I can’t help but smile at the sudden shyness in her tone, matched with hope gleaming in her blue eyes. I could stare into those eyes forever.
“If I want to hang out?” My brows raise. “That’s the only reason I’m here, putting myself through courses and dissertations for you.”
“My hero,” Meg touches a hand to her heart, her eyes filled with mirth. However, I could get used to the term of endearment. “Meet me by the stadium. We’ll grab dinner or something.”
“It’s a date,” I agree in an instant. Meg scoffs as if I’m joking, smiling despite herself. I stand too, taking her hand in mine. “No, seriously. It’s a date. No more of that friend-zoning shit, remember. Expect candles and flowers.”
“As long as you expect me to be exhausted and sweaty, because that’s exactly how I’ll be after running drills with those morons all afternoon.” She groans, remembering her day is going to continue like normal. Ironically, I’ll almost be less involved because I won’t need to message and check in on her constantly. As if that’ll stop me. Tucking her hair behind her ear, my thumb traces her jaw to tilt her head back to look up at me.
“Mmmm, and I thought I’d have to put in the work before I got you all exhausted and sweaty,” I bob my eyebrows. Meg smacks my chest again, yet she holds my gaze for another heartbeat before turning and walking down the path, leaving me alone in the quiet alcove. I watch her go, a sense of peace stirring in my chest. I drop back down onto the low ledge, fishing my phone from my pocket while finishing the last gulp of my coffee.
One breakfast down, no rapid heartbeat or claustrophobic episode in sight. I can totally do this student thing. I had no doubts in myself. Opening the student portal for the second time this morning, I note that the forum is streaming with new posts. The thread about Laura’s vigil is still pinned at the top, but just underneath, a photo is gaining a lot of attention.
I can’t even bite back my smile. The shot is a crystal-clear image of me dipping Meg back, her ponytail practically touching the pavement while I lean down to kiss the tip of her nose. Whoever snapped it had perfect timing, the moment caught mid-laugh, Meg’s eyes wide in mock outrage while my grin iscompletely unapologetic. I couldn’t have staged it better if I’d tried. The caption beneath it reads,WHO IS THIS GUY???
I snicker, scrolling through the comments that are piling up fast. Questions over my identity are being tossed back and forth, theories of Meg’s new boyfriend being a transfer student mixed with an equal measure of disgust about Meg being happy while Laura is still missing.
I report each one of those latter comments, hoping they’re taken down before Meg sees them. If they’re not, I’ll have to do some recon when I’m on my desktop. Meg has been through hell and back. She deserves every moment of happiness she can get without judgement being passed on her. It fucking sucks that Laura is missing, and I pray to whoever will listen that she’s not suffering, but it’s not Meg’s fault. The cops need to do their jobs and find her, and everyone else needs to mind their own damn business.
Within minutes, the comments are gone and the conversation has moved on. Meg’s name is still there, but it’s buried beneath a wave of curiosity. People are asking about me, where I came from, what program I’m in, whether I’m on a sports team or just some random dude who oozes confidence. If only they knew.
Saving the image, I immediately set it as my phone background. This is the first photo we’ve ever had together, and it’s perfect. Meg’s face is alight with delight, her features caught between exasperation and laughter as if she can’t decide whether to throttle me or kiss me. Her hands slay across my shoulders for stability, the warmth of their touch still lingering against my skin. Yeah, I’ve got it bad.
The clock in the corner of my phone reminds me that I do, in fact, have responsibilities now. Stepping out of the alcove and back onto the path, the campus is fully awake now. A few heads turn in my direction, some of them clearly recognizing me fromthe photo making its rounds of the phones clutched in their hands.
I flash them an easy grin and keep walking, leaving them to keep wondering about the who, where and why. After all, if Hollowbrook wants a new mystery to obsess over, as long as it’s taking the heat off Meg, I’m more than happy to provide one.
Chapter Twenty Nine
Walking into the studio is oddly comforting. The smell of paint thinner and canvas, the way the sun gleams in through huge windows. My skin prickles with warmth as I pass through the streams, all the way to my dark, lonely corner at the back of the room. I blame the sun for my sudden frown, the loss of heat and optimism in my dingy corner no longer having the same appeal. Today isn’t a day for disappearing, and as I clock the look Liz is giving me, I know she agrees.
