Chapter 41
FORTY-ONE
SOPHOMORE YEAR OF COLLEGE
First semester starts with déjà vu.
Public Speaking.
It’s the same professor, the same building, the same classroom, but I’m not the same person.
I take the same desk at the back of the room, though, early as usual, and eye the one to my right with nostalgia.
What I wouldn’t give to see Wes barrel through that door, flustered and apologetic, the way he did the first day of class.
What I wouldn’t give to have him slip into the creaky seat beside me, his big body challenging the desk’s shoddy framework, and shoot me one of his signature grins.
Sighing, I pull out my phone, and my mouth breaks into a smile when I see the message on the screen.
Wes: Good luck with your first day of classes, baby! You’re gonna crush it. Love you so much.
Even if Wes isn’t here in person, he’s here in spirit, his energy contagious even through the phone. He’s a text, a call, a fifteen-minute drive away, and it’s more than I ever could have imagined walking terrified into this classroom six months ago.
I’m typing out a response when the door swings open, and Professor Markham enters the room. He sets his bag on the desk and fiddles with the computer, only noticing me once he glances up. Registering my face, he smiles. “Oh, Miss Combs. It’s good to see you again.”
“You, too, Professor Markham.”
“If you need anything, don’t hesitate to let me know,” his eyes flick toward Wes’s empty desk, “especially since I believe your partner-in-crime finally graduated.”
I crack a smile at that. “I won’t, thank you.”
More students start filtering in as the minutes tick down, and then Markham begins his introduction.
The first class is nearly the same as last year’s.
He goes over the basics, and we break off into pairs.
The idea is still nerve-wracking to me, but when I partner with the quiet girl occupying Wes’s old desk, I tell myself to relax.
She’s a freshman named Nikki, and she’s clearly freaked out by the prospect of public speaking, even more so when I tell her this is my second attempt at taking this class.
Still, we exchange numbers in case we ever need each other’s help, and I leave class a little bit relieved.
I am miles from where I was six months ago.
After Public Speaking, I attend my Typography class, and then I head to Wes’s apartment in the late afternoon.
He worked a twenty-four-hour shift this weekend, so I didn’t get a chance to see him, and I practically bounce up to the door, my excitement bubbling over.
It swings open before I have a chance to knock and then he’s pulling me into the world’s most incredible hug.
When I turn my face up for a kiss, my smile fades as I take in his unusually serious expression.
“What’s wrong?” I ask immediately.
He winces and ushers me inside, his big hand gentle on the small of my back. “I need to tell you something.”
My pulse speeds up as he guides me to the couch. “Okay. What is it?” He opens his mouth, but hesitates. “Wes, you’re kind of freaking me out.”
I wait for him to crack a joke or lighten the mood, but he doesn’t. It’s only once we’re seated that he says, “It’s about Mason.”
The words smack me in the face, and my heart slams into my ribcage.
“Oh,” I murmur. The last thing I want to do is discuss this particular topic, but I know Wes wouldn’t bring it up if it wasn’t important.
I take a moment to wrap my head around the direction of this conversation, and then I nod. “Okay.”
His frown deepens, and I read the apology swimming in his eyes.
I know this is the last thing he’d like to be talking about as well, but he takes my hands in his, squeezing them lightly.
“I’m not telling you this because I expect you to say or do anything, okay?
I’m only telling you this because you deserve to know. ”
“Okay,” I whisper, knowing he wouldn’t say anything that would intentionally gut me, but nervous, nonetheless.
He releases a steadying breath and continues, “I talked to a guy I used to go to high school with. He went to Harrington with Mason and, well, there’s a girl at their school who just filed a case with the board saying that he drugged her drink at a party, and then…”
“And then?” I breathe.
“Sexually assaulted her.”
It takes a moment for the words to sink in, and once they do, I can only stare at him in shock. Guilt claws up my throat and squeezes tight, cutting off my air supply. I suck in a sharp, painful breath and force out the next question. “Did she…I mean, is she pressing charges?”
His thumb brushes across my wrist. “I think so.”
I stare at Wes, but my eyes are unfocused, and I don’t really see him.
I just keep thinking about that poor girl—that poor girl who might have endured the same thing I did—and the weight of that truth threatens to crush me.
Threatens to drag me back down to that deep, dark place I finally managed to claw my way out of.
“Ivy,” Wes says, squeezing my hand, “I didn’t tell you this to make you feel guilty. I just thought you’d want to know. That you deserve to know in case—” He stops himself.
“In case what?” I press.
He shrugs a shoulder. “Just in case.”
My eyes widen in panic. My pulse flutters in my throat. “Are you saying you think I should do something?”
“Ivy, I’m not saying you should or shouldn’t do anything.” I bite the inside of my cheek, anxiety swirling in my chest. “I mean it, Ives. You don’t have to do anything, okay?”
Slowly, I nod. I inhale through my nose and exhale a long breath, trying to center myself. “Do you know her name? The girl?”
“Her name is Andrea. Andrea Wilson.”
Andrea Wilson.
I turn the name over in my head as though it might give me answers or provide some kind of insight into what exactly happened. Whether or not it was my fault…
After a few minutes of silent processing, Wes peers over at me with concern. “How are you feeling?”
I check in with my emotions, still waiting for the freak out to happen. For the memories to yank me into a downward spiral. For the panic to overtake me completely, leaving me grasping for my numbers as I gasp for a breath.
But it doesn’t happen. Yes, I feel upset. Sure, I feel guilty. But I’m not on the brink of a total meltdown the way I would have been months ago. “I’m okay,” I say slowly, feeling out the words. “But maybe I shouldn’t be?”
