Chapter 10
JESSIE
It’s been three days since I closed my notebook, and I haven’t opened it.
All my memories about August, the things we did, the way he made me feel—it’s all in there. And I’m doing my best to ignore it.
But it pains me, sitting on my bedside table like it’s glaring at me. Was everything I wrote in it stupid? Because that’s how I feel now. Every morning I walk past it and cringe, and every night before I go to bed, I sigh, my eyes welling up with tears.
I don’t touch it. Because if I do, I’ll have to read it. And reading it again will bring up feelings inside that I cannot feel right now. I simply won’t survive.
Instead, I go to class. Not his class. I e-mailed the registrar about switching professors, and now I sit in the back of a different lecture and take notes on my laptop.
I eat meals I don’t taste. I study things I don’t absorb. I take cold showers that don’t even bother me and lie in bed at night, staring up at the ceiling, ignoring the toy beneath my pillow. It’s just another reminder of him. The man who taught me how to use it.
Who taught me so many things…
I’m such an idiot.
My phone has twelve unread messages from August. I know because I count them every few hours. It’s a terrible habit, but I can’t stop. You know, kind of like when you have an itch you know you should stop scratching. Or a bruise that you can’t stop pressing on.
The first messages were casual, just asking me where I was. Then he started asking if I was okay. Then he started sounding worried. And the most recent one from this morning is simple and goes straight to my chest:
Jessie, I need to see you.
And the worst part? I need to see him too. My body aches with desire, a physical ache that probably has a medical term he could explain to me. It’s what I’d imagine withdrawals are like.
I went from never having been touched to being touched by the most skilled hands in the United States—and probably the world. And now those hands are gone, and my body is feeling the loss.
Even now, I can’t stop thinking about her. Megan Ashwood. The girl in the photo.
She sat in the front row, just like me. She sat in August’s chair, just like me. Did she feel his hands, just like me? Feel his tongue? His lips? His…
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hands. “Don’t do this to yourself.”
The girls all know something’s wrong. Becca’s asked me five times. Dani has left snacks outside my door, and Lourdes knocked once and simply said, “I’m here when you’re ready to talk.”
But I’m not ready. And I don’t know if I ever will be.
But right now, it’s Friday night, and Becca has a fake ID. “Tequila is a good medicine,” she told me earlier. “Brain-numbing. So get up. Get dressed. We’re going to the bar.”
There was no question about it. And despite the fact that I just want to wrap myself up in blankets like a mummy and sleep for a thousand years, I gave in. I have to get off campus. Do something to distract myself from thinking about him.
August…
Gritty’s is loud, the lights are dim, and the whole place smells like stale beer and pretzels. I’m sipping a vodka soda that Becca ordered for me and trying to pretend I’m just a normal college girl having a normal Friday night.
Me? A broken girl whose heart has been sliced out of her chest by a man with surgical precision? No, of course not. I’m fine!
Becca’s going on about her sociology professor’s PowerPoint incompetence, and I’m just nodding randomly, stuck in a daze. This must be what purgatory is like.
“I’m gonna get us another round,” she says, shaking me from my stupor.
“I’m gonna use the bathroom,” I reply. We get up from the table and head in different directions.
How could I have done this? How could I have been so stupid? August played me, and he’s still playing me. He’s probably so practiced at all this. Can I even trust his texts? Does he even care about me at all?
My heart tells me yes. It’s screaming at me to answer him. To take him back. To let him explain himself.
But the evidence…
I’m a good student. I study hard. I pay attention. And when I think about that photo that Gerald showed me, my heart burns like it’s been stung by a wasp.
The bathroom is down a cramped hallway just past the pool tables and dart boards. I’m barely a step into it when I hear his voice.
Not August’s. Gerald’s.
I freeze, turn just slightly, and see him sitting in a high-top by the back wall, a glass of red wine in front of him. Yeah, of course it’s a glass of red wine at a college bar. He’s even wearing his try-hard tweed jacket with another guy dressed the same. They’re laughing to each other.
“Yeah, it barely took any effort,” Gerald laughs, swirling his wine. “She believed it all. See, that’s the thing about young girls like that. They’re so ready to believe they’ve been tricked because they already think they’re too na?ve to know any better!”
The other man’s laugh rasps out of his throat. “And what about the photo you showed her?”
Gerald waves his hand dismissively. “Just some grad student from a couple years back. She met with Holt once, all completely above-board.”
