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ction. Usually I pretended not to notice. But not then. I watched her like a challenge.
Until her boyfriend looked up, nodded my way, and made a comment that caused their entire table to erupt in laughter.
Not long after, I packed it up.
There were few things I hated more than seeing them together, and I knew the only direction it could go from there was one none of us wanted. For whatever reason—but most likely because if you imagine the worst specimen of a man possible, he would be it—he left her there in the library alone.
Eve set out, heading west toward her dorm at 12:18 a.m. By 12:23 a.m. she was attacked from behind. Her attacker drug her twelve feet until he reached a dumpster. He threw her to the ground, pinned her down, and held a knife to her throat.
She fought like hell. Meanwhile, he had trouble with the buttons on her jeans and, frustrated, he stabbed her three times. Twice in the abdomen. Eve would have bled out had she not army-crawled twenty-two feet to the courtyard before passing out. By the time she was discovered at 2:27 a.m. she’d lost three-fourths of the blood in her body.
I wasn’t sure if I should go and see her in the hospital. I only knew that I couldn’t not go. When I arrived, her round face was the only thing visible through the sliver of glass on her door. She looked pale and tired. Like the light had gone out in her eyes. Nothing like the girl who had challenged me, holding part of my novel behind her back just a few nights before. Her parents were with her, and I could see her father pacing the floor. The boyfriend was there too.
My feet suddenly felt cemented to the floor. I could kill him for not staying. For putting her through this. For nearly getting her killed. I decided not to go in. I was only going to stay for a moment, there outside her door, just long enough to see that she was really okay. But then a nurse opened the door, and there I was, looking like a fool with my nose practically pressed to the glass.
Eve’s eyes met mine, and she smiled faintly. I couldn’t speak. I just stood there with a bouquet of flowers in my hand, the most expensive I could find even though I couldn’t afford them. Back then, I had no idea flowers could even cost that much. But I didn’t care. I’ve never been good with words where she is concerned. It was easier to say what I felt without them.
“You didn’t have to come.”
The air in the room shifted before it felt as though it had been sucked out altogether.
The nurse smiled, scooted out the door, and seemed to take any remaining oxygen with her. Eve’s father looked worried as he sized me up. He looked as though every plan he’d ever had for his daughter had just flown out the window. Her mother said, “Who’s this?”
“George,” Eve said. She glanced over at her father. “He’s my study buddy.”
“The one who usually walks her home,” the boyfriend said.
I balled my fists and dug my nails into my palms. I rehearsed the breathing techniques I’d read about. I counted to ten once, and then back down again. Anything to avoid punching him in the face.
I laid the flowers at Eve’s side and then shuffled backward toward the door. No one said anything after that. Not until her mother suggested that she and Eve’s father make a coffee run. Then it was just the three of us —and my rage—in the room.
“I’m sorry this happened,” I said to Eve.
“At least they caught the bastard,” the boyfriend mumbled.
“I can’t have children,” Eve said, looking from me to Chase or Chance or whatever his name was.
“That’s the saddest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“It’s okay,” she told me as she fisted the hospital blanket, eventually knotting it around her fingers until her knuckles turned white. “It’s good to get your back up against the wall from time to time.”
I didn’t know the full extent of what that meant back then, which was probably for the best. Time has its own way of breaking us in.
Chapter Seven
Liam Martin comes back the next day and the next day and the next. We don’t get much work done. Not at first. For the most part, he sits on the couch and stares at his phone while I sit at my desk, pretending to type something worth reading. What I’m actually doing is expanding upon my knowledge, continuing to learn everything I can about the man sitting across from me. He dresses funny, that much I can see. In his custom tweed suits and shiny shoes, his nice hair and stoic demeanor, he has the air of old money.
With the power of Google, I quickly become a keyboard warrior, moving onto other things that aren’t as obvious. So far, I’ve learned about the other novels he’s worked on, and the other authors he’s worked with. Even if he only offered up a minimal contribution, he’s good. No one is denying that.
Once I’ve ingested the easy stuff, I move on. Currently, I’m learning about his education, the awards he won in junior high, his stint on the debate team, as well as his starting position on the rugby team. An all-American, upper middle-class childhood by all accounts. Classic and rather boring, sadly.
This routine, my endless searches, and his endless phone scrolling, it goes on for the better part of our first week together. A writer must obsess over all manner of things. Eventually though, he grows impatient. I’m impressed, I’ll admit. I don’t think I’d have been so cordial or as quiet given the same set of circumstances. But then, he’s too young to know. Life goes by stunningly quick.
One day as I’m scanning through the last novel he ghost wrote, he clears his throat. “At what point can I expect that you’ll show me what you’re working on?”
“I have yet to decide.”
“I see.” He makes a clucking sound with his tongue. “In that case, can I at least trouble you for a bit of advice?”
