17. Sammy
17
SAMMY
T he dull thud in the back of my head as I open my eyes has me trying to remember how many more wine coolers I had after I left Evan and came back to the house last night. But I can only remember drinking one before I decided that sleeping was the only way I was going to stop torturing myself by trying to figure out how I bring Drew and my friends together in the same world.
The last thing I remember was climbing into bed and wishing that I was brave enough to show Drew who I really am and not just who he wants me to be. Blinking my eyes open, I wince at the bright morning light that’s filtering through the drapes and tentatively lift my head from the pillow, waiting for the room to start to spin.
When it doesn’t, I realize I’m not hungover. I just have a killer headache and cramps. Urgh, I had an IUD fitted before I went away to school last year because my periods have always been heavy and painful, and my doctor said an IUD could help. It did, and for the most part, I don’t get a period anymore, but I do still get cramps and the flaring PMS that makes me want to kill people who annoy me.
Thinking back, I try to remember the last time I had period symptoms and realize it wasn’t that long ago. But I have been under a lot of stress in the last six months, so it’d absolutely make sense for my body to go haywire.
Closing my eyes, I contemplate going back to sleep, but today is my first day at Harvard, and I need to register for classes and sort out all the paperwork for my transfer. Sighing, I open my eyes again and stare up at the ceiling above me. I was nervous for my first day at Kingsacre. It was when I met Starling, although it was a week or so after that, that we actually became friends.
Instead of being nervous or excited to start school, today I feel resigned, like this is my life and I’m being forced to live it. It’s a strange sensation. Throwing back the comforter, I swing my feet over the side of the bed and stare down at my bare legs.
I don’t remember getting undressed last night, but maybe I fell asleep, then woke back up and got into my pajamas. Only, as I finger the T-shirt I’m wearing, then pull it away to look at it, I freeze. This isn’t mine. It’s the shirt Evan was wearing last night.
How did I end up wearing Evan’s shirt? I left him at the house across the road, then came up to my bedroom alone. I remember that. I remember locking the door. I remember being worried. I remember getting into bed and then…nothing. I don’t remember anything from getting into bed until now. But that’s normal…right?
I don’t remember sleeping any night, but I don’t normally wake up wearing the shirt of a boy who absolutely shouldn’t have been in my bedroom, either.
Panic laces my body as I mentally scan how I feel. I’m naked beneath his shirt, but I don’t feel like I had sex, and the room doesn’t smell like stale orgasms. However it is that I ended up wearing his shirt, I’m fairly confident that it didn’t involve us getting naked together. Lifting my hand to my hair, I pat it down and find it fairly smooth. If we’d have done anything even remotely sexual, there’s no way my hair wouldn’t be a ratted mess. Although, I guess I could have given him a BJ. But my throat isn’t sore, and my mouth doesn’t taste nasty, so that doesn’t seem likely either.
Scanning the room, I search for any signs that he was here, but everything looks perfect and exactly where it should be. Not that he left any evidence of his presence when he came into my room, night after night, at my parents’ place. Looking down, I check to see if I have a matching anklet on my other leg, but it’s still empty. Lifting my hands, I check for bracelets, and that’s when I see it.
Instead of being adorned with a beautiful but boring engagement ring, my left ring finger is sporting a small black tattoo with the letters E and M entwined together. Soreness blooms to life as I rub at the tattoo, hoping and praying that it’s just pen and will rub off with enough soap and water. But the ink doesn’t smudge, and the letters are still there as realization that Evan broke into my house, came into my room, and tattooed me without my permission washes over me.
He tattooed me!
He permanently altered my body without my permission while I was unconscious and incapable of consenting in any way. Violation makes goose bumps pebble across my skin as I stare down at the image on my finger.
It’s tiny, and if I were to look past the way it appeared on my body, it’s not unpleasant to look at and small enough that it could be hidden by a ring.
My ring.
My engagement ring that is not on my finger. Jumping off the bed, I search the floor, the bed, and the dresser, hoping to find my ring, but it’s gone. Oh god, he took it. He took my engagement ring and replaced it with his fucking initials permanently inked into my skin.
