“Help me! Somebody!” My voice echoes, and I notice a few people across the street turn their attention toward us, but they move in slow motion—everything does. I can’t tell if they’re ignoring us, or coming to help, and soon Graham’s hand is cupping my mouth. He’s intoxicated and his fingers are messy, one of them at the part of my lips, so I open my mouth and grip what I can with my teeth, biting hard and fast. He rips his hand away, but flings his fist at me in an instant, his blow landing on my right cheek and sending my body to the ground on my knees.
“You bitch!” he yells, and I see him lunge at me from the corner of my eye. Before he reaches me, a pair of arms scoop under me and push me toward an open cab, and I notice one of Graham’s friends holding him, pushing him backward several steps as the door closes on me. My belongings are thrown in next to me, and the cab driver looks over the seat mouthing something. I can’t hear him—every noise a siren blaring in my ears, until finally I’m able to read his lips.
What’s your address?
I manage to give him my building, and as the car begins to roll into traffic and Graham’s figure fades from view, I start to cry harder, not stopping until the cab slows in front of my building and an angel is waiting for me on the curb.
Chapter 18
Emma
The light is dim, but it still feels too bright for my eyes. I hold my hand over my face, stretching my other arm and legs out, feeling the burn in my muscles and remembering the bruises on my skin. My fingers are cool over my eyes, and I leave them there until they warm.
I know where I am.
I’m glad I’m here.
I’m scared I’m here.
I wanted to be here, but never like this.
I pull my hand away and roll to the side. I felt Andrew leave the bed sometime early this morning. I thought about waking, but I didn’t know what to say to him. I didn’t want him to look at me—to see me like this. I feel weak and ashamed. And I feel alone.
Pulling in the heavy blue quilt to my body, I take in the scent on the material. It reminds me of young Andrew, and as I let my eyes look over the thinning fabric squares, I wonder to myself if he’s had this blanket since high school. I smile at the thought of it—imagining him bringing pieces of home here to college with him. Then I wonder if he got to bring these same things to Lake Crest, and my smile fades.
There’s a sound in the hallway, and I watch for movement under the door, wondering if Andrew’s out there, if he’ll come inside to check on me. Several minutes pass, though, so I finally leave the bed and shuffle slowly around his room to his dresser, pulling a few drawers open until I find one with a pair of sweatpants inside. I pull them on, rolling the top twice to keep them up on my waist. It feels good to dress in his things; it feels…safe. The clothes in my bag feel stiff—I don’t want them.
I pause with my hand on his doorknob, closing my eyes and breathing in slowly as I twist and open his door out to the hallway. I see the bathroom across from me and wince at the thought of what Andrew did for me last night, what he could have seen. I know he didn’t look though. As dazed as I was, I know because I watched him. I scoot across the hall to pee, then wash my hands and shut the light off behind me as I slide slowly down the rest of the hallway to the sound of the television blaring. There’s a head leaning on the back of the sofa, and I recognize his roommate quickly, the crunch of the cereal as he scoops it from the bowl in his lap making me smile.
“Hi,” I squeak. He jumps slightly, craning his neck to look at me, then moving fast to place his bowl onto the coffee table in front of him as his long legs maneuver around furniture into the kitchen.
“Emma, yeah. Hi…uh…Drew…he’s…he’s not back yet. Shit, uhm…you want breakfast?” he says, stumbling about the kitchen, opening cabinets and searching for something for me to eat. I’m not hungry. My stomach still feels sick.
“I’m okay. Thank you,” I say.
He shuts all of the doors again, then leans against the counter, looking at me, his eyes scanning around the room.
“Can I get you something? I don’t know, blanket maybe? Or…do you want to watch TV?” He rushes back into the living room and starts picking things up, turning the volume down on the program he was watching and glancing up at me every so often. It’s sweet.
“Really, I’m okay. I…I was looking for Andrew,” I say, my eyes falling, embarrassed about why I’m here, that I need someone—that I need him. I know I shouldn’t be, but I feel so helpless.