“I think that you’re allowed to feel however you feel.”
I nod, swallowing against my dry mouth. “Yeah, maybe.”
“Do you want to talk more about it?”
“No. No, I’m okay. I think I just need to process this. Honestly, I haven’t thought about him, like really thought about him, in a while.”
The crease between Wes’s brows deepens, and he releases a slow sigh. I can see him beating himself up, but I’d rather he told me than not. “I’m sorry, Ives. This is the last thing I wanted to bring up, especially after your first day back.”
I give him a wobbly smile, reaching out to cup his cheek. He’s got a layer of dark stubble coating his jaw, and I wonder if he skipped a shave today because he was stressed out about this conversation. “Wes, it’s not your fault. I’m glad you told me.”
He leans into my touch before turning his head and pressing a kiss against my wrist. “When’s your next therapy appointment?” he asks. “You might want to talk about it with Deborah?”
“It’s next Monday. And yeah. Maybe.”
He hesitates for a brief moment before pulling me against him and kissing the top of my head. His arms tighten around me. “I’m sorry.”
I grip his shirt between my fingers as I let him hold me, let him comfort me, let him love me. Because it makes everything better, doesn’t it? Even the dark things.
Being loved.
That night, I can’t fall asleep. Wes holds me, tucked into his side, but even as his breathing evens out, I stay wide awake. Carefully slipping out of his arms, I grab my phone off the nightstand and pull open social media.
I search for Andrea Wilson.
It doesn’t take very long to find a promising profile that matches her credentials—Harrington University college student, dance team, current junior—and once I find her, I just scroll. She’s turned off her comments the same way I did, and I have a feeling I know why.
Besides that, there’s no evidence of what she’s been through. Her feed is what you’d expect—pictures of her and her friends. Pictures of her and her family. Aesthetic photos she found interesting. Snapshots of a normal college girl.
I have no idea if what I’m doing is right or wrong, if it will help or hurt. At this point, it might even be irrelevant, but the desire to message her is more than a whim. It’s an urge. A need. If I don’t message Andrea Wilson, I will forever regret it.
Chloe’s shocked face at the graduation flashes through my mind. She never did reach out to me, and maybe she never will, but I’m glad I said my piece. Taking a deep breath, I let my fingers fly across the keypad.
Hi, my name is Ivy Combs. I go to Stratus, but I heard about your case against Mason Bryce.
I just wanted to tell you that I believe you, and that I know from experience.
I’d like to talk to you more, if you’re open to it.
My number’s below. Text or call me if you feel comfortable. I totally understand if you don’t.
I paste my number. I close out of the app. I stare up at the ceiling, my heart pounding in exaggerated, painful beats. There’s no turning back now, even though I hope this was all a big misunderstanding. I pray I’m alone in my experience.
But somehow, I don’t think I am.
I’m woken by the smell of bacon filling the apartment.
Rolling onto my back, I stretch out my limbs for a moment before my eyes snap open, the events of last night flooding my head.
My stomach twists nervously as I glance at my phone, but instead of reaching for it, I stumble out of bed and pull on one of Wes’s massive sweatshirts.
When I enter the kitchen, he’s standing at the stove cooking eggs, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, his feet bare.
I lean against the doorframe and just…watch him.
His hair, which has grown out quite a bit since graduation, is sticking up in all directions, and he’s humming to himself as he cooks, even bobbing his head a little.
I smile softly, a wave of pure affection washing over me, drowning out the anxious buzz in my chest.
He flips an egg and glances in my direction, offering a broad smile when he notices me standing in the doorway. “Hey, baby, you’re awake! I made you breakfast.”
I move across the room to wrap my arms around him. “Thank you. It smells amazing.”
He kisses the top of my head, and I hug him tighter.
The morning is relaxed. Perfect. We lounge around in our sweats and eat leisurely at the kitchen island.
We chat about my first day of class and Wes’s previous week of work, and when we’re done with breakfast, we break for showers and go straight into study mode.
Wes buries his head in his books to prep for the MCAT, which he’ll take in about nine months, and I get a head start on my Typography homework, my laptop open on the counter.
My next class isn’t until late this afternoon, so I don’t need to leave for a few more hours.
It’s around one when my phone rings. At first, I wonder if it’s Quinn, asking if I’m coming back to the apartment tonight.
I reach for it, unthinkingly, and freeze.
An unknown number lights up the screen. My palms start to sweat, and I jump to my feet, needing to feel the solid ground beneath me.
With shaky fingers, I press the phone to my ear. “H-hello?”
There’s a long pause. Then, “Hi. Um, sorry to bother you, but is this Ivy? This is, um, Andrea. Andrea Wilson. From Instagram. I…well, I got your message.”
My chest deflates. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I start to panic, feeling my mind getting pulled down beneath the dark surface of my past, and the words wash away.
But then I look across the room.
Wes is sitting on the couch, books and papers sprawled across the coffee table, deeply focused.
Sensing my gaze, his head snaps up, and just like the first day we met, he reads me like a book.
He drops the pencil in his hand and gets to his feet, concern clouding his eyes as he comes to stand beside me.
Is everything okay? he mouths.
He takes my hand, and the world rights itself. Eyes locked with his, I find the nerve to speak.
“Hi, Andrea,” I say into the phone, still looking at him. Understanding dawns across his face, but he doesn’t look surprised. If anything, those dark eyes shine with pride, and he lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a quick kiss across the palm.
I’m here for you, it says. I’m always here for you.
“Yes, this is Ivy. Thank you so much for calling me…”