Writer's Note: Thank you so much for all your comments! I love reading your thoughts, so I really appreciate you taking the time to share them. : )
He slept with her in April.
The office door was ajar. Henry rapped his knuckles against the wood, three sharp taps, and then took hold of the brass doorknob and eased the door open with a whining creak. With one hand wrapped around the edge of the wood, the other rested to the doorknob, he leant into the gap.
"Professor Peterson, you wanted to see me?"
Professor Peterson looked up from the papers on his desk and peered at Henry over the round frames of his glasses. His gaze was distant, almost lost. Then a flash of recognition spread across his expression, he snatched off his glasses and waved Henry inside. "Yes, Henry, come in."
Henry stepped inside and pushed the door closed behind him with a judder and a click.
Professor Peterson gestured to the two chairs in front of his desk. "Take a seat."
Henry pulled back the chair on the left, stepped around it, and sank down onto the thin foam cushion that padded the seat. The hard surface beneath pressed through.
Professor Peterson leant forward in his chair and propped his elbows atop the avalanche of papers that sprawled across his desk, his hands folded and tucked beneath his chin. He eyed Henry for a long while, just long enough for the first inkling of awkwardness to prickle up Henry's arms, through his shoulders and into the nape of his neck, and then he announced, "Elizabeth Adams."
Henry's heartbeat quickened a fraction and a thin layer of moisture sprang to his armpits.
Had Professor Peterson heard what had happened? Had someone made an allegation of an inappropriate relationship? If they had, it would be somewhat hard to deny it, given that the last time he'd seen Elizabeth she'd been in his bedroom, naked, guiding his hand to her breast.
Henry swallowed, and tried to keep the stammer from his voice. "What about her?"
"You were right."
Henry frowned. "What do you mean?"
"About her. She can't cope." Professor Peterson gave a dismissive shake of the head. "She hasn't shown up to any of the lectures in the last four weeks, she hasn't submitted any papers, she hasn't been attending the seminars. So, unfortunately—" He let out a stream of a sigh; it sounded like defeat. "—I have no choice but to drop her from the course."
"What?" The word burst from Henry's mouth. He stared at Professor Peterson in disbelief. "You're not even going to let her sit the exam?"
Professor Peterson shrugged as though to say, What choice do I have? "I hear her other professors are planning on doing the same."
Henry stooped forward in his chair and tugged at his chin and bottom lip while his mind whirred at a frantic rate, as though Elizabeth's rapidly unraveling future had snagged on one of his mental cogs and flung his thoughts into a free-spin.
He looked up at Professor Peterson. "Look, she's been going through a tough time recently. She's not been herself."
Professor Peterson shook his head. "It's no excuse." Then his brow furrowed with a heavy frown, while a lilt of surprise lifted his tone. "I thought you'd be pleased that you were right about her."
It shamed Henry to know that a few months ago that probably would have been true.
"Just give her a chance," he said. "Let her sit the exam and hand in any papers that are due."
"What makes you think she'll show up, let alone pass?"
"If she doesn't, then what difference does it make if you drop her now or not?" The words thrust themselves out, his tone perhaps a touch too harsh for addressing a professor, even a professor as jovial as Peterson.
Professor Peterson arched one thick, grey eyebrow in response.
Henry's lips pursed. In the pause, it felt like he was waiting for a reprimand, like he had spoken out of turn with his father and was bracing himself for the clout. Then, when Peterson continued to eye him, more expectant than unamused, he said in a voice that was softer, though no less desperate, "Please…just give her a chance."
Professor Peterson rocked back in his chair, causing it to creak and strain beneath him, and he rested his elbows to the leather arms, his hands clasped in front of his chest. His gaze never left Henry, and with the way he looked at Henry, it felt like if he didn't already think something was going on between Henry and Elizabeth, he might have been starting to.
Then the pinch in the middle of his brow eased, and he gave a curt nod. "Fine."
"Really?" It was Henry's turn to be surprised.
Professor Peterson nodded again.
A rush of relief lifted through Henry's chest. "Thank you." He braced his hands against the wooden armrests, pushed himself up from the seat and strode towards the door.
"But, Henry…" Professor Peterson called after him.
Henry stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and he turned to look at the professor. At the wary note in Professor Peterson's tone, the lightness in his chest had ebbed.
"You can't be responsible for every student," Professor Peterson said. "And there's nothing you can do to help them if they don't want it for themselves."
Henry nodded—solemn, almost. "I know."
But Elizabeth wasn't every student. She wasn't even any student. And he did feel responsible.
oOoOo
Henry pounded his fist against the door.
Boom, boom, boom.
Nothing.
He pounded his fist against the door again.
Boom, boom, boom.
Nothing.
He flattened his palm to the wood, leant in, and called through, "Elizabeth?"
"Go away," Elizabeth shouted back.
He paused for a moment, and then slid the key that he'd managed to wangle off one of the hall monitors (after many wary looks and a great deal of persuasion) into the lock, turned it with a soft click, and eased the door open.
The room was shaded, the only light coming from a stray sunbeam that crept through the chink in the curtains. Elizabeth lay on the bed directly opposite the door, on her side so that she faced the chipped alabaster paint that peeled from the wall. The quilt was bundled around her, covering her from the shoulders down, leaving just her head, with hair so clumped and greasy that she couldn't have washed it in at least a week, exposed. The hood of her sweatshirt peeked out too, though wearing it must have left her ripe with sweat, what with the warm (and slightly funky) air that stagnated in the room.