Sinking down to the floor, I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them. At some point last night, Evan must have drugged me, undressed me, and then stolen my engagement ring and tattooed me with his name.
I don’t even know how to start to process all of that information. My body doesn’t feel sore. We definitely didn’t have sex, but I’m not wearing any underwear, and I’m dressed in his shirt. So, at some point, he got me naked, or I got me naked.
Groaning, I bury my face against my knees. I don’t remember anything after I got back to my room and got into bed. Drugging people is definitely in Evan and his friends’ wheelhouse. Both Sebastian and Clay did it to keep Starling and January unconscious while they put trackers in their necks, so it’s entirely possible that he drugged me last night.
Once again, I run my finger over the back of my neck, searching for a tracker, but again, I can’t find one. But why can’t I find one? He’s clearly claiming me, or at least that’s what it feels like. So why hasn’t he put a tracker in me? That’s the guys’ MO. They find a girl, then tag her like an animal, so no matter how many lines they cross, she can’t ever truly escape them.
Well, that’s how it used to be until Starling cut the tracker from Bunny’s neck so she could escape Hunter.
I guess it makes sense that Evan wouldn’t bother tagging me when he knows that I know how to remove it. But why is he trying to claim me now anyway? He’s had a year to stake a claim or even show that he had any intention of pursuing me, and he hasn’t.
We shared a house, ate every meal together, hung out, partied, did everything together as a group for twelve months, and yet apart from that one night, he’s never done more than stare at me longingly.
So why is he here now? Why all of a sudden has he decided to make a move, to become the unhinged crazy person I’ve always known he was capable of being?
A giggle bursts free from my mouth, quickly followed by another. What the hell is going on? For over a year, I’ve lived half in, half out of the crazy world my friends are all a part of. I’ve watched Starling and Sebastian engage in fucked-up games in their toxic controlling relationship. I’ve watched Clay be forced to marry a stranger, then treat her like absolute shit, only to fall in love with her after he stalked and toyed and controlled her every move. I watched, albeit from a distance, Hunter manipulate and blackmail Bunny into marrying him, only for her to run away and hide from him in her desperation to get out from under his control.
None of this is normal behavior. My friends aren’t normal. Their lives aren’t normal. Their relationships aren’t normal. None of it is normal, and yet I’ve never run from them or called the cops. I’ve been a part of their world, their group, but never close enough to be more than an observer of all the crazy shit they’re capable of until now.
More giggles burst from my lips, and soon I’m laughing so hard tears are forming in my eyes. How did this happen? How did I get ensconced in this world where crazy shit like this happens and my first thoughts aren’t I’ve been assaulted, and I should call the cops.
Him tattooing me without my knowledge or permission does feel like a violation, but there’s a thoroughly fucked-up warmth that pulses inside of me every time I look at his initials on my finger. He’s claimed me in a really visceral way, and I don’t hate it anywhere near as much as I should.
A part of me feels like I should barge into the house across the street and demand to know what he’s playing at. But I have a feeling that’s exactly what he expects me to do. So instead, I shower, get dressed, and have breakfast. After a quick Google search to learn how to care for a tattoo, I cover the ink in the salve that has been conveniently left out on my dresser and then cover it with a Band-Aid.
Putting my laptop, pens, a legal pad, and the rest of my daily essentials into my burgundy leather Cambridge satchel that January and Clay had brought me when they were in England, I slip my feet into my knee-high leather boots and zip them up over my jeans.
Pulling my jacket on, I hook my satchel across my body, then leave the house, refusing to even glance in the direction of the house Evan is staying in as I make my way to my car. My family and I flew from DC to Massachusetts, but Drew arranged for my new car to be delivered here, and as I climb inside, I try not to allow the now familiar sense of disappointment I feel every time I have to drive it to show on my face.
My mama was practically bursting with excitement when my new Tesla-shaped engagement present was delivered to the house. She gushed over how wonderful Drew was, and how exciting it was that he’d bought me such a sensible gift.
