can I say to that? How can I protest? Of course, I tell her to go. I even remind her to take sunscreen, like I’m the parent and she’s the child. I’m the responsible one in our ever-evolving relationship.
That would be hilarious, if it wasn’t so sad.
The dormitories stay open during the break for any students without a place to go, and I let my dorm advisor know I’ll be staying. The sympathetic look on Ms. Thompson’s face annoys the shit out of me, and when she opens her mouth, the words, “I’m sorry,” about to fall from her lips, I cut her off and tell her I have to go or I’ll be late for class.
It’s not true, and we both know it. I met with her during the last part of lunch, Sylvie nowhere to be found, as usual. The thought of spending another lunch hour alone, fed up with the monotony that has become my life since the first of November, almost becomes too much.
It doesn’t help, how on edge I’ve been, waiting for Whit to say something, anything to me. But of course, he remains quiet. Elusive.
A puzzle I can’t put together no matter how hard I try.
He saved me on Halloween night, and the next day, Bryan wasn’t in class. He hasn’t been seen or heard from again, and I know without a doubt Whit got rid of him. Much like he did the poor, stupid Elliot. No male crosses Whit, or challenges his authority on this campus. To do so would mean your end.
Looks like Bryan met his. He won’t be missed. Sometimes I can still feel his hands on me, his tongue in my mouth. How he kept repeating I was a sure thing. I remember how I acted toward him at the party. Dancing, grinding on him. Rubbing my ass against his dick, wearing practically nothing. Maybe Whit was right. Maybe I did ask for Bryan’s attack. I was desperate to get Whit’s attention, but I got someone else’s instead. Someone unwanted.
Whit may have come to my rescue, but he also made me feel like shit. I still feel shitty all these weeks later, thanks to him not talking to me. He’s moved on from me anyway. He’s with Caitlyn now. I see them everywhere together. All over campus. She flutters all around him, eager for his attention, yet he rarely gives it to her. Always with that impassive expression on his face, as if he’d rather be anywhere than there with her.
I know the feeling. I hate that I have that in common with her.
At least he’s seen in public with her. He never really wanted anyone knowing we were together, and that hurts. More than I care to admit. The asshole always did think he was better than me.
Right till the bitter end.
Sylvie still disappears frequently. Whereas she was looking better, now she appears worse. Her health is going rapidly downhill, she tells me when she reappears on campus for a day. Sometimes only an hour before she leaves again. Always haggard and pale. The circles under her eyes grow darker and darker, and I grow more and more concerned. She’s avoiding Spencer, and I don’t know what happened between them on Halloween night, because she’s not talking. Not to me.
Not to anyone.
If she’s not out sick, she’s at endless doctors’ appointments. Specialists. Centers that specialize in this, that and the other. Poked and prodded, x-rays scanned, vitals tracked, new medications introduced. But they still claim they don’t know what’s wrong with her.
“Oh, I could tell them, but no one listens,” she said to me a few days ago, after we ate lunch and were sitting outside together, the brisk wind whipping our hair all around us. The sun was out for approximately fifteen minutes that day, and everyone was soaking it up before it disappeared again. The dark, cloudy days are notorious here. “So I just wait for the day I die, and then maybe someone will figure it all out.”