Henry frowned at the array of empty popcorn bags and chocolate bar wrappers that littered the floor on her half of the room; he frowned at the used coffee mugs discarded on the bedside table, the dregs that they contained thick with some kind of blue-green growth; he frowned at the heaps of laundry that clustered like a makeshift draught blocker around the base of her bed and that probably made a significant contribution to the fusty scent.
Then he frowned at her.
"Get up."
She lifted her head, gave him half a sideways glance, and then let her head slump back down against the pillow. "No."
His frown deepened and he nudged the end of her bed with his foot. "Get up."
She groaned, and rolled onto her back. "Why?"
"Because you have four weeks until your exams and you need to study."
"I'm not taking the exams."
"Yes, you are. And you're going to pass."
She pressed the backs of her fists to her eyes, her elbows bent and level with her head. Her voice drawled. "Why do you care?"
A simmer of annoyance bubbled up inside him. His lips pursed. "I care because I…"
He stopped.
I care because I'm a normal human being capable of compassion. I care because you're my student and I want to see you succeed. I care because I care about you.
His expression softened, his lips tweaked at one side, and he gave a small shrug. "I care because I want you to prove me wrong."
Her fists fell away from her eyes, and she strained to lift her head just enough so that she could look at him. A light furrow marked her brow.
He perched at the corner of the mattress. He sat in silence for a moment, and then shook his head to himself, his gaze lost in the debris of litter that surrounded her bed as he spoke. "When Professor Peterson said he was allowing you to take the course, I had all these preconceptions of what you'd be like. I said you wouldn't be smart enough or sophisticated enough to contribute to the discussions. I said you wouldn't be able to cope with the demands of the course."
"Maybe you were right."
He turned to look at her. He let his gaze linger on her for a long moment.
"I wasn't," he said. "You're one of the smartest, strongest people I know."
Her shoulders gave a kind of shimmy as she stared up at the ceiling. "Then maybe you don't know me very well. Or maybe the other people you know really aren't that smart or strong either."
"Then show me." He twisted around to face her fully. He laid a tentative hand atop the quilt, somewhere in the vicinity of her ankles. "Do your best, and if you fail, you'll prove how little I know."
The frown crept back to her brow, much deeper than before. "You know, that might just be the worst argument I've ever heard. And that's including some of the crap that Dean comes out with. I mean, really, what you're saying is that if I fail—" She held out her hand to one side. "—I prove you wrong, and if I pass—" She held out the opposite hand to the opposite side. "—I prove you wrong, and either way—" She let her hands flump back down onto the quilt. "—you win."
"No. Either way you prove me wrong, so either way I lose, but if you pass and prove me wrong, then that has a far more favourable outcome for you."
She puzzled over the statement.
Seconds stretched into a minute.
Then she shot him a glance. "Don't you have your own studies to worry about?"
"Yes."
"So, can't you just leave me alone and worry about that instead?"
"No." He patted the quilt and then rose from the bed. "Now, come on."
She stared at him for a second longer, and then she rolled onto her side and curled up again, dragging the covers tight around her. "No."
He frowned at her. Then he grabbed the end of the quilt and yanked it off of her.
She squealed.
"Get up." He dropped the quilt in a heap on the floor.
She eased up to sitting and scowled at him. "What if I hadn't been wearing any pants?"
"I'm sure I would've gotten over it." He shrugged. "And if not, then knowing you're the kind of girl who goes to bed wearing nothing but a hoody would've told me a lot about you." He flicked his wrist and studied his watch. "You've got ten minutes to shower and get dressed, then we're going to the library. We can fit in a couple of hours' revision before your class at one."
She scooted off the edge of the bed, sending him another dark look, and then she pottered around her half of the room, collecting together some clothes, a towel and toiletries. She muttered, more to herself than to him, "Sure you don't want to give that in military time?"
"Nine minutes."
oOoOo
Half an hour later, they sat at Elizabeth's desk in the library, beneath the tall arched window. The spring sunlight shone through the glass and reflected off the smooth oak in hazy pools. Elizabeth's hair was still wet from the shower, and she'd tied it up in a high ponytail that continued to drip down the back of her sweater. Henry was pleased to see that the red marks that had wrapped around her throat had faded away now, almost as though they'd never been there at all, and when she pushed the ribbed cuffs of her sweater sleeves up to her elbows, she revealed that the bruises on her arms had disappeared too. It gave him hope that just as she healed physically, she might heal emotionally as well, though no doubt that would take longer.
When she caught him watching her, she sent him a sideways glance, along with a frown, more wary than annoyed. "What?"
"Nothing," he said, and he returned to the list in front of him.
He had planned to draw up a revision timetable, but the extensive list of classes she was taking that year left him more than a little baffled.
"I thought you were a math major," he said.
"I am."
"Then what's all this?" He flapped the sheet of paper at her.
"What's all what?" She didn't look at him, or at the list, but instead continued to take notes from the textbook that lay open on the desk. The papers that were due would be her first priority.
"It's like you wrote up a notecard for every single available class, pinned them all to a wall and picked them using a scattergun."
She shot him a look, unimpressed, held that look just long enough for it to needle into his skin, and then she shook her head to herself, setting the end of her ponytail whipping and dripping a scattered arc of droplets across the carpet behind her as she returned to her notes. "Well, I'm sorry if some of us want to broaden our minds."
He stared at her. Definitely a jibe at him.
Then a chuckle escaped him.