Rounding the desk, I take my bags and dump them on the floor in the center of the room. More specifically, in the seat Reid would usually occupy. Students file inside, clutching coffees and sketchbooks while their quiet conversations layerover one another. Any other group would stall and question my new seating choice, but not these students. They don’t care for gossip, they care for their art.
That is, until Reid walks in. His vibe is different today, his entire aura on edge. There’s an irritated ruffle to his white hair, a carelessness to his usual paint-stained wardrobe. In fact, his t-shirt has a tear down one side and his jeans aren’t just ripped. They’re struggling to cling onto his legs. His gray gaze sweeps over the room, landing on me in his seat, and his marked sneakers scuff to a halt. I refuse to cower. Call it payback for all the sleepless nights.
I wait for a confrontation, but he simply stands there, not a sarcastic remark in sight. He must really be off his game. Without a word, Reid crosses the room with long, measured strides, grabbing a stool from the neighboring station. The screech of him dragging it across the floor catches everyone’s attention as he sets it beside me. I figure that’s the end of the show until a pair of strong arms close in, a chest pressed against my back and a set of artist’s hands gripping the stool I’m sitting on. I grapple to skid my bag across the desk as I’m dragged a few inches over.
“This is my spot,” Reid grumbles as he drops down, pulling off the strap of his satchel.
“I didn’t see your name on it,” I raise a brow. Huffing lightly, Reid pulls his sketchbook free and drops it onto the desk with a light thud.
“It has the best light.” His finger waves through the stream of light I now notice slicing the desk in half, leaving my side in shadow. It’s still much brighter than the back of the room though. Opening my mouth to reply, our conversation is cut short as Liz approaches. She drops a stack of newspapers in front of me.
“For this session, I’ve found every newspaper article and headline I can about you. I’d like you to read through them all,” she smiles broadly whilst sliding the bundle across the wood. My stomach sinks, the small dose of positivity within me dying a sudden death.
“That literally sounds like hell,” I groan, dragging a hand over my face as I stare down at the thick stack. Reid chuckles under his breath. The bastard. Liz continues on, pushing a thick black marker into my hand.
“As you go through each article, you can redact everything you wish wasn’t printed. Every label they’ve given you, all of the recognition they’ve given him. Cut it all out until only a version of the story you want printed is left behind.” Her eyes soften just slightly. “It’s your story, Meg. Fix it.”
Dropping that small bomb in my brain, Liz retreats just before it implodes. A sharp breath is sucked through my parted lips as I stare at the stack, no longer daunted. This isn’t about reliving my trauma, it’s not about forcing me to face my shame. Liz is giving me my story back. With just the smallest gesture, she’s given me the tools to take my life back.
At the front of the class, Liz addresses everyone else present, giving them a separate task for the day. I, however, uncap the marker and test its weight in my hand. Steadying myself, I read the first headline.
MISSING LACROSSE STAR FOUND ALIVE.
The letters blur for a second before I blink them back into focus. Underneath the heading, there’s a photo of me. Well, apparently it’s me. The girl in the image is huddled in a foil blanket, sitting in the back of an ambulance. Her cheeks are hollow, her arms bloodied and bruised. I didn’t realize how much weight I’d lost, and it’s not like I looked in a mirror until long after Thiago’s chocolate care packages had done their job. It’s no wonder my muscle mass isn’t snapping back as quickly asI’d expected, but there’s no right way to recover. Only the way that is right for me.
Lifting the marker, I make my first strike.Traumatized survivor.Gone. Then another.Kidnapping victim. Gone. Each stroke becomes easier than the last, my pulse a steady beat in my ears. Thick black ink spreads across the articles like oil soaking through fabric, fuzzing slightly at the edges. I hover over the next term, a bitter laugh sounding just beneath my own breath.Harrison’s prey. I scribble that one out harder than necessary, the ink tearing through the page and blurring into the pages underneath.