But all I could think of when I saw the car was how much I preferred my sporty little white Mercedes. My car, which is still parked in the underground parking structure back at Kingsacre, was a present from my parents when I graduated high school. It’s a convertible, fun, fast, and so perfectly me.
I know that being given a brand-new Tesla and being disappointed makes me sound like a spoiled brat. But although it’s probably a car most people would drool over, it’s just not really very me.
Just like my engagement ring, the car is classy and beautiful, but just a little boring.
Pressing the start button, I program the address for the administration offices into my GPS, then pull away from the curb, checking behind me every few seconds to see if Evan is following.
By the time I park my car in the visitors’ lot, I’m feeling both confident that he’s not following and disappointed that he’s not following me. I’m distracted and disgruntled by the time I push open the door to the building and step inside. This isn’t my first time on the Harvard campus. My parents and I came with Drew and his parents to view the school when we were writing our college applications.
It’s a beautiful campus, and back then, I could easily see myself going here, but now that I’m here, all I can do is compare it to Kingsacre. The two schools are as different as they are the same. Both are set on sprawling campuses with gorgeous old buildings and hundreds of years of celebrated history. But where Harvard feels like more of a mecca for educational excellence, Kingsacre feels like a breeding ground for business, connections, and money.
Kingsacre is home— was home—but despite being here, I’m not sure that Harvard will ever feel the same. Pulling back my shoulders, I suck in a deep breath and push into the building, inhaling the scent of worn wood and warmth as I traverse the corridors until I find the admissions office.
A reception desk takes up half of the space, with a handful of desks filled with people working on computers behind it.
“Can I help you?” a smartly dressed woman asks, pushing her glasses up her nose as she gets up from her desk and comes toward me.
“Hello, my name is Samantha Hartley. I’m a transfer student from Kingsacre University in California. This is my first day. I need to sign my transfer paperwork and pick up my schedule.”
“Welcome to Harvard. Let me find your paperwork,” the woman says, pulling a stack of files out and methodically flicking through them.
Plastering a practiced smile onto my face, I wait patiently, not fidgeting as she comes to the end of one pile and then pulls out a second and starts to sort through that one. My smile feels slightly crazed by the time she comes to the end of the second pile and still hasn’t found anything.
Her brow furrows, and she replaces the second pile and pulls out the original pile, going through each document carefully before she lifts her head and looks at me.
“Samantha, could I take your email address and some details from you, as I don’t seem to have your transfer information here.”
“Of course,” I say, feeling my chest tighten. After giving her all of the information, I pull out my cell and start to search for the email confirmation of my transfer that I received. After searching my inbox and even scrolling back to the date I received the acceptance, I still can’t find any record, and my heart starts to pound in my chest.
“Miss Hartley,” the woman says, her lips pulled down into a frown. “I’ve found your transfer application and the acceptance offer we sent out, but I’m afraid there seems to have been some kind of miscommunication because your offer has been marked as rejected. We received an email from you last week advising us that you no longer wanted to transfer to Harvard and that you would be continuing your education at Kingsacre.”
“That’s not possible. I accepted the place. I’ve declared a major. I live here now,” I ramble, my breaths becoming shallower with each word.
“I’m sorry, Miss Hartley, but I have a copy of the email you sent to us,” she says, sliding a piece of paper across the desk to me.
My hands are shaking as I pick it up and start to read.
To: Admissions@harvarduniversity.edu.com
From: SamanthaHartley19@youmail.com
Subject: Transfer to Harvard University.
To Whom It May Concern,
Thank you for the offer of a place to transfer to Harvard for my fall semester. However, after much consideration, I have decided that continuing my education at Kingsacre University would be a better choice for me.
I truly appreciate the opportunity, but please accept this email as confirmation that I would like to decline the place in your school.
Kind regards,
Samantha Hartley
Blinking, I stare at the words, read them, then read them again. The email address is mine, but I didn’t write this email.
“What the fu…” I mutter under my breath.