The barest hint of a smile tinged the corners of her lips, and this time, when she looked at him, a trace of her old spark lit her eyes.
oOoOo
"Want some?" Elizabeth held out the bag of salted popcorn.
"Thanks." Henry dipped his hand into the bag, grabbed a few pieces and then palmed them into his mouth. The salt tingled over his tongue.
They sat side by side on one of the benches outside the library, in the shade of the boxelder tree. Though the sun shone through the leaves, dappling the grass and dusty earth around them, the rays warm enough that it ought to have been pleasantly mild, the light breeze that ruffled through the leaves and crept over their skin carried a chill. Still, it was good to get a break from the musty air of the library. There was nothing quite like the scent of books, freshly printed or crisp with age, but add to that the aroma of at least a hundred bodies, all crammed into the reading room while they crammed for their finals, and the atmosphere became distinctly less appealing. It felt like he and Elizabeth had been studying nonstop for the past three weeks. Elizabeth had completed and handed in all of her term papers, and now split her time between her last few classes and a hectic schedule of revision. Henry joined her as much as he could, even sacrificing the time he ought to have been spending on his own studies to provide feedback on her essays and to quiz her on her courses, though he had to admit that with most of her classes he didn't have a clue what they were talking about.
He liked spending time with her. He liked having an excuse to talk to her. He especially liked how every time he saw her she seemed a little more like herself again, whether it be a smile, a teasing comment, a look that she gave him. He couldn't pinpoint it exactly, how she changed, just like he couldn't quite define how she had changed over Christmas break—he tried not to think about what had happened to her when she went to the Hamptons to bring about that shift—but she felt a little more solid, a little more present, a little more…Elizabeth…each day.
Henry poked the pieces of popcorn free from his molars using the tip of his tongue.
Elizabeth offered him the bag again, but he held up his hand and shook his head.
Rather than pulling the bag back towards herself and tossing another fistful of popcorn into her mouth, Elizabeth froze. Her gaze sailed beyond him, stuck on something in the distance.
"You okay?" Henry asked with a frown.
When she didn't reply, he twisted around.
Josh Carmichael was striding along the path on the opposite side of the lawn, his fingers digging into the hip of the tall, blonde girl—all leg and barely any skirt—who walked alongside him. The girl teetered and swayed slightly with each step, her gait thrown off by his touch.
Henry thought maybe Elizabeth was scared, maybe she feared Josh would see her and would come over and would make a scene—hurt her, even—and he was about to reassure her that she was safe, that he would go to any length to stop that from happening to her again.
But then she said, "Am I selfish?"
And his head whipped back around.
He studied her, his brow furrowed.
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't report him," she said. "He could hurt her—" She nodded towards the blonde. "—or any number of other girls. And although I know that—" Her eyebrows arched for emphasis, while her head bowed as though she were ashamed to admit what followed. "—part of me's just glad that he's moved on to someone else, that he's leaving me alone." She paused. Her gaze raked over every line of his expression. "Does that make me selfish?"
Henry thought for a moment.
"Well, it's certainly complicated, that's for sure, but I don't know if I would call it selfish."
"So you don't think it makes me a bad person?"
She winced in anticipation of his response.
His heart tugged at the guilt she still carried with her and at the thought that although she was returning to the old Elizabeth, the one he had met back in August, perhaps what had happened with Josh had chipped away at her confidence, at the way she saw herself, and perhaps that damage would never fully be undone.
He offered her a small smile; it felt more like a glum line. "I think I haven't been in your position. I think it's beyond anything I could possibly imagine. I also think that no matter what he's done or does, it's not your fault."
Elizabeth's gaze flitted back and forth over him for a long moment. It felt like she was assessing him, trying to figure out whether he was just saying that or if he truly meant it.
Then she nodded, and the corners of her eyes softened. "Thank you."
He gave her a flinch of a smile in response, though he wasn't sure he was worthy of her thanks, knowing that she might not have been in that position had he handled things differently.
He stood up. "Come on." He held out his hand for hers, ready to help her up, and he jerked his head towards the library. "I need to do some reading if I'm going to come up with another pop quiz for tomorrow."
"Actually…I was going to take tomorrow off."
He paused. Take tomorrow off? What did she mean, 'take tomorrow off'?
She curled her fingers over the edge of the seat and her nails dug into the wood. Her foot fidgeted, the white capped toes scuffing up a waft of dust.
He frowned. "But the exams are next week. You can't slack off now. It's the final push."
Her chin dipped and she shook her head, just enough to set the ends of her hair swaying where they lay against the straps of her pinafore. "My parents…it's the anniversary…"
She stilled and looked up at him.
Shit. He felt his eyes go wide.
He perched beside her on the bench and reached to lay his hand on her knee, before quickly diverting it to the seat instead. "Elizabeth…I'm sorry…"
She shook her head, dismissing the apology, dismissing the pity. "I'm going to drive up to Blacktop Mountain. It's where they got engaged." She gave him a weak smile, but it faded almost immediately. Then she shook her head again, her gaze fixed on the patch of worn-away grass in front of the bench. "It probably sounds silly, but when I'm there, it's like I can feel their presence."
"That doesn't sound silly at all."
She lifted her gaze to meet his. The wariness in her expression said she suspected he was just humouring her.
"If you want some company…?"
"No," she said. Then added quickly, "Thank you. But I'd rather be alone."
"Then how about a driver?"
She looked uncertain.
