Chapter 18
18
Sonny
T he hallways of Devlin are completely silent as I lie in bed, wide awake. It’s a striking contrast from the constant commotion that has been on the rest of campus these past few days with Beatrix and Ava as everyone scrambled around to finish any last-minute errands. True to their word, they stopped by daily this week to invite me on random tasks that end up turning into detailed history lessons from Ava or introductions to their myriads of friends and family around campus.
Ravenshurst University is saturated with an interesting past, somehow maintaining its own little ecosystem of ‘gifted’ families while also contributing to huge worldwide events. A lot can be said about the students who are accepted here, but no one can claim they don’t care about human rights and the distinction between right and wrong, that’s for sure. They’ve participated in and organized rallies or strikes for every major civil rights event history has had.
Either that, or they’re using their gifts to control them.
I’m still confused by their casual talk about bloodlines, and I’m afraid to ask for more information without intimate knowledge of the basics. At least, for my own bloodline.
I suppose that by now, everyone is fast asleep in their rooms to prepare for the first day of classes tomorrow. I can’t seem to get my mind to settle long enough to even rest my eyes, which is only making my nerves skyrocket with each passing minute.
I wonder where Poppy is right now and what she may be doing. If she were here, I’m sure she’d be sleeping like a rock without a care in the world for what tomorrow and these next few months might bring, or the risks we’re taking. After so many years of spending each day together, I’m struggling to adjust to this new reality where we can only talk for a few moments here and there between our busy schedules. I want to tell her about the gifts and see what she thinks. We have so much to figure out with this new complication. She’s my strength—my other half. Without her here, I feel like I’m floundering.
After a few long minutes of debate, I slip my phone out from beneath my pillow and click on her contact. It might be too late to call now, but Poppy has always been a night person. She could still be up. Even if she’s busy sleeping or meditating or whatever she does all day now, at least she’ll see my call and know I was trying to reach out.
It rings three times before her familiar voice answers.
“Is everything okay?” she asks on the other line, her tone thick with worry.
“Yeah, I just couldn’t sleep.”
She sighs into the speaker. “Neither could I.” There’s a shuffle on her end before a door slides open, then closes. “Classes start tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I don’t feel prepared at all. I’m so nervous, Poppy.”
“Everything will be okay. We did the right thing.”
“Are you sure? What were we even thinking?” I breathe out a humorless giggle.
“That we were both stuck in situations that weren’t serving us, so we grabbed fate by the tits and made our own destiny.”
This time, my laugh is genuine. “I miss your poetic way with words.”
But Poppy’s voice is serious when she says, “I miss you too, Sonny. Like crazy.”
“Will you still come home for Thanksgiving?” I have no idea what the rules are around her situation. Can she come and go as freely as she pleases, or is she stuck with that group until she’s ready to fully part ways? Even in the days leading up to our departures, she wouldn’t give me a straight answer.
“I’m not sure. I hope so. Hey, can you go outside or is there like . . . a curfew?” I smile at the teasing in her tone.
She’s never seen college or Ravenshurst as anything other than a punishment—a prison her parents tried like hell to force her into. If only she could see how amazing it is here without the weight of their expectations.
“I can probably go out. Why?”
“Just do it.”
“Fine. One sec.” I whip my covers off me and rush through my dorm, slipping into a pair of slippers and a hoodie on my way out. Poppy is silent as I quietly open and close my front door, opting for the stairs instead of risking anyone catching me from the elevator pinging.
“Don’t run too fast, Forrest. You might sprain an ankle before the big day,” Poppy teases as she listens to my labored breaths, and I flip off my phone.
“Shut the fuck up,” I huff out breathlessly.
Finally, I break through the front doors and sneak along the front of the building until I reach a bench that sits just outside of the light from the lamp posts.
“I’m here,” I practically gasp, a mix of adrenaline and exhaustion weighing heavy on my chest.
“Now, look up at the moon.”
I obey, immediately finding it in its crescent state. “It’s hardly there, but okay . . . ”
“No matter how far apart we are, we can always come outside and look at the same moon.”
“Did you just . . . try to quote ‘Dear John’ to me?”
Poppy’s laugh fills my ear, encouraging another bout of giggles to burst out of me. “Something like that.”
“I love you,” I finally say when the moment dies down. “I couldn’t take on this world with anyone else, Poppy. Please stay safe.”
“I am. Don’t go wandering off into the woods or blacking out drunk,” she replies in jest, but I can hear the truth behind her words.
Why she would think my situation is comparable to hers is beyond me.
“Hey, there’s something I need to tell you—” I begin to say as a loud thud sounds off in the background of Poppy’s end, and then she interrupts me.
“You should get some rest and I have an early day tomorrow. Text me whenever you have a free minute to let me know how your classes are. I want to know everything.”
“Oh . . . yeah, for sure. So you can relay it to your mom?” I stumble out sarcastically.