“Miss Hartley?” the office lady questions.
“I…” I trail off, unsure what to say.
“Miss Hartley,” she says again.
“Err, that was. This is a mistake. There’s been a mistake. How do I? What do I do?” I stutter, starting to feel the panic rise from my toes up my body.
“I’m afraid that the place has been filled. You can apply for a transfer for next semester. Would you like me to email you the application?” she asks, her tone professional despite the hint of sympathy in her eyes.
“No, but I’m here. I moved here. I’m here,” I mutter stupidly.
“You declined your transfer place, Miss Hartley. I’m sorry that there seems to have been some confusion about this. But as you can see from the email in your hands, you declined the place. If you’d like to apply to transfer again, then I’m happy to send you the application, but I should warn you that your decision to decline an offered place here does show a level of uncertainty that the Harvard admissions board tends to frown upon.”
“Are you saying that I won’t get in?” I squeak.
“It’s not my place to comment on who will or will not be accepted. That’s not my job,” she says calmly. “But I do feel that I should warn you that in my time here at Harvard, I haven’t ever known of a second transfer opportunity being given.”
“Oh my god, oh my god,” I whisper. “Clay, I’m going to…I’m going to…”
“Is there anything else I can help you with today, Miss Hartley?” the woman asks.
I shake my head. “No. I. No…Thank you.” Turning, I exit the admissions office then rush from the building, anger mounting inside of me with each step I take.
Once I’m outside, I storm across the lot to my car, fumbling with the keys in my haste to open the door, only remembering that I don’t need the keys when I finally find them. My hands are shaking as I climb into the seat and pull my cell from my bag. Finding Clay’s number, I hit dial, lifting the cell to my ear as I listen to it ring.
“Hey,” Clay answers on the third ring.
“You fucking asshole, motherfucker. Fix it,” I yell.
“What?”
“I know it was you, Clay. I just went to sign my transfer paperwork, and according to the email that was sent from my email address last week, that I definitely did not write, I declined my place at Harvard. Fix it, Clay. I live here now. I’m engaged. This is my life, and you don’t get to fuck with it.”
“No,” he says simply.
“No?” I hiss through gritted teeth.
“I’m not fixing it, Sammy. You belong here, with us.”
“I’m engaged, and my fiancé lives here. He goes to Harvard. We’re supposed to go here together. How do I explain to him that my psycho friend hacked my email and the Harvard admissions database and got my place canceled?”
“I’m happy to explain it to him myself. We’re flying in this weekend to meet him.”
“You’re what?” I gasp, feeling my heart start to beat erratically in my chest.
“I know Evan told you that last night,” Clay says, amusement clear in his voice.
“You can’t come here,” I protest.
“Why not, Sammy? We’re your friends, your family. We should have met this guy long before now. We should have been with you for the last few months while your dad was sick. We should understand your life, but you wouldn’t let us. I don’t really know why that is. But it’s done now. We’re coming, all of us, and we’re going to meet your fiancé right before we take you back home with us.”
“Maybe I don’t want to introduce you to him because you’re all fucking crazy,” I hiss. “Maybe I don’t know how to explain that one of my so-called friends fucking drugged me last night, stole my engagement ring, and then tattooed his initials onto my ring finger?—”
Clay’s amused chuckle makes goose bumps pebble over my skin. “He tattooed you?”
“That’s not okay, Clay.”
“That crazy motherfucker.”
“I’m engaged.”
“Are you, though?” he taunts.
“What do you mean? What else did you do? What did Evan do?”
“Maybe you should ask him,” Clay says cryptically. “See you Friday, Sammy. Love you.”
He ends the call before I have a chance to speak again, and I lower the cell from my ear, staring at the dark screen and wondering what he means.
My hands are still shaking as I press my car’s start button, pull out of the lot, and head toward my house. Once I’m parked on the street outside, I climb out, and instead of going to my house, I turn in the opposite direction and march across the street, banging on the front door.
When the door doesn’t open, I bang my fist against it again. “Evan, open the door, you fucking asshole.”