"We don't have to talk at all, if you don't want to. I'll just drive you there, you can stay as long as you like, and then I can drive you back again."
She studied him, her gaze flittering as though she were counting the flecks of green in his otherwise brown eyes, while her brow puckered into a light frown. It looked like she was wavering.
"Don't you have other things you need to do? Your studies?"
He shrugged. "I can bring some work with me."
"Are you sure? I don't want to be a hassle."
You will never be a hassle to me.
"Let me drive you."
She studied him for a moment longer, and then slid her hand along the bench and rested it atop his. She squeezed his fingers, only gently, and gave a nod, her gaze never leaving him. "Okay."
oOoOo
They set off at dawn.
Coral pink skies bled into orangey-gold, faded into cool and cloud-wisped blue. Coffee shops, intersections and bars gave way to leafy avenues, then to picket-fenced neighbourhoods, to scattered farm houses and isolated shacks, and finally to open highways and grassy fields that swept towards forever.
They drove in silence. Not even the sound of the stereo. Just the roar of the concrete beneath the tyres, the occasional bump as they hit a crack in the road, and the clang of the thermos as Henry nestled it back into the cupholder after taking a sip of lukewarm coffee. Elizabeth had toed off her hiking boots into the footwell as soon as they had left, and she sat with her knees hugged to her chest, her shoulder leant into the door as she watched out the side window. Henry kept his gaze on the road, though he glanced towards Elizabeth every few minutes or so, only to find her staring through her own reflection in the glass. He couldn't help but think of her parents, what kind of people they'd been, what had happened to them, what this day must have been like for her however many years ago and every day since, and his jacket pocket weighed a little heavier, burdened by its contents and the memories that object carried.
Three hours after leaving the outer limits of Charlottesville, the car crawled along the macadam road that wound up the side of the mountain, through the towering firs and pines, the loose gravel popping and churning beneath the tyres. A ranger station-cum-visitor centre was situated halfway up, and as the car pulled into the parking lot, Elizabeth slid her feet down from the seat and sat round. Henry eased the car to a stop in one of the bays opposite the log cabin, pulled up the handbrake with a creak, and then killed the engine. He watched Elizabeth as she stooped forward and tied her laces into a double knot.
"There's a trail that heads up to the peak," she said. "It takes a few hours to get to the top, and I'll probably spend some time up there before coming back down, so if you wanted to go somewhere else—"
"I'll be waiting right here."
She straightened up again and turned to look at him. "You sure? Because I don't mind…"
"I've got books to read, food in the cooler. I'll be fine." He gave her a small smile, hoping it would be enough to reassure her. Then he studied her, and as he did, that smile softened into concern. "Are you going to be okay?"
"Yes," she said with a smile so bright and quick and broad that it collapsed within an instant, like he'd just witnessed the burst and destruction of a supernova. "Well, no… But yes." She smiled again, no less forced, but at least a little more sustainable.
And he understood: Even when she wasn't okay, she had no choice but to be okay, so somehow she coped, and because she knew she would cope, there was no point in dwelling on the fact that nothing about the situation was okay at all.
When she returned to lacing up her boots, he climbed out of the car and scrunched over the gravel towards the trunk. The air was sweet and crisp, laced with the scent of pine and a distant smokey undertone. He popped the trunk and lifted out her backpack, while the sound of the passenger door clunking open and then slamming shut echoed up above the parking lot.
He handed the backpack to Elizabeth. "No feeding your sandwiches to the bears."
She wedged the bag between her lower legs and wrestled on a bright blue windbreaker. "Well, you only get black bears here, and they tend to avoid humans, so I don't think that'll be a problem."
"You underestimate the quality of my sandwiches."
"Oh really?" She grinned, and he was glad he could provide her with a moment of levity.
"Really. You'll be the most popular hiker on the mountain."
He watched as she slid the pin of the zipper into the box and then pulled the slider up to the base of her throat. He could still feel the softness of that skin beneath his fingertips. He still dreamt about nuzzling her neck (and the accompanying sex) more than he cared to admit, especially when all she needed at the moment was a friend.
Looking at her now, there was one thing missing.
He dipped his hand into his jacket pocket. His fingers closed around the metal, the gold warmed by his body heat from being held in there for so long. "I got you something."
Her gaze darted to his hand as it emerged from his pocket. "What? Henry, no…"
He held out his hand between them and opened his fingers, revealing the pendant necklace that she always wore, the one that Josh had broken the night he had attacked her, nestled in the centre of his palm. "I was planing on giving it to you for the exams, for good luck, but I thought you might like it now instead."
She gripped the clasp between forefinger and thumb and lifted up the necklace so that it hung in front of her, the gold pendant pivoting and throwing off glints of sunlight. She stared at it, mesmerised as it alternated between 'E' and 'Love, Mom and Dad xxx', and then she looked to him with a mix of surprise and uncertainty. "You fixed it?"
"Well, not exactly—"
"Henry…" She shook her head, slowly. "Please don't tell me you bought a new one. I don't want you spending any money on me, not after everything you've already done for me."
"No money changed hands, I promise." He took the necklace from her and motioned for her to turn around.
"Then how…?"
He undid the clasp, lifted the chain over her head, and then fastened it again after she had scooped her hair out of the way. "I spoke to a jeweller and he melted down the chain and used the gold from that to make this one. Even offered to do it for free."
Once the necklace was in place, he smoothed down the shoulders of her windbreaker and waited for her to turn to face him. "So it's the same necklace really, just stronger." He scanned her expression, and at the tears that had sprung to her eyes, making them gleam, he feared maybe he had done something wrong. "I hope that's okay."
