Chapter 19
NINETEEN
GWENNA
Around me, Holy Grounds swims and buzzes in indistinct shapes. I’m sitting hunched over, wrists pinned between my knees, the best invisible-girl posture I can manage, and try not to cry.
It’s over , I think. I barely made it two weeks. And now it’s over.
I’ll have to go home, sit on Dr. Riggs’s stupid couch, endure the punishing glares from my mom, the threats, the eye-rolling?—
Or maybe this time they’ll go through with it. Maybe this time they’ll really and truly lock me up—not just temporarily. For good.
I’ll never go into the library again. To the chapel. To Dr. Emrys’s class. To any of it.
In spite of myself, a choked sob comes out of my throat.
“Gwenna?” says a voice from outside my cocoon.
I freeze. I’m not alone, obviously, and at the one moment where I truly, desperately, physically need to be alone and unseen, and untouched and almost non-existent. I swallow hard, my throat swollen from all the tears I’m holding back.
“Are you alive?” comes Morgan’s voice a little more gently. The slight edge of humor disarms me so much that I actually relax for half a second, but I don’t answer. I can’t; I’m not even sure if a yes would be accurate.
“I got you tea,” she goes on. “It’ll help you feel better.”
Doubtful , I think. If Dr. Riggs’s battalion of veterinary grade pharmaceuticals weren’t enough to fix what’s wrong with me, I’m not sure how a cup of Lipton’s is going to do the job.
But at the same time, someone got me tea, and that’s more than I deserve.
More than I’ve ever gotten, anyway. It’s comfort rather than trying to solve anything.
I swallow again, pushing down the ache in my throat, and emerge, just barely, from my pretzel position.
Morgan sits backwards in one of the armchairs. Her hair’s in a high ponytail, a loose sweatshirt hanging off her shoulders. “Good morning, sunshine.” Her sarcasm is dry as a bone.
I blink, don’t say anything, but sit up a little more.
I’m still in the T-shirt and sweats—Lanz’s presumably—but the clanking radiator and the sheer heat energy of my panic has me sweaty, my hair sticking to my neck.
Between that, my bare feet, and the raw eyes from crying, I must look like an absolute lunatic—which, of course, I am—and now everybody knows it.
Morgan, though, doesn’t react. She just tips her head to the side.
“Tea?” she asks, swiveling around and holding out a mug the size of a soup bowl made of some earthy, hand-thrown pottery and smelling like…I’m not sure. No kind of tea I’ve ever had. I wrinkle my nose out of reflex, so taken aback by the smell that I almost forget what’s going on.
“It’s herbal,” she says. “I had them brew it special—my own blend. But it’s not poison, I swear.” She winces, realizing what she’s said. “Too soon?”
I shake my head dumbly. Joke about it, don’t joke about it, it doesn’t matter.
“Okay,” she says, but it doesn’t sound like she believes me. “Anyway, I put loads of honey in it, too. ”
I reach out a hand—then two, when I realize how big the thing is—and take it from her. Even if it is poison , I think, who cares? It’ll make me feel better, do nothing, or end everything.
The first sip is earthy, with a hint of grass and a flowery sweetness at the end that I can’t put my finger on—honeysuckle, maybe, or passion flower. I wouldn’t call it…good, exactly, but it does make me feel better surprisingly quickly.
“Attagirl,” Morgan says, as she purses her lips and stares at me like I’m a child she’s waiting to finish her dinner.
I resist rolling my eyes and take another big sip.
It’s weirdly the perfect temperature—not hot enough to burn, but not that tepid, microwave-level heat that you get in cafeteria tea.
I don’t want to talk, because talking just reinforces that I exist. But Morgan doesn’t seem concerned with what I want.
“How are you feeling?” she asks.
I narrow my eyes. “Why do you care?” It comes out harsher than I mean it to. And Morgan’s brow furrows.
“Jesus, I’m sorry,” she says.
So am I. I want to slap myself in the forehead, but I’d have to let go of my tea to do that.
With shaking hands, I set it on the edge of the armchair and hunch over myself, staring into my lap.
“No, I…” Fuck , I think. I look up. “You’re being really nice. You’ve been a good roommate?—”
“ Have been ?” she asks, cutting me off. “What do you mean? Am I about to die or something?”
“No, I just…” I hesitate. “I mean, I can’t stay here.” My voice cracks as I say it. “Obviously.”
“Obviously?” Morgan scrunches up her face.
“I think not. You mean just because Elena’s a bitch?
I mean”—she lowers her voice—“allegedly.” She stirs her own cup of tea with a dainty spoon and a scoff.
“Word is they’re saying one of my candles started the fire.
And I’m like, please , I am nothing if not careful about fire safety?—”
“Did the candle write the fucking note, too?” I interrupt.
Morgan pauses. Then laughs.
“That’s what I’m saying ,” she mutters. She sips her tea. “You could raise a stink about it to the college, you know. Press them to?—”
“No.” I cut her off swiftly. I’d thought of that, too, but immediately rejected it. Anything that could make its way back to my mom—an inquiry, an official investigation—will only add insult to injury. Majorly. I can’t.
