I wish I smoked. I wish I had a flask, or a Xanax, or some type of narcotic. But mostly I wish I had a reason not to stand here and let the rain turn me inside out.
My hands shake as I dig out my phone. No messages, no missed calls. I want to text Andie, but the idea of typing words is suddenly impossible. I shove the phone back in my pocket and keep going.
By the time I reach the dorm, my shoes squish with every step and my hair’s plastered to my skull. The world’s gone blurry at the edges, all the lights smeared by water and the mess in my head.
I take the stairs two at a time, dripping all the way up. At the landing, I stop and lean against the wall, forehead pressed to the cool cinderblock, letting the shivers rack my body. I count to twenty, then try again, but my lungs won’t work right. The thought of the contract makes me struggle to breathe. It’s a second skin, wrapped tight around my chest.
For a minute, I think about running away. Getting on a bus and disappearing. Starting over somewhere where nobody cares about my grades or my body or what I might be worth to a man who collects women like degrees.
But I’m not that brave, or that dumb. I’m just cold, and wet, and so, so tired.
The hall outside our room is quiet. There’s a paper cutout on the door—Andie’s idea, a pun about finals week and cats—and for a second, it’s so dumb and sweet that I want to scream.
I fish out my key, but I don’t open the door. Not yet. I rest my head against the wood and let the tears come, silent and bitter, mixing with the last of the rain on my cheeks.
Inside, I can hear the faint clatter of Andie’s typing, the muffled thump of her music through cheap earbuds.
I stay out in the hallway until my body goes numb and the crying’s stopped, or at least slowed to a manageable leak. Then I swipe at my eyes, take one breath, and open the door.
The first thingI see is the glow of Andie’s desk lamp, a little golden pool on her mountain of textbooks. She’s in full finals mode—sweatpants, blonde hair in a frizzed-out bun, under-eye masks pasted to her cheeks. The room smells like vanilla, highlighters, and the weird honey-and-patchouli lotion she always slathers on before bed.
She looks up when I come in, blinking at me like I’m a ghost, and then she’s out of her chair so fast the lamp almost topples.
“Jesus, Simone.” Her voice goes sharp. “Did you get mugged?”
I’m about to say “no,” but then I realize I don’t have a better answer.
She takes in my wet hair, the makeup smeared to my jaw, the bloodless way I’m gripping my own arms. Her face goes soft, then fierce.
“Sit,” she says, and pushes me gently onto the edge of my bed.
The comforter is instantly sodden under my weight. Water drips from my jeans, puddling at my ankles, and the damp chill radiates up my spine, turning my bones to glass. I can’t move. I can’t speak.
Andie hovers, not sure where to start. “Are you hurt? Where does it hurt?” She crouches in front of me, hands on my knees, searching for blood or bruises.
I shake my head. “I’m fine,” I manage. The words are brittle, barely audible.
Andie glances at the door, then back at me. “Should I call someone? Security? The RA?”
“No,” I say. “Please don’t.”
She hesitates, then sinks down on the bed beside me. Her hand finds mine, and the pressure of her fingers is the only thing keeping me here. I want to lean into her, let her hold me, but I’m too rigid, my whole body a locked-up firewall.
We sit for a while, just the sound of rain against the window and the far-off whine of someone’s playlist in the next room.
Andie breaks the silence, soft and slow. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
I shake my head again, but this time the motion cracks something loose. My lips start to tremble. I suck in a breath, but it catches halfway, a hiccup or a sob or both.
Andie gets up, grabs the blanket off her own bed, and drapes it over my shoulders. It smells like her, like Tide laundry pods andmaybe a little bit of weed. The weight of it is a relief. She sits next to me, thigh to thigh, and waits.
After a minute, the words tumble out.
“It’s Liam,” I say. “I saw him tonight.”
She lets that hang. “What did he do? Oh no.”
Andie’s my friend, so she knows that I’ve been seeing Liam. She’s also sensed that we’ve been in a bad place relationship-wise because I’ve been in a funk recently. But this is a new low. I can’t find the words. I keep seeing the contract, the neat lines and the blank for my signature, the way his blue eyes never wavered.