"Henry…it's perfect." She gave him a watery smile. "Thank you."
She wrapped her arms around him. Her hands splayed across his shoulder blades, her fingertips clung to him, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck.
Henry froze for a long second before he returned the embrace.
He held her, but only gently, not wanting to crowd her or make her feel trapped, and as he did, her soft warmth and the powdery smell of her perfume, which mingled with the scent of her coconut shampoo, rolled over him in a cresting wave. Her breath puffed against his neck and wisps of her hair tickled his skin. Many great men had claimed that nothing in the world was perfect, but right then, he felt certain that she fitted perfectly against him.
When she loosened her hold and her hands slid down and around to his waist, he let go of her, reluctantly. Perhaps it was a little forward, but he tucked her hair back behind her ear, and he was rewarded with another watery smile.
"I'm sorry," she said as she dabbed at one eye and then the other with the cuff of her sweater where it peeked out from the end of her jacket sleeve. "I'm not usually a crying mess, I promise."
"You're not a mess," he said. "And I know today must be difficult for you."
She reached down and grabbed her backpack by one of its straps, and then pulled the straps up onto her shoulders and wriggled the bag into place.
Then she sighed, almost wistfully. "Well, at least this time I managed to keep my clothes on."
A flush of heat surged through his cheeks and all the way to the tips of his ears. His chin dipped with a nervous chuckle, while he found himself at a loss for anything to say.
And perhaps that's what she'd been counting on, the perfect distraction to manoeuvre the conversation away from the loss of her parents. It struck him that maybe that was why she so often resorted to deflection: it was a way to hold people at a distance and prevent them from asking the difficult questions, a way to avoid opening herself up and risk suffering a loss like that again.
"I'll see you later." She paced backwards away from him, each step scrunching down through the gravel. "If I'm not back by sundown, assume the bears have gotten me."
oOoOo
Henry glanced at his watch and then out of the clouded window of the ranger station again. His gaze lingered on the mud track that disappeared into the shade beneath the needling boughs of the pine trees. It felt like days, not hours, had passed since Elizabeth had hiked off down that track, and each minute that dragged by reminded him that bears weren't the only danger for a young woman walking alone on a mountainside.
He forced his attention back to the book that lay open on the table in front of him, the wooden planks of which were rough and worn with age. What book he was looking at, he couldn't say. The text swam across the page, a momentary distraction to stop him from checking his watch every five seconds.
He checked it every ten seconds instead.
"She'll be back, don't you worry." The ranger, a man in his mid to late fifties called Bob who wore his comb-over almost as proudly as his uniform and who had spotted Henry sitting in the car and had insisted that he wait inside, lowered himself onto the opposite bench once more. He held out something small, black and fluffy in the palm of his hand. "Now, this here is a black cone head egg-sucking leech. Good for your salmon, bass, trout, pike…"
Bob liked fly fishing. No doubt the offer of unlimited fresh coffee and a restroom had been just another type of lure, one designed to coax Henry out of the car so that Bob would have someone to talk to about his passion.
It was nearing five o'clock when a lone figure in a bright blue windbreaker trudged across the parking lot, each step exacting a penitent scrunch from the gravel. She clutched the straps of her backpack near their base. Her head was bowed, causing her honey blonde hair to fall in a veil on either side of her face, and her gaze was fixed on the patch of ground a pace or so ahead of her.
Henry thanked Bob for the coffee and the conversation, snatched up his book so quickly that the pages snapped shut, and hurried out of the log cabin and down the wooden steps.
Elizabeth slipped off her backpack, lifted the trunk lid and dropped the bag inside.
By the time Henry had made his way to the opposite side of the car and climbed into the driver's seat, Elizabeth had already curled up on the passenger seat with her boots kicked off into the footwell and her forehead rested to the glass once more. Her eyes were vacant, her presence wan, like she were made from the first rays of dawn.
He thought about asking her if she was okay, or reminding her that there was plenty of food and water in the cooler if she wanted some, but the silence that surrounded her was so absolute that it felt like to break it would be a sin, so he placed his book in the door pocket, retrieved the keys from his jacket, and started the engine.
The sun dipped lower and lower towards the horizon as they drove, and it had disappeared completely by the time they reached Charlottesville. While the silence on their outward journey had held such weight that he could feel it pressing up against him, the silence that filled the car now was so thick that it absorbed all other sound. At one point, he thought Elizabeth had fallen asleep, but on closer examination, her eyes were narrowly open, two vague slits, and she was staring far beyond the landscape outside the window. Seeing her like that made him glad that she'd agreed to let him drive her; it didn't seem safe for her to be driving herself.
Henry guided the car into one of the bays in the parking lot near Old Dorms, between a Chevy Camaro and a Buick Grand National, both pristine, their paintwork softly glinting in the fading evening light, unlike the scratched and rusted paint of his second, maybe third-hand runabout. He turned off the engine, clicked his seat belt free and then twisted to face Elizabeth. She was still staring into the distance, her chin propped to the back of her hand, and he wondered if she'd even noticed that they'd arrived.
They sat in silence for what felt like hours. She staring, he watching.
Then he asked, "Do you ever talk about them? About what happened?"
"Are you saying I need therapy? Because believe me, I've heard that one before."
He shrugged. "Everyone needs someone they can talk to."
Silence.
His voice softened. "You can always talk to me."
