If he hears me, he ignores it, taking out his laptop so he can scroll through hockey highlights on TSN.
"Okay, so if you all can open Module 9…" Professor Whitman says. Once the module pops up on the screen at the front of the room, Elias laughs again.
"I know you said no unnecessary communication, but this really is necessary," he says. "You're going to want to pay close attention to this one, Saige. Take extra notes."
I roll my eyes, and then look up at the screen: 9.2Trauma Bonding.
"Now, the colloquial definition of trauma bonding you're used to hearing is likely incorrect," she says. "Like gaslighting, trauma bonding is one of those terms that have kind of been hijacked by pop culture to mean something else entirely. So, you and your friends might say you've trauma bonded, and when you say that, you probably mean that you've shared your traumatic life experiences with each other and bonded over them, but that isn't exactly what the term means—there's no dependency involved. Can anyone give me one of the proper definitions of trauma bonding?"
Elias's hand shoots up in the air. "I remember this one from last year," he whispers.
"Yes, you in the blue near the back."
"Trauma bonding is when someone forms a deep emotional attachment to their abuser," Elias says.
"That's correct," Professor Whitman says. "Trauma bonding typically happens between a victim and an abuser. We're going to dive into trauma bonding today. We'll discuss the psychology behind why it happens and what makes the cycle so difficult to break. Physical, emotional, and sexual abuse can all result in trauma bonding, especially if the abuser is loving or comforting afterward. Additionally, the release of stress hormones during an abusive situation can actually strengthen the victim's bond to their abuser."
My pulse starts racing. Suddenly, I feel like I'm under a fucking microscope and everyone is looking at me. Is this what's wrong with me? Is this what's been happening to me?
"Like I said, Saige," Elias whispers, "take extra notes. Trauma bonding is bad, by the way."
I try my best to appear calm, shaking my head and rolling my eyes at Elias like I always do, but as she continues with the lesson, it feels so familiar, I can barely breathe.
I went through a traumatic experience. And then Dax made it worse when he made me blow him in front of my stepbrother. I've tried not to think about that part, and when I do, I try to remind myself that I had a choice—that I've had a choice every time, and that makes me feel better.
But only a little.
"Victims often rely on the abuser for safety, which also complicates the relationship."
It's hot in here. I'm fucking sweating; I'm itchy. I reach into the collar of my sweatshirt and start clawing the shit out of myneck, but I don't want to take it off in case I'm breaking out in fucking hives.
"…Tactics such as love bombing…"
"…Too many overwhelming emotions and difficulty coping with the ongoing trauma or traumatic event may convince the victim they're really in love."
I did this. I convinced myself that Dax loved me—that he was my safe space, and he was taking care of me—to cope with everything that happened that night and everything that happened afterward.
I needed something to latch onto—something that felt good because I was dangerously close to breaking into a million irreparable pieces and ruining my goddamn life, and Dax felt good.
There's no way I can choke down that coffee now.
It's the longest class I've ever sat through, and I feel like I can barely breathe—like I'm having a panic attack—until it's finally over.
"Well, what do you think, Saige?" Elias asks as I pack up my things. "Was that an informative lesson for you?"
I blink back tears. There's no way in hell I'm going to let Elias see me cry. I think what's even worse than spending the last few weeks allowing myself to fall in love with Dax is that Elias, who probably knows him better than almost anyone, got to watch it happen.
He got to laugh about it.
I can't fuckingdeal with this.
I rush out of the room before Elias even has a chance to put his things away, dropping my manipulative-ass coffee in the garbage on my way out the door.
I need space. I need quiet. And the library is several blocks from here.
I end up ducking into one of the sports complexes and find myself in the middle of a West Pine Wolverines hockey practice.
Typically, they wouldn't use the rec rink, but the practice doesn't seem to be closed. Several students sit in the stands, some with their own skates and sticks, waiting for it to be over, while others work on their laptops.
