It doesn’t take very long to find a promising profile that matches her credentials—Harrington University college student, dance team, current junior—and once I find her, I just scroll. She’s turned off her comments the same way I did, and I have a feeling I know why.
Besides that, there’s no evidence of what she’s been through. Her feed is what you’d expect—pictures of her and her friends. Pictures of her and her family. Aesthetic photos she found interesting. Snapshots of a normal college girl.
I have no idea if what I’m doing is right or wrong, if it will help or hurt. At this point, it might even be irrelevant, but the desire to message her is more than a whim. It’s an urge. A need. If I don’t message Andrea Wilson, I will forever regret it.
Chloe’s shocked face at the graduation flashes through my mind. She never did reach out to me, and maybe she never will, but I’m glad I said my piece. Taking a deep breath, I let my fingers fly across the keypad.
Hi, my name is Ivy Combs. I go to Stratus, but I heard about your case against Mason Bryce. I just wanted to tell you that I believe you, and that I know from experience. I’d like to talk to you more, if you’re open to it. My number’s below. Text or call me if you feel comfortable. I totally understand if you don’t.
I paste my number. I close out of the app. I stare up at the ceiling, my heart pounding in exaggerated, painful beats. There’s no turning back now, even though I hope this was all a big misunderstanding. I pray I’m alone in my experience.
But somehow, I don’t think I am.
I’m wokenby the smell of bacon filling the apartment. Rolling onto my back, I stretch out my limbs for a moment before my eyes snap open, the events of last night flooding my head. My stomach twists nervously as I glance at my phone, but instead of reaching for it, I stumble out of bed and pull on one of Wes’s massive sweatshirts.
When I enter the kitchen, he’s standing at the stove cooking eggs, wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, his feet bare. I lean against the doorframe and just…watch him. His hair, which has grown out quite a bit since graduation, is sticking up in all directions, and he’s humming to himself as he cooks, even bobbing his head a little. I smile softly, a wave of pure affection washing over me, drowning out the anxious buzz in my chest.
He flips an egg and glances in my direction, offering a broad smile when he notices me standing in the doorway. “Hey, baby, you’re awake! I made you breakfast.”
I move across the room to wrap my arms around him. “Thank you. It smells amazing.”
He kisses the top of my head, and I hug him tighter.
The morning is relaxed. Perfect. We lounge around in our sweats and eat leisurely at the kitchen island. We chat about my first day of class and Wes’s previous week of work, and when we’re done with breakfast, we break for showers and go straight into study mode. Wes buries his head in his books to prep for the MCAT, which he’ll take in about nine months, and I get a head start on my Typography homework, my laptop open on the counter. My next class isn’t until late this afternoon, so I don’t need to leave for a few more hours.
It’s around one when my phone rings. At first, I wonder if it’s Quinn, asking if I’m coming back to the apartment tonight. I reach for it, unthinkingly, and freeze. An unknown number lights up the screen. My palms start to sweat, and I jump to my feet, needing to feel the solid ground beneath me. With shaky fingers, I press the phone to my ear. “H-hello?”
There’s a long pause. Then, “Hi. Um, sorry to bother you, but is this Ivy? This is, um, Andrea. Andrea Wilson. From Instagram. I…well, I got your message.”
My chest deflates. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I start to panic, feeling my mind getting pulled down beneath the dark surface of my past, and the words wash away.
But then I look across the room.
Wes is sitting on the couch, books and papers sprawled across the coffee table, deeply focused. Sensing my gaze, his head snaps up, and just like the first day we met, he reads me like a book. He drops the pencil in his hand and gets to his feet, concern clouding his eyes as he comes to stand beside me.
Is everything okay?he mouths.
He takes my hand, and the world rights itself. Eyes locked with his, I find the nerve to speak.
“Hi, Andrea,” I say into the phone, still looking at him. Understanding dawns across his face, but he doesn’t look surprised. If anything, those dark eyes shine with pride, and he lifts my hand to his lips, pressing a quick kiss across the palm.
I’m here for you,it says.I’m always here for you.
“Yes, this is Ivy. Thank you so much for calling me…”
EPILOGUE
EIGHT MONTHS LATER
When Andrea’slawyers reached out to me, I agreed to give a deposition that would establish a pattern of behavior by Mason and, hopefully, strengthen her case. They told me it could be written, but that it would be more impactful if spoken on video, so I agreed to that, too.
My waking nightmare happened thirty-five months ago.
I have no evidence. Only my testimony, the statement hovering at the back of my throat.
I have no witnesses. Only my experience, the memory seared into my brain like a brand.
I have no proof. Only my pain, the wound sliced straight through my soul. The scar that might never fully heal, no matter how much time passes.