She didn't acknowledge him, just continued to stare out of the window.
Maybe he should have let her be: climbed out of the car and fetched her backpack from the trunk. He would walk her back to Hancock, wish her a good evening—or perhaps not, given it was the anniversary of her parents' deaths and a 'good' evening was all but impossible—and say he would see her at the library tomorrow.
But he didn't want her to shut down. He didn't want her to shut him out. He didn't want her to feel alone. Because he knew how 'alone' felt, how vast and empty the world could be, like you were trapped on a rudderless boat, drifting on an open sea, praying you'd find another raft, another soul, another person you could cling to this side of the horizon, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone, especially not her.
He opened his mouth, and then paused. He waited for the words to work their way to the tip of his tongue; it felt like he had to nudge and goad them out.
"When I was eleven, I lost my best friend, Tommy. We were born the same week, our mothers were friends, we were practically raised together, more like brothers. One weekend, he and some of the other boys were playing hockey on the pond, the ice broke, he went under and he…they…" His voice faltered. He swallowed thickly and then cleared his throat. "…he didn't come up."
Elizabeth had turned her head to look at him. Her gaze darted back and forth, tracing the lines of his expression—scrutinising, almost.
Under the heat of that stare, his gaze drifted away from her, towards the dashboard and the red needle of the speedometer where it rested over the zero.
"We'd fallen out the week before," he said, and he shook his head, "over something stupid. That's why I wasn't there when it happened. Instead, I was at home, sulking in my room, while the others tried to save him. I've always felt like maybe if I'd been there, maybe I could have done something, maybe he wouldn't have…" He trailed off when the word refused to come. The image of Tommy trapped beneath the ice, fighting to break through while his lips turned blue, screaming silent streams of bubbles until his body went limp, his pupils blew wide and he slowly sank to the bottom obscured his vision. He blinked it away again and returned his gaze to Elizabeth. "And I know that can't possibly compare to you losing your parents, but it's something I carry with me every day, and maybe the weight isn't the same, but I know what it feels like. I know that ache. I know how sometimes it feels like you're walking amongst all these people and they all feel so…distant…because they haven't lost anyone and so they don't see the world the same way you do. And I know what it feels like to not want to talk about it, because maybe then it isn't real. I know that if you don't talk about it, it feels like you're keeping all that anger, guilt, pain beneath the surface, where it's manageable, or at least tolerable. But the problem is…it's still there, it still bubbles up, it still hurts you."
He gave her a sorry smile.
"Talking about it doesn't make it go away," he said. "I don't think anything does. But when you talk, when someone listens, when you hear they've felt that way too…it can make you see that you're not alone. Because you're not alone, no matter how bad it feels."
At the edge of the parking lot, the last couple of street lights blinked into life.
Elizabeth continued to study him.
Time dragged on.
The roaring rise and fall of a car driving by on the road behind filled the air, while the silence between them stagnated.
He waited for her to tell him he didn't have a clue what he was talking about, for her to wrench open the door, get out of the car and stalk off.
But she didn't.
Her mouth hinged open.
Then stopped.
Her tongue was poised, frozen.
Then—
"I was fifteen." The words came out strangled as she swallowed around them. "They went out for milkshakes and they never came back."
Her chin dipped and she shook her head; her hair quivered, her pendant glinted. "My brother was in the car with them, but I'd stayed at home. Studying. I didn't say goodbye to them, I didn't tell them that I loved them." She stilled and looked up at him. "You know what the last thing I ever said to my mother was?"
Her gaze cut through him, as sharp as a blade of ice.
"'Close the door.'"
She let out a huff of breath and a bitter smile stained her lips.
"I think about that day a lot. I wonder how it might have been different." Her gaze sailed beyond him, over his shoulder and out the side window. "Sometimes I think it might have been better if we'd all gone together, you know? It certainly would have been easier."
Her head bowed again, and she swallowed. She stared down at the cuff of her sweater as she plucked and fumbled at the ribbed grey cotton. "Someone once told me that all things happen for a reason and I just can't see it yet, that I need to give it time, get a little perspective. But this…all this pain, all this effort…sometimes it just feels so…senseless."
She continued to pull and tease at the fabric, as though trying to rip a thread loose so that she could tug at it, maybe unravel the sleeve, just as the death of her parents might have seen her life unravel—might still see her life unravel.
Henry waited to see if she would say anything more, not wanting to interrupt her after he'd encouraged her to talk, but when she didn't speak and the seconds stretched beyond a minute and then towards two, he said, "I think some things just happen, without any reason. And the only meaning they have is that which you decide to take from them."
Her fingers stilled and she looked up at him. A light pinch marked the middle of her brow. "So it's up to me to decide how it defines me. Is that what you're saying?"
"I'm saying I'm glad you're here right now, even though it's painful for you to be without them, and I'm glad I had the opportunity to meet you. And if you want to believe God or something else took them for a reason, then you have to believe there's a reason why He spared you. You've got so much to offer." His lips flinched at one corner, a shrug of sorts. "And sometimes the best way we can honour those we've lost is to keep living for them, to not let the weight of their loss be a burden, but to be a motivation."
She leant her back against the hard plastic of the door panel and she studied him.
"With my necklace, you said about taking something broken and making it stronger… Is that an analogy for what you're trying to do with me? Take something broken and make it stronger?"
He shook his head. "It wasn't supposed to be. I just thought it was important to you."
"It is," she said. She paused, as though debating whether to say anything more. Then she added, "They gave it to me for my birthday, a couple of months before the crash."
