I pulled back. “I love you. I loved you at Myrtle Beach and that day I found you in Blackwell and at graduation when I turned you away. I’ve loved you ever since.”
“I know,” Coop said and kissed me again. “Come on.” He put me back on the ground. “Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. I just want to be free with you in this city. I used to dream about it.”
We walked to the bike, and I fit myself on the seat behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist. “I like your dreams better than mine.”
The engine roared, and we were off, streaking down the road, nothing but farmland and fiery-topped trees and blue sky ahead of us, a North Carolina beauty that filled me with a sense of home. I looked behind us. Blackwell Tower was still visible far off in the distance. But we were racing away, and it was growing smaller.
I was safe now. All alone with Coop, and he loved me. So I rested my cheek on his back and closed my eyes, allowing myself to remember the final puzzle piece, the last part of the story. Remember it so I could let it go.
I could almost step back to the night, the hour so late after running from Coop’s apartment. I was desperate to go home. Still reeling from my confession about my father, and Harvard, and Dr. Garvey; from the way Coop had exploded, yelling at me to Do something, goddammit, Jessica; he can’t get away with it. All I’d wanted was to stop the night from doing any more damage, to put it to rest.
Bishop Hall had been mercifully empty, everyone out partying for Sweetheart, or because it was Valentine’s Day. In the elevator I’d sunk into the corner, letting the walls hold me up, then stumbled out when the doors dinged open, down the hall, and into my suite. It was pitch-black. I tripped over something in the living room, cursing, then pushed open the door to my room and stumbled to my bed. If I was lucky, I wouldn’t wake up until a whole century had passed, and I could try my luck with a fresh set of people.
I’d reached for the comforter, then froze. There, in a small ray of moonlight, a surreal vision: torn blond hair, sticky and red, matted against white sheets.
For a second, I’d been dumbfounded. Then, fear made a crack in my heart. I tugged the curtain to let in more light.
And screamed.
Heather. In my bed, blood everywhere.
I staggered back, feeling my legs hit her empty bed. I dropped and stared, still clutching the folder from Student Affairs, the one announcing her victory. Unable to move, my mouth open in a wide O, as if I were silently screaming. I couldn’t will a single muscle to move, couldn’t process a thought. I sat, and looked, feeling very strangely cold, like my limbs were encased in blocks of ice.
Heather was dead.
As soon as I thought it, she blinked.
I jumped to my feet, another scream lodged in my throat. Her face turned, and she spotted me.
“Jess.” Her voice; oh god, her voice was a ruined thing, so raspy and choked I could barely hear it. I could only stare at the gashes across her body, leaking blood, lurid in the moonlight.
Tears sprang to my eyes.
“Help.”
I blinked.
“Please…Jess. Help me.”
Heather’s breath hitched, and—like a slap to the face—I came to.
“Oh god. Of course. I’m so sorry, Heather. I’m getting help, I’m going right now.”
I spun and dashed for the door, flinging it open, then raced out of the suite. I jammed the elevator button and waited, feeling frantic. I’d go find the administrator on the first floor, the one working the late-night shift. They’d have a phone. They’d call 911.
The elevator doors slid open and I ran inside, pressing the button for the lobby. The elevator started to sink.
I rested my head against the back of the elevator and closed my eyes, seeing my friend laid out bloody in my bed. It was the manifestation of all my darkest thoughts: Heather Shelby, the girl who won everything, who always got what I wanted, begging me for help. Her eyes pleading with me, each breath shallow and gurgling.
The floors ticked back on the elevator screen: seventeen, sixteen, fifteen.
Heather, the girl who’d won the fellowship. Who’d stolen my dream. On the edge of dying.
Fourteen, thirteen, twelve.
Everything I’d done to make my father proud, and to redeem him—none of it had ever been good enough.
I’d tried to work hard, do it the right way, but it didn’t matter. Either life was unfair, or I was staggeringly unremarkable. Those were the only two options. I couldn’t live with either.
Eleven, ten, nine.