But they occurred, occasionally. It had been long enough since the last one that I had forgotten how bad it hurt. I yank off Peter’s shirt, and my bloody clothes, and step into the shower, basking in the heat and trying to let the water wash away the pain and the fury over Belle’s attack.
And the fucked up crazy that is Peter’s hold over those frat brothers. Nothing makes enough sense to explain it—there shouldn’t be this kind of sway.
I’m beginning to think Peter and his merry band of psychos have more issues than I do. And that’s a terrifying thing to contemplate.
Someone bangs on the dorm room door. I twist the water off with a sigh. Vaguely, I’m curious as to who is coming to see me.
I pull on some underwear and my robe, twist my hair into a towel to keep it from dripping on me, and open the door.
Micah looks furious and terrified, and his eyes go very wide as they track over my face, taking in the busted lip, the swollen nose. I have a few scratches from where Belle got a good shot in with her nails. One eye is already discolored.
“Christ, Gwen, what the hell happened?”
I grimace, retreating into my room. Micah follows me, pulling the door shut as he does. Sits in my desk chair and stares, pointedly waiting for me to explain.
“Peter has a best friend. Tiny little blonde thing. She’s crazier than I am.”
His eyes widen. “His ex did this to you?”
“I don’t think she’s his ex. I think they’re really just friends. But, yeah. She’s pretty much in love with him. And she doesn’t like me much.”
He snorts. “Clearly.” I grin at him, and he sobers. “This isn’t good for you.”
“Micah,” I say softly. “Don’t.”
“I have to. It’s my job to worry about you.”
I shake my head. “It’s not. It’s your job to be my idiot little brother. And you do a kickass job at that. But it’s time to quit trying to take care of me.”
“This is what happens, when you take care of yourself,” he says dryly.
I wave a hand. “This was a fluke, and we both know it. Most men have crazy ex-girlfriends in their closet.”
“Peter apparently likes crazy.”
I laugh, and Micah sighs. I realize, abruptly, that I’ve missed this, my brother when he isn’t furious with me or fighting the expectations that were put on him so young. When he’s just Micah, lazy and funny and carelessly concerned.
“Watch a movie with me?” I ask, holding my breath.
His eyes narrow. “Do I get to pick?”
“Of course.”
He grins and settles onto my bed as I stand, rummaging through my dresser to find some clean PJs. While I get dressed in the bathroom, he pulls up a zombie movie on Netflix. I toss a bag of cookies at him and grab two Cokes before crawling onto my half of the narrow bed. I jostle him, and he elbows me, until I’m giggling and we’re both comfortable, cuddled together like puppies.
The last knot of tension unravels in my belly as I soak in the unique sense of safety I find only in Micah’s company.
The movie is starting.
“Do you think you like him because he’s crazy? Does it appeal to the part of you that has flirted with the edges of sanity?”
I side-eye him. “I didn’t flirt with it, Micah. I was full blown, batshit crazy. But to answer your question—no.” I hesitate. I haven’t said this out loud, not to anyone. Not even Grayson, although we flirted with it. “Peter looks like him,” I whisper. Micah stiffens next to me, suddenly, and then forces himself to relax. I can feel the tension, vibrating through him.
“Have you told him that?”
“I haven’t told him everything.”
“But you don’t believe he is the Boy.” He makes it a statement, and I shake my head vigorously.
“No. Because Peter is real. I’m not slipping, Micah. It’s not that odd, that I would meet someone who resembles the Boy. I mean, green eyes, freckles, and red hair. It’s not an unheard of combination.”
Micah pauses the movie in the middle of the opening sequence, apes screaming furiously in their cages.
“You’ll tell me if that changes, right, Gwen? If you can’t separate delusions from reality.”
He’s trying very hard to keep the worry from his voice. I nod once. “Promise.”
Relief makes his body sag, and he reaches over, stealing the cookies as we watch the apocalypse.
The next few days are strange. After Orchid returns to the room and we go through the ordeal of explaining what happened, I think we’ll get past it. Except that we don’t. I get wide-eyed looks from other students on campus. Lane watches me in tense concern from across the caf.
A few professors actually approach me, asking what happened and making discreet noises about domestic violence. That is incredibly awkward and fun to deal with.
I don’t anticipate the sheer rage from James. I’m in the Bitter Brick, waiting for my tea and leafing through a book, when he nudges me with one shoulder. Its two days after the attack, and the swelling has started to go down, but the bruises have blossomed into a vibrant purple that is far more shocking than it is painful.
“What did you say to Orch—?” His voice stops abruptly as I look up, his odd blue eyes going wide. His nostrils flare, and his lips form a thin line. The hand on my wrist tightens, painfully, and I yelp. He jumps and drops my wrist.
“G. Barrie!” the barista yells.
James wheels, stalking to the counter and snatching my drink from the barista. There is another drink sitting there, and he sniffs it experimentally, then stalks back to me.
“Outside,” he snaps, pushing past me. I trail behind him, more for my tea than anything else.