I wait for him to come, but he doesn’t, and the door stays closed. Eventually, I exhale, turn, and head for my house. The house I don’t need anymore, because apparently, I don’t go to school here. I’m not sure that I actually go to school anywhere anymore.
Tears fill my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. They won’t help. They won’t change anything. They won’t take the ink off my finger or the doubt from my mind. They won’t stop my two worlds from colliding in a few days, and I have no idea what to even do. Do I stop the crash or just let it implode? Do I let the oblivion take me and see what’s left once it’s finished?
Breathing shakily, I climb the stairs to my bedroom and close the door behind me, standing in the middle of the room that doesn’t feel like mine, surrounded by all the things that don’t feel like mine either.
I don’t know which me is real anymore. Am I Samantha of Samantha and Drew? Well-dressed, polite, and tempered. Am I this girl who drives a sensible Tesla, who wears pearls and stands quietly behind my fiancé while he chases his dreams? Or am I the wild Sammy Evan thinks I am. Who wears the clothes she loves, who drinks too much at parties and makes out with strangers even though she really just wants to be loved and in love.
Am I Starling’s bestie or Drew’s fiancée?
Do I want Harvard or Kingsacre?
Or is there some world hidden in the middle where I can have it all?
That doesn’t seem likely or possible, and even if it was, do I want to exist in some in-between where I’m both wild and tempered?
Ripping the Band-Aid from my finger, I stare down at the ink and wonder what the fuck it even means. Is this Evan claiming me or just defining which world I’ll live in. I want him, I’ve always wanted him, but he’s always been on the edge, close enough to see but not touch, and that’s been okay. Because Evan and all of the guys are flame and fire, and even though the other girls became phoenixes from the ashes of the toxicity of being loved by these men, I’m not sure that I won’t just disintegrate and be lost to the wind as my ashes fly away.
I don’t know what all of this means, and I don’t know what I do now. Pulling my cell from my pocket, I tap on the screen to bring it to life. When I find Drew’s number, I hover my finger over the call button, questioning if calling him is even the right thing to do.
He won’t yell or rage. He won’t plot revenge or do something crazy. He’ll calmly make a plan that will probably involve me moving back to my parents’ house, taking the rest of the school year off, then reapplying to Harvard or somewhere else next year. He’ll talk to his dad and his PR team. They’ll consult on how future voters will perceive my time off from school and what we should do to ensure that every move I make is something relatable and acceptable.
Looking down, I somehow find myself staring at Evan’s contact on my screen. I honestly have no idea how our conversation will go if I call him. I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to him on the phone before. We’re not that kind of friends.
I want to yell at him. I want to rage and scream and cry, but maybe that’s what he wants? Yesterday, he called me Wild One. Is he doing all of this so that I’ll live up to the nickname he’s decided to give me?
Before I can think better of it, I hit dial, bringing my cell to my ear as I wait for him to answer.
“Hey,” he says calmly, like he didn’t drug me and violate my body.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, unsure why I suddenly feel so…defeated.
“Because you know who you are, and it isn’t this.”
“Who am I then?” I whisper.
“You’re mine. You always have been.”
“Why now? Is it because I moved on? Because I found someone who makes me happy. Someone who would never do the crazy things you’re doing?”
“I was wrapped in chains, scared to embrace who I actually am,” Evan says, his voice breaking a little. “Now I’m free.”
“What does that mean for me?”
“It means it’s time to come home.”
“This is my home,” I protest.
“Is it? Your fiancé is more interested in his political aspirations than you. Your mom only cares about you becoming her, and your dad is just happy you have someone to take care of you. Your life just went to shit, and the first person you called wasn’t Drew or your family. It was me. Because I’m your home. Starling and Sebastian and the others are your home.”
“No, my life is here now. Clay can fix this. He can change the paperwork back, and I can go to school and get married and?—”
“And what, Sammy? You can freeze your eggs so Drew can plan your kids in accordance with potential voters’ preferences. So, you can stand at his side, silently, nothing more than a pretty incubator mannequin. Do you even love him?”