“Mm.” She casts a glance around the shop, doesn’t push back. Anyone who was staring at us has politely retreated. “Well, I guess my point is, no matter what they decide, you can’t let her chase you out of here. Don’t give her the satisfaction.”
It’s not that, though , I think. It’s—what even is it? How do I explain this whole thing?
Morgan waits in silence, as if patiently expecting more from me, but there’s nothing more to give. Just an ache in my chest and the crushing sense of doom. And resignation.
“Is it true?” Morgan asks, her voice lower.
A few feet away, the espresso machine squeals and hisses. I dig my fingernails into my palm.
“You want to know if I did it?”
“Not in so many words,” she replies. “But…I’ll admit I’m curious.”
I swallow, nod. “It wasn’t on purpose,” I say. “It was…I was going through something. I wasn’t…right. But it’s not like I was out there with a can of gasoline and…”
Morgan holds up a hand. “I believe you.” She stares into my eyes. “And I believe you didn’t know Elena’s dad had anything to do with it.”
Unbidden, tears flood my eyes. I scrub at my lash line furiously, hating how weak I’m acting. “Of course I didn’t. My parents—they just wanted it all to go away. Didn’t want to have a crazy daughter.” Sorry about that , I think bitterly. Wish not granted . “They said I could come here, but?—”
I hesitate. Should I tell her the whole truth?
Morgan nods, tips her head at the mug. “Another sip,” she says, “for your throat.”
Meekly, I obey, like a little kitten accepting some milk. And after another sip, I do feel calmer.
“They said I could come here,” I start again, “but if I couldn’t hold it together, then…then…”
The last word wobbles.
“They’d send you away,” Morgan finishes. “Somewhere where you’d have a roommate even crazier than me.”
I smile, even as another tear finds its way out of the corner of my eye.
“I don’t want to go,” I say, almost choking on the words.
“Hey, hey.” Morgan covers my hand with hers. “It’s all going to be okay, okay?”
I nod, not believing her, and too late realize that her eyes have followed her hands.
To my arms. The burns.
Because I’m still wearing a T-shirt.
I breathe out, hard.
“So that’s…” Morgan says. She doesn’t have to finish the sentence.
“Yes. It was bad,” I say, not meeting her eyes. “Skin grafts.”
It feels strangely good to show her the scars—well, the burn marks, anyway. The other part, the scar on my chest?—
I don’t think I ever want anyone to see. Ever, ever, ever.
“Do they hurt?” Morgan asks, interrupting my thoughts.
“No.”
“You know, there are treatments that?— ”
“I’ve tried everything.” I cut her off.
Morgan opens her mouth, seems to reconsider, and closes it. Thank God. I don’t want to hear another girl going on about her miracle essential oils or K-Beauty scar cream. I’ve spent enough time in those internet rabbit holes, and I’m not up for more disappointment.
“I’m gonna have to go home,” I mutter, more to myself than to her. A half-formed list of chores floats into my mind: packing, train tickets, calling Mom and Dad…
Oh, God.
“No, you’re not,” Morgan says sharply. “You’re not going home. You’re going to drink your tea, first of all. Now. ”
I’m too shocked at the force of her command to disobey, and gulp another mouthful.
It really is good—not tastewise, exactly, but in how calm it’s making me feel.
It’s efficient, almost chemically efficient, and too late, I remember what I saw from Morgan and Kingston my first day here, and I wonder if there’s some sort of CBD infusion or mushroom microdose or God knows what else lacing this tea.
Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. If I’m going to have another mental breakdown, I might as well be tripping balls while I do it.
“I’m not going home,” I repeat, testing out the words on my tongue.
“Correct.” She nods her head resolutely. “You’re gonna…let’s see. Take a day to recuperate, lay low, whatever you want. Tomorrow, too. Then you’re gonna get up, you’re gonna drink some strong coffee, and you’re gonna go to class, and?—”
Maybe it’s the tea, or maybe it’s just that my body is out of adrenaline and can’t pump out a stress response anymore, but I suddenly feel—not good , not even better , but not bad either.
Like maybe I almost have a friend. Someone taking care of me. Someone who’s cool and doesn’t seem bothered by the fact that I’m officially psycho.
Which…in and of itself is kind of a red flag.
Right?
I stare at Morgan until, finally, she notices, and does a quick double take.
“What?” She paws at her face. “Do I have something on me?”
“You’re acting so… normal ,” I say. It’s all I can think to say.
She cocks her head back my way. “And?”
And your roommate is the campus lunatic , I think. “You actually feel safe having me for a…roommate?” I can’t bear to say the word friend. Can’t bear to jinx it.
Morgan laughs. “Shit, I feel safer. ” She considers. “Although…yeah, we don’t really have a room. The house matron said they’d try to find some vacant singles or something in the second- or third-year halls, but…”
She trails off, eyes fixed at something over my shoulder. I frown, but Morgan just nods, and does a little “turn around” gesture with her fingers.
So I do. And find myself facing Callahan.
“Gwenna,” he says simply.
My heart goes from 60 to 100 in a single second. “Yes? What?”
A thousand half-formed possibilities stream through my mind: they’re officially coming for me for trespassing. I owe Kai thousands of dollars for dresses I can’t afford. They’re having me thrown out of school against my?—
“Come with me,” Callahan says. “Kingston says you’re staying with us now.”