“That isn’t yours,” I say, pointing at the cup he stole.
“Shut up,” he says absently. He puts the drinks down and takes my face carefully into his hands, turning me to the light. His thumb probes at my bruises, a clinical touch. Which is the only reason I don’t flinch away from him. There is nothing remotely sexual about it.
And his voice, when he finally speaks, is harsh with anger. “What the fuck happened?”
I sigh. I don’t want to go through this again. But something has shifted between me and the pirate. So I do. As briefly as possible. He steps back halfway through it, seemingly content with his appraisal of my face.
I lean against the table and recite the events, and, finally, when the whole thing has been laid out, I take a sip of my tea. It’s bitter—he rushed me out before I could add honey or cream.
“And what did Peter do?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Nothing? I haven’t seen him since that night, when I saw you in the boat house.”
“I’m going destroy that girl for this,” he seethes.
I can see the anger lining his face, and I sigh. “Let it go, James. I have. She’s furious and threatened and she lashed out.”
“But Peter’s been very clear he wants AGZ to leave you alone.”
I nod, and he makes a face. “That whole frat is weird as fuck, Gwendolyn. Are you sure about this kid?”
I nod again. “I am. Even if he’s avoiding me.” The truth—the whole truth—is there, on the tip of my tongue. Not for the first time, I want to confess everything to James. His gaze is sharp, probing. I bite my lip and offer him a weak smile. Change the subject. “What’s going on with Orchid?”
His eyes widen. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing. To sort this shit out. You’re both being utterly ridiculous.” I take another sip of my tea and make a face. It’s cool and awful. Dammit.
“She came over last night. She’s still furious. But we talked.”
“And?”
He shrugs. His eyes are bright, for the first time in weeks. He smells clean and crisp. What a difference a single conversation can make.
“We have a ways to go—but she actually talked to me, and she refused to do that even three days ago. Progress. And I know it’s your idea. So thank you,” he
says awkwardly.
James being grateful is amusing. I smile and filch his drink. An experimental sip proves it’s still hot and something I can tolerate. I toss my tea and point at him. “Don’t fuck this up, James.”
Then I leave him standing there, laughing and yelling after me, “You stole my drink!”
I wave it above my head, ignoring him as I stride away.
Chapter 20
Peter is sitting next to my chair when I get to Lit 101. I stare at him for a moment, and his slanted green eyes harden, ticking over my bruises. I let him look and then shift, moving to an empty chair four away from Peter.
From the front row of AGZ brothers, there’s a strangled sound of amusement, and Tank rumbles something at the offender.
So happy to provide today’s entertainment.
“Gwendy,” Peter says, his voice hesitant. I grab my notebook from my bag and open it to our last lecture’s notes. What I don’t do is acknowledge the sad-faced boy at my side.
He sighs. “Come on, Gwen. You can’t ignore me forever.”
I laugh softly. I’ve been ignoring the Boy for almost three years. The Boy who kept me alive and sane and halfway whole. If I can ignore him, I can ignore anyone. I don’t say that—I don’t say anything as Dr Vosslor enters the class and launches into a lecture about the symbolism in Ayn Rand’s later works.
I can’t understand any of it. Hell, I barely hear it—I am intensely aware of the boy who has filled the chair next to me, and the way he’s watching me.
Are we really back to this?
When class ends, I gather my books without looking at Peter. I head to the door—and stop abruptly when I see Tank leaning against it, talking to one of the freshman girls. His gaze flicks to me, and then past me to Peter.
Anger settles over me, and I jerk around to look at him.
He hasn’t moved, leaning back in his seat as he waits for me.
“This is ridiculous,” I seethe. “Even for you.”
“What?”
“Your idiot frat brothers can’t lock me in because you told them to,” I shout.
He arches an eyebrow. “Tank? He just wants us to quit fighting. You talk to me, and I’m pretty sure he’ll move.”
I glance back at Tank, who nods, once.
“Fine,” I say, cocking a hip. “Talk.”
“Sit down, Gwendy.”
“I’m good. This won’t take long.”
His eyes harden. Peter doesn’t like being disobeyed. But I’m not Belle, and I’m not his frat brothers. If I want to stand, it’s my own choice.
“She shouldn’t have touched you. I’m sorry.”
“You sorry?” I echo. “She attacked me, Peter. A completely unprovoked attack when all I did was visit my boyfriend.”
“I know,” he says, “and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“What the hell is her problem? Who is she?”
He heaves a sigh. “She’s my best friend. She’s been part of my life forever. And she’s not happy that I came here.”
“So that’s my fault?” I demand, my voice shrill. “I’m not responsible for your life choices, and I won’t be attacked for them, Peter.”
“Of course you aren’t,” he says. “I’m sorry, Gwendy. I’m taking care of it—she won’t come near you again.”
“But you won’t send her away. Will you?” I say.
He looks stricken. And that is answer enough.
“Fine. I’ll see you later,” I say, shifting my books.
“Gwen, please.”