“Yes,” I cry.
“Are you in love with him?” Evan asks.
My mouth forms the word yes, but the sound won’t fall from my lips, no matter how much I try to force it.
“Do you love me?” he asks, and I can hear the smile in his words.
“No.” Shaking my head from side to side, I try to force vehemence into my tone.
“That’s okay. You will. Because you know what you are, don’t you, Wild One?”
“No,” I whimper.
“Yes, you do. You’ve known as long as I have, from the first time we met. You’re mine. I’ve held back. I’ve fought my natural urges, but I won’t shackle myself anymore. You have until Friday to end things with Drew yourself. After that, I’ll do it for you.”
“Evan, you can’t do this. This isn’t fair. I love him.”
“I don’t care. You have until Friday, and if you let him touch you, if he even lays a hand on you, I’ll ruin him. You know I can do it. You watched Clay do it to January’s family. If he comes within five feet of you, I’ll make sure he’ll never even get voted Walmart employee of the month, let alone anything else, and every single one of his political hopes and dreams will be destroyed and burned to ashes at his feet.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“No, Sammy, I’m yours, and this is how it feels to be owned by me. I’ll do anything for you, but I’ll destroy anyone who tries to take you from me.”
“Don’t do this, Evan. Please,” I beg, hating the desperation in my voice.
“It’s too late.”
“No, Evan.” When he doesn’t reply, I pull my cell from my ear and realize he’s ended the call. My hands are shaking, and my entire body feels electrified with a mixture of fear and…excitement.
Since I met Starling and saw firsthand the terrifying way Sebastian loves her, I’ve been both scared for her and also a little curious to know how it feels to be loved in such an obsessive way. A part of me always wondered if Evan would love that way, if he was capable of being so consumed, so insane.
I don’t know who Evan was before Sebastian met Starling. Starling says he was different, but I’ve only ever known the withdrawn, guilty, ashamed Evan. He smiles and jokes with the guys and is protective of the girls, but it always felt…controlled, like he was masking a lot of how he really felt.
On the phone, he said he’d been wrapped in chains, and that makes sense to me. I know he felt a lot of responsibility for the destruction of Starling and her mom’s relationship, and that in the time I’ve known him, he’s tried countless times to orchestrate a reconciliation between the two.
I’ve watched him advocate for the women who have fallen into his friends’ orbits and even show remorse over his past behavior. Which is why I don’t understand why he’d do this to me now.
If he felt bound by his guilt, why is he now suddenly willing to destroy and maim my life when, for the past eighteen months, he’s stood by and watched me flirt, kiss, and date other men?
Dropping my cell to my lap, I stare down at my hand and the tattoo he put on my skin. I should be at the police station reporting an assault, or at the hospital asking them to check my blood for traces of a sedative, or a roofie, or whatever he used to knock me out for long enough to be able to permanently mark my body. So why am I just sitting here, letting him threaten me?
My mind wanders to what I know about my friends and how they fought to evade their men’s toxic brand of love. Starling ran to the other side of the country. She evaded Sebastian for years, but in that time, she lived a half-life, terrified, knowing he was watching and that despite the distance, she was never free of him. January went to Italy, only to realize that Clay was her home, and even her dreams were lackluster without him. Bunny literally fled. She left her entire life behind and hid for months. But eventually, she discovered that Hunter was the kind of crazy she just couldn’t live without.
Each of my friends has tried to run from these men, and none of them have found happiness in escape. I could pack a bag and leave, but what would be the point? If Evan wants to find me, he will. I could ignore him, but his threats aren’t idle. He’ll destroy Drew with a smile on his face and not feel an ounce of guilt or remorse.
So how do I fight this? Honestly, I don’t know, but I know it has to start with honesty. I need to tell Drew everything that happened in California, then I need to explain who my friends are and what impact they could have on his life.
Inhaling sharply, I slowly let the breath out, repeating the action until my limbs stop trembling and I feel as calm as I can. Picking up my cell again, I find Drew’s number, then hit dial.