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Fresh air is what I need. I haven’t left my studio since returning in the early hours of yesterday morning. I haven’t turned on the light, opened the window, or answered the door until two hours ago when Charlotte camped outside my room and wouldn’t stop pounding.
Now that I’m out, I need to clear my head of Professor Segul’s scent, his touch, the sound of his voice.
Closing off and losing myself in croissants and chocolate spread had helped a little, but seeing him again so soon is a knife to the gut.
When I reach the bottom of the steps, hurried footsteps echo toward me.
“Phee!”
I turn to find Charlotte sprinting down the stairs without Axel, and something behind my ribcage twists. Why did she leave him to catch up with me when she’s so happy?
“There you are.” She presses a palm on her chest. “Will you stop avoiding me?”
My gaze drops to my loafers, and I cringe. “Sorry.”
Charlotte wraps an arm around my shoulders and marches me down the hallway and out of the building. “Don’t apologize. You’re just like my cat.”
“Um…” I turn to shoot her a frown. “Why?”
“She hides whenever she’s injured. It was okay when she was younger, because all she did was lick her wounds, but when she got old and started to hide, it was worrying.”
“What happened to her?” I ask.
“She used to go missing all the time but she’d either come back when she was hungry, or someone would find her in a tiny nook in the house or somewhere in the grounds. Then one day, she didn’t come back.”
“Did you ever find her?”
Charlotte dips her head. “There was a dead tree with a hollow in the base. That’s where she’d been hiding,” her voice is so low, I have to lean into her to make out the words. “She curled up there and died alone. If she was more open about her wounds, maybe we could have done something to save her.”
I blow out a long breath. “Sorry. For your cat, and for always hiding away to lick my wounds.”
Wrapping an arm around Charlotte’s back, I pull her into a half hug. I picture my younger self hiding in my bedroom, whenever Dad came home, because the sight of me always triggered a rant.
When he’d been drinking, I knew to pretend to be sleeping and stay perfectly still when he paced my room. Any movement meant hours of awkward conversation or insults.
We walk across the campus with the late morning sun on our backs. A warm breeze from the mainland brings the scent of summer meadows and freshly cut grass.
I inhale deeply to clear my head of the professor.
“Why do people pull away like that?” she asks.
“I can’t speak for your cat, but I didn’t come from a loving family like yours. It was always easier if I avoided my dad.”
Her features fall, and I can tell I’ve said too much.
“He was always at work anyway,” I add. “And he’s more of a shouter than a hitter.”
The way her lips tighten tells me she disapproves of even the shouting. “But why did he want you home on the weekends if he never had time for you?”
“He probably wanted me home alone where he could control me so I wouldn’t have too much fun at uni.”
Charlotte shakes her head. “Ugh. I’d go mad with a dad like that, as well as all that silence.”
I raise my shoulder. “It’s not like I’ve experienced anything different.”
She steers me into her studio, which is more homey than mine and always tidy. She’s painted the walls an elegant shade of apple white and mounted oak-framed photos of her extended family.
The bed and all the furniture is either made of the same warm-looking wood or a shade of gray that borders on pink. Coming here is like stepping into an extension of a family home.
