Asta is the obvious answer. But last time I checked, she was more suspicious than certain.
So for Eric to be certain now means that she is, too. And that means either Dray, Landon, Oliver or Serena told her.
Not like it matters who told him.
“Look,” I start with a sigh, “I’m not supposed to know. So please… just keep it to yourself while I… figure this out.”
He takes another step closer. I can smell the overpowering stench of his cologne, cheap and a sting of the nostrils.
Certainly not the good stuff I gifted him.
“The rumours are already circulating,” he tells me. “But I won’t add to them. If I were in your position…” Eric trails off into a whooshing breath, and he shakes his head in blatant disbelief. “I would be reacting a lot worse than throwing attitude around. I can’t begin to understand what you’re going through, Olivia, but if you ever need someone to talk to…”
He sets the folded assignment down on the edge of the desk. His cheap watch should glisten under the gleams of the lights above, but it’s dusty and grimy, and uncared for. Probably passed through the generations.
I drag the assignment closer, then unfold it.
A-
I stare are the crimson letter for a moment.
My best grade this semester. But it’s only the second week, so there’s still time to rely on the masters to increase my grades in a final act of pity.
This one, I got through blackmail.
But I look at it as plainly as I would if it was a C.
Then I shove the crumpling paper into my backpack. The zip screeches as I tug it shut, then shimmy out of my chair.
“Thanks for the offer,” I say, and sling the strap over my shoulder. “See you around.”
That’s the best I can do. The best way I can accept his apology and push aside my anger towards him.
It’s too distracting.
It’s too draining.
I need my focus on Dray, on shaming him, and on dealing with the panic that flurries up inside of me like a blizzard any time I dare remember what I’ve done.
I throw it from my mind, the interview, the article, the panic, and I leave for the mess hall.
But I’m not feeling so hungry anymore.
On the way down, I stop off at the third-floor bathroom, one of those awful mixed gender bathrooms I loathe to my core, but it’s closest to me when my bladder starts to pang.
Bag strap slung over my shoulder, I keep a brisk pace down the corridor. The wainscotting softens the thuds of my ankle boots on the runner rug.
The constant winter of the mountains creeps into the old manor, through gaps in the windows, slivers in the ceilings, slits in the walls, wherever the chill can invade. Even with the radiators I pass, bubbles of blissful warmth, my bones start to go rigid against the chill even through the soft material of my cropped slacks.
My steps quicken.
I flick my wrist. The faint clink of my watch slinks into place. Through the mist of my cold breath, the hands tell me I’ve still got another hour before the mess hall shuts.
Hunger still evades me.
But what’s worse than the idea of forcing some food down my throat is the class I have at the end of that hour.
Brews and Theory.