“No, asshole. Because I care. I’ll talk to you later. I love you. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
I end the call, my eyes immediately drifting back to the moon. I imagine Poppy doing the same thing and realize she’s kind of right. It somehow makes the distance between us seem a lot smaller.
Damn her, and her corny movie quotes.
There’s a rustle in the grass behind my bench that has me practically jumping out of my skin to turn and see what it is. A tall man looms a little too closely, his dark eyes peering down at me from beneath a black hood.
“Curfew is ten on weekdays,” his low, even-timbre voice practically growls.
Standing, I slowly back away from him to put some distance between us. “I-I was just getting some fresh air.”
He pushes his hood back, revealing a mess of black hair. I watch with wide eyes as he plucks an AirPods bud out of his left ear and shoves it into the front pocket of his hoodie. He seems too old to be a student, yet I can’t imagine he could be a professor. Not with the tattoos snaking down his legs and peeking out from beneath his pushed up sleeves.
Maybe he’s a janitor.
Jerking his chin toward Devlin, he grimaces. “You’ve had enough. Head back to your dorm now.”
I don’t waste any time arguing. Instead, I back away from him even further, keeping my head turned and my eyes pinned to his until I reach the keypad beside the door and have to enter my passcode. The man doesn’t move from his spot, and I can’t decide if it’s creepier that he’s just standing there, still as a statue, or if it would be worse for him to continue jogging toward me.
Once I have my code entered and the lock clicks open, I chance one last look behind me to see what direction he heads off into. I would assume that, even if he isn’t a professor, there’s a good chance he lives in the faculty building beside mine. Why else would he be jogging on this side of campus in the middle of the night? But when I slide my gaze across the entire courtyard, I don’t see any trace of him. It’s as if in the few seconds I took my eyes off him, he’s completely disappeared.
I don’t waste any more time outside. Instead of the stairs, I take my chances of waking someone up with the elevator, and then sprint down the hallway toward my dorm. Sleep evades me for another couple of hours as I replay the odd interaction in my head over and over.
I somehow scheduled myself for Clinical Psychology first thing on Monday mornings. It’s with none other than the famed Dr. Whitlock. As a lower-level, more general class, it’s held in a large lecture to accommodate a bigger class size. I was positive I could slip into the back row and disappear, but by the time I get there with over ten minutes to spare, nearly every seat is taken. The only vacancies are a few in the front row, directly across from the empty lecture podium.
I think my conversation with Ava and Beatrix about the professor spooked me more than I’d like to admit, because the prospect of sitting this close to him has my palms sweating. As I take my seat and rummage through my backpack for a notebook and pen, I try to remind myself that this is a man who runs an entire department. A doctor . He shapes young minds each and every day. A highly esteemed university like Ravenshurst surely vets their staff and protects their students from serial killers or unhinged psychopaths.
Although as a psychology professional, he would be the most likely candidate to manipulate his way into a position of power so he could carry out his sadistic desires . . .
No. I can’t think like that.
The low rumble of students chatting and gathering their class materials ceases all at once. I lift my head from my backpack just in time to see that there’s now a tall figure standing at the podium—staring directly at me.
And because luck doesn’t seem to want anything to do with me, I recognize him immediately.
He’s the jogger from last night. The one who caught me outside after curfew. Today, he’s dressed in much more formal clothing that manages to cover all the tattoos I saw last night that made me assume the worst.
So, definitely not a janitor.
Once I pull my hands from my bag and set it on the floor, he finally speaks.
“Welcome to Clinical Psychology. I’m Doctor Whitlock,” he greets the room, his near-black eyes falling back onto me once more and my cheeks heat as I interpret his odd stare.
It’s one that bores deep, as if he knows exactly who I am. Not Poppy, but Sonny. All my secrets feel laid bare in front of him with that single, knowing look.
After a breath, I’m freed from his imprisoning gaze as he lifts it back to his audience and remains there. Did anyone else notice our silent exchange, or am I going absolutely insane?
“The class syllabus has been posted in our online portal for a week now. I’m going to trust that you’ve already reviewed the assignment calendar and taken note of our exam dates. If not, I’d suggest you do that right away. I won’t be wasting valuable lecture time reading it to you.”
Dropping my chin into my chest so he doesn’t see my shame, I realize I haven’t even logged into our online portal.
“Lectures will be led by me most days. My assistant, Hayes, will stick around to answer any questions you have and hand out your assignments.” Nodding toward a tall, blond guy sitting a few seats away in the front row who doesn’t appear old enough to even be in this class, he lifts his hand in a silent command for him to stand.
He does, lifting his arm in an awkward wave to the class before promptly falling back into his seat. Then, Dr. Whitlock hits a button, and the projector rumbles to life, reflecting his lecture notes on the whiteboard.
“If there aren’t any questions, we’ll dive right into chapter one.”