Chapter 16
Greyson
It didn’t matter how many nights I’d closed down this bar; tonight felt different.
Maybe it was because I hadn’t been able to stop thinking about Blair since she walked out of here last week. Perhaps it was because I saw something shatter behind her eyes when she left, and I hadn’t done anything to stop it.
I stood behind the bar, pretending to restock bottles while my mind replayed how she’d looked at me, haunted, like the past had finally clawed its way back to the surface. I wanted to fix it. But I didn’t even know how.
The front door opened, and I glanced up automatically.
Madison walked in, her hand on her lower back, waddling slightly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Close enough,” I muttered, then gave her a tired smile. “Everything okay?”
She slid onto a barstool. “I saw Blair today. She told her parents everything.”
I froze. “Everything?”
She nodded. “They know about the assault..”
I set down the glass I was drying a little too hard. “Jesus.”
“I thought you should know. She didn’t say much, but I could tell it took everything in her to go through with it.”
“She shouldn’t have had to carry that alone for so long,” I said, my throat tight.
“She didn’t tell you because she didn’t want it to change how you saw her,” Madison said gently. “But you should know, it wasn’t about you.”
I nodded slowly, my mind already racing. I knew enough of the situation, with Madison telling me a little. After closing up for the night, I drove toward Madison’s place. I didn’t even remember putting the truck in gear.
When Blair answered the door, wrapped in a threadbare sweatshirt and leggings, hair piled in a messy bun, I had to force myself not to reach for her.
“Hey,” I said, voice low.
Her expression flickered. “Hey.”
“I heard what happened. With your parents.”
She stepped back, letting me in. “I didn’t plan to tell them. It just came out.”
“I’m glad it did.” I stepped close, needing her to know. “You didn’t deserve what happened, Blair.
Her eyes welled up. “I’ve spent so long pretending I was okay. Telling myself it didn’t matter anymore. But it does.”
“I need to tell you the real reason I left school,” she said, finally.
I didn’t say a word. I just turned my body toward her, giving her all of my attention, quiet and open.
She kept her eyes down. “It wasn’t just about my parents not understanding why I wanted to write. It wasn’t even about them kicking me out. That was part of it, sure. But it’s not what broke me.”
The silence between us thickened.
“It was my English professor,” she said softly. “Mr. Wells. He was one of those people everyone loved. Brilliant. Charismatic. Encouraging. Especially toward students like me; quiet, serious, trying hard to stand out.”
My brow furrowed, but I said nothing.
“One day he asked me to stop by after class to talk about a paper I’d written. I was flattered. I thought maybe he saw something in me. Maybe I was finally good enough to matter to someone in that world.”
I swallowed hard.
“When he asked me to come by his office. I didn’t think twice.”
Her face pales and her hands begin to shake.
“When I got there, he closed the door. He said he wanted to help me with my paper I submitted, and that it needed some work if I was to get a good grade. And then… he said he liked how I wrote about longing. Said he could tell I understood what it meant to want something I couldn’t have.”
My jaw tightened, but my hand slowly reached for hers.
She let me hold it.
“He put his hand on my knee. And then higher. I froze. I laughed, at first. That awkward, nervous laugh you do when you’re trying to convince yourself you misread the room. But I hadn’t.”
Her voice cracked. “He laid me down on his couch in the corner of his office. He pressed his body against mine. Whispered things I can’t even repeat. And the worst part is, I didn’t fight him. I just laid there, frozen.”
Tears welled in her eyes, but I stayed still, listening. I couldn’t believe she carried this for so long.
“He made me feel like I was something to consume. Something small. And afterward, he smiled like it was normal. Like I was lucky he picked me.”
She blinked at the floor, hollow. “I dropped his class the next day. I packed my things. I told my parents I was done and when they didn’t understand, when they didn’t want to understand, I left for good.”
A beat passed. Then another.
I gently tugged her closer. I wrapped my arms around her like I was trying to stitch all her broken pieces back together with my touch.
“I believe you,” I said into her hair.
“I know,” she whispered. “That’s why I’m telling you.”
And I let her cry for the girl she had been. For the voice that man tried to steal. For the voice that, finally, she was reclaiming.
“You matter,” I said. “And if you ever need to fall apart, you don’t have to do it alone anymore.”
She leaned into me, arms around my waist, forehead pressed to my chest. And I held her, silently promising I’d never let go.