She attempted a small smile, but it barely reached the corners of her lips, let alone her eyes.
He wondered if that's what she'd learnt to do: to smile through the pain so as not to make others feel uncomfortable, to hide behind a happy expression so maybe then she could kid herself and others into thinking it didn't hurt so much, to use a cheery, confident facade to cover the cracks so she could tell herself she wasn't broken.
Is that what you're trying to do with me? Take something broken and make it stronger?
"You're not broken," he said.
Her smile dimmed. Her gaze remained locked on his. When she spoke, her voice was sad and soft, "Just bruised…?"
Everything inside him ached. And it felt like that ache echoed out into the silence that followed, only for it to rebound and hit him again. Though the bruises had long since faded, he saw them once more: wrapped around her arms, her ribs, her throat. He would never hurt her, would never touch her like that, yet he had hurt her still. Perhaps he had hurt her worse.
His throat bobbed. His voice came thick and low. "I'm sorry I made you feel like you couldn't talk to me. I'm sorry I made you feel judged."
No.
He shook his head, and then met her eye again. "I'm sorry for judging you. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you needed help."
"So…all this…everything you're doing for me…this is just your atonement?"
"No," he said, adamant. He reached into the space between them and then withdrew his hand and rested it on the edge of his seat. His fingertips curled into the cushion, itching to touch her, to take her hand, to connect with her in any way. "I care about you, about what happens to you."
She scoured his expression.
Perhaps after everything that had happened with Josh, she found it difficult to trust in the truth of words alone. He could understand that. Part of him feared she wouldn't believe him; part of him feared what she would do once she found he was being sincere. Maybe she would deflect again and make a hasty retreat, push him back before he could get too close.
And what if she realised he cared for her as more than a friend? It could ruin everything, especially if she didn't feel the same way. Why would she feel the same way? Maybe he shouldn't have said anything at all.
Her gaze stilled. She looked him in the eye.
"Stay?"
The word tumbled into silence. It felt like time in the car had frozen.
He stared back at her. Her pupils were like inky pools he could fall into. Maybe he had imagined it, or maybe he had misheard. But the pleading look she gave him said that he hadn't.
"Wh—" He stammered, and then cleared his throat. "What do you mean?"
"Stay," she said. "With me."
That pleading look deepened.
A flush of heat burned through his cheeks, most likely turning his face scarlet, even in the dim light of the car.
"I…uh…I…" He fumbled for the words, any words.
Not only was it inappropriate, what with her being his student, but it would be bad for her, too: she was grieving, she was still hurting from Josh, she had her exams to focus on. But how was he supposed to say that without insulting her or leaving her feeling rejected, how was he supposed to say 'no' when in every other scenario his mind had conjured up his answer had always been 'yes'?
A thump echoed out across the parking lot, followed by the chug-chug-chug of a car engine starting and the red blaze of tail lights.
Still the words refused to come.
Elizabeth let her gaze drop from his, and she shook her head.
Then, when the silence between them had grown so thick that it bristled, she eased herself around in her seat, clutched the gleaming metal of the door handle, and popped open the door.
She faced away from him as she spoke, her hair a shivering veil between them. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable. I just…I really didn't want to be alone."
With that, she was gone.
He vaguely registered the clunk of the trunk opening, the slam of it shutting and the resultant vibrations that shook through the car, followed by the blur of her bright blue windbreaker fading into the distance in the rearview mirror as she strode towards her dorm.
He wished he hadn't seen the way she raised one sleeve-covered wrist to her eye as though to swipe away a fresh set of tears. He only wanted to do the right thing, what he thought was best for her, to support her rather than taking advantage. But maybe that was the problem: always assuming that he knew what was best.
She had long since disappeared by the time it hit him: She hadn't been talking about sex.
oOoOo
Henry raised one fist, hesitated as the niggling voice at the back of his mind reminded him that this probably wasn't such a great idea, and then scuffed his knuckles against the door.
"Elizabeth?" he called through softly.
He waited.
The fluorescent strip light that lined the ceiling of the corridor flickered and whined.
"Elizabeth?" He tried again. "Can we talk?"
At the end of the corridor, the stairwell door creaked open and the chatter of a couple of girls drifted through. The girls, both wearing white UVA orientation t-shirts and navy blue jogging pants, gave Henry a wary look and their conversation dwindled into silence as they passed.
Henry flashed them a taut smile and willed them to keep walking. Just keep walking. He really didn't need an audience for this.
Once they had disappeared into the dorm room at the far end of the hall, he returned to the door.
"Elizab—"
The door swung open.
Elizabeth stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, her lips fixed in an angry pout. She would have looked the picture of indignation if only it weren't for the way the whites of her eyes had spidered with red from crying and their blues had turned impossibly blue.
"What are you doing here?"
He gave a small shrug. "I told you: you're not alone."
Something in her expression softened, though it looked like she were clinging to her anger as though it were a life raft. Her fingers fidgeted where she'd tucked them beneath her elbows.
"When I said 'stay', I didn't mean I wanted you to—"
He shook his head. "I know."
"And you still want to come in?"
"I do."
She paused for a minute, visually assessing him once again, and then she stepped to the side and held the door open.
He entered, and she pushed the door to. The curtains were drawn, blocking out the light from the street lamps, though an amber glow still hazed around the edges. The rest of the room was in shadow. Unlike the last time he'd been there, there were no empty food packets littering the floor, moulding mugs collecting on the sides, or piles of clothes heaped around the bed—just a few used tissues. The air felt fresher too, though still misted with talcy wafts of perfume.