My stomach twists, and my legs tremble so hard I have to brace myself against the gross wall to keep from falling.
“But show that kind of thing to an eighteen-year-old girl and tell her there was a pattern, and she’ll fill in all the rest on her own!”
The whole world tilts on its axis. My head becomes a cloud of haze.
“And this girl’s name?”
“Megan Ashwood,” Gerald chuckles. “She doesn’t even exist, so that dumb broad can’t go stalk her social media.”
The other man drinks his drink while shaking his head with clear admiration. “And the point of this is…?”
“Holt gets his ass fired!” Gerald snaps. “Tenure won’t save him when they find out he’s been fucking a student in his office. His position should have been mine from the beginning. But he’s this bigtime surgeon who all the girls love—his jaw, his arms, that brooding arrogance…”
His voice trails off, and I just stare at him. Is this really happening? Even his friend is giving him an odd look.
As I stand there in the hallway, Gerald’s words ringing in my ears, something happens inside me. The sadness that’s been twisting inside me for three days rises and turns into something else completely.
Rage.
If I was a guy, I might storm over there and punch him square in the nose. God that would feel good. But I’m not a guy. In fact, I’m pretty good at controlling my anger.
No. I’ll get him. But it will be another way.
I turn around and stride back to the table just as Becca’s sitting down with two fresh drinks. “We’re leaving.”
“What? I just got us—”
“Becca,” I say firmly. “We’re leaving. Now.”
Something in my face stops her from protesting. She knows me well enough to see when I’m determined, so she simply grabs her jacket and follows me out.
Dean Clemens’ office has Saturday hours. I only know this because I checked before I even came to school here, back when I was going through my methodical process that I apply to everything: study schedules, grocery lists, anatomy diagrams…
I step into the office with my notebook.
The dean is a woman in her early fifties with reading glasses and the look of a person who has survived many years of academia and is jaded but still knows how to get the job done. She gestures to a chair in front of her desk.
“Miss…Monroe?” she asks. I nod anxiously. “What is it I can do for you?”
“I am here to file a complaint against Professor Gerald Belcher,” I say, clearing my throat. My heart is racing, but I am determined.
“A complaint?”
“Yes. Fabricating accusations, harassment, and conduct unbecoming of a member of the faculty.”
Her eyebrows raise, and she leans in, elbows on her desk, almost like she’s been waiting for someone to bring this to her for a long time.
“Go on.”
I’m on the edge of bursting as I lay it all out for her.
From Gerald approaching me on the quad and his insinuations to the harmless photograph that he reframed as evidence of August’s ‘pattern.’ I tell her about the conversation at the bar where he admitted it all—all because he wants August’s position.
I do not tell her about our private tutoring sessions.
“Interesting,” she replies, leaning back in her chair. “And do you have documentation?”
I open my notebook and show her the entries documenting my encounters with Belcher. The things he said, the way he looked at me. I’ve got it all, dated and underlined.
She reads it for a long time. I’m practically jumping out of my seat. Do something! Let’s go get this bastard!
But will it be enough? I should have recorded his conversation. I should have taken a picture of him at least. But I was too shocked by what I’d heard. I could barely even walk.
Finally, she looks up and hands me back my notebook.
“Miss Monroe, this is not enough evidence on its own for me to take action against Professor Belcher.” My heart sinks.
I open my mouth to protest, but she holds up a finger.
“However, you are not the first girl at this school to raise similar…concerns.”
My heart leaps. Yes! This is it!
“Therefore, I will be opening an investigation into Professor Belcher’s behavior.”
I let out a deep sigh. It’s like a massive weight has been lifted off my back. “Thank you, Dean. I—I can’t thank you enough.”
Her eyes twinkle as she nods back at me. Does she know about me and August?
I have no proof. But there’s something about the way she’s looking at me that makes me certain she does.
“Is there anything else?”
“No,” I say, closing my notebook and holding it to my chest. “That’s all. Thank you so much.”
I get up and walk out of her office and into the Saturday sunlight that seems brighter than ever before. I stand on the steps and breathe in the warm, crisp air.
It tastes different than it did three days ago. Everything feels suddenly sweeter. More intense. More alive.
I am more alive.
I take out my phone and stare at the unread texts from August. Why did I doubt him? Why did I ignore him?
“You’re such an idiot, Jessie.”
I hover my thumb over his name to call but catch myself. Then I type two words back:
I’m coming, Daddy. I’m coming.