"Roommate?" he asked, and he pivoted to keep his gaze on her as she brushed past him and clambered into bed, beneath the rumpled quilt.
"Boyfriend's." She lay on her side and scooched over until her back pressed against the wall.
He watched her for a moment, and then motioned to the bed. "Can I?"
She nodded.
He toed off his shoes, slipped off his jacket and flannel and laid them atop the bed opposite, and then paused, giving her one last chance to change her mind. When she didn't, he settled next to her on the mattress. He propped one of the pillows beneath his shoulders as he lay on his back, his feet crossed at his ankles, the quilt forming a barrier between them. Elizabeth eased herself closer, tentatively, as though half expecting him to shove her away, and then she nestled against him, laying her cheek over his heart. Her hand rested against his stomach, and even through the cotton of his tee, her fingers felt like ice. So he pulled the edge of the quilt out from between them and tucked it around her, hoping to trap their body heat in.
Her fingers curled and uncurled against his stomach, like the way the stray cat his family had adopted when he was a child (the cat's choice, not theirs) used to knead people's laps.
"I'm not mad at you," she said.
He chuckled. "Then I'd hate to see you mad at me."
"Thank you for today. For driving, for my necklace, for putting up with me. I know I can be kind of a bitch."
"You're hurting," he said.
She continued with that same clawing, kneading motion. He was surprised he didn't find her touch and proximity more affecting.
Her hand stilled and she craned her neck to look up at him. "Does it ever get any easier?"
"Grief?"
She gave a nod timed with a heavy blink—Yes.
He thought for a long moment. Losing a childhood friend wasn't the same as losing a parent, even a friend as close as Tommy. That gut-wrenching ache did lessen with time, he supposed, but it always cropped up in different ways. Looking at colleges, graduating from high school, 'big' birthdays, first kisses, first drinks, first girlfriends: all these milestones tainted by the thought that Tommy would never get to experience them.
"It changes," he said.
Elizabeth continued to stare up at him, as though she were absorbing the words letter by letter.
Then she nodded again, and laid her head back down against his chest.
He brought his hand up to stroke her hair, and then stopped himself. Then he reminded himself that overthinking things with her—the point at which he started assuming—was usually where he went wrong, and so he went ahead and brushed his fingertips against the silky soft strands.
Her eyes slipped shut, and he froze. His pulse thumped in his ears.
"Is this okay?" he asked, worried that he'd overstepped.
"S'nice," she murmured, and she snuggled into him.
He paused while his mind readjusted to accommodate yet another side to Elizabeth: he'd always known that she was somewhat tactile, from her playful pushes to the way she would occasionally graze his arm, hand, fingers with her fingertips, but he'd never thought of her as the cuddling in bed type. Then again, he usually had other thoughts when it came to her and bed—thoughts he'd do better not to dwell on at that particular moment in time, unless he wanted her touch and proximity to leave him affected.
A second later, he started stroking her hair again.
He didn't know at what point the boundaries between them had become blurred. Was it when he had taken her back to his apartment the night Josh attacked her, was it when she had stripped in front of him, was it when he had invited her over for Thanksgiving, or was it like this from the very beginning, before he'd even recognised his feelings? He didn't even know how to define what it was between them now. Were they friends? Were they something more? Or was it just that she was grieving, that she needed comfort and that she happened to feel safe with him?
But those were questions for another time.
Tonight, she needed to know that she wasn't alone. Tonight, she needed him to hold her hand and help her through. Tonight, she needed to remember her parents—the good times, not the loss.
"Tell me about them," he said. "Not what happened to them, but what they were like."
She shook her head, mussing her hair. "I don't want to bore you."
"It won't bore me. I want to know."
"Really?" She sounded both hopeful and fearful. Her eyelids fluttered open, and she tensed against him as though bracing herself for rejection.
"Of course. Tell me, how did Elizabeth Adams come to be Elizabeth Adams?"
He felt her lips unfurl into a small smile. "You sound like such a dork."
"Says the girl who's currently wearing waterproof hiking pants in bed."
"Shut up." She swatted his chest, but only lightly, and her smile still lifted her tone.
"Now, stop deflecting—" He nudged his knee against hers beneath the covers. "—and tell me about them."
She drew in a deep breath, her chest billowing. Then she sighed it out and she began.
"My mom was Suzanne and my dad was Ben—he wanted sons…"
Elizabeth talked and talked and talked. She told him about her parents and her somewhat idyllic childhood, she told him about family vacations that her father somehow always turned into history lessons and about weekend hacks on the horse farm, she told him about summers spent hiking and kayaking and camping beneath the stars—apparently she was into fly fishing too.
He held her and stroked her hair as she spoke, and with each word, the warmth he felt towards her only grew. He could see now why she had said that money could be a burden. To her, money—inheritance—was just a reminder of what she had lost, and he had no doubt that she would have given up every last cent of her trust fund if only it would bring her parents back. Family was what mattered, after all.
As time wore on, her voice became drowsier and drowsier and she started dropping words. Eventually the mumbling petered to a stop mid-sentence and her body softened against him completely, as though every single muscle sighed and surrendered the last of its tension.
The gentle tug of sleep tried to reel him in too, but he didn't want to slip from that room. He didn't want to wake up in tomorrow. He didn't want the time to come when she no longer needed him and he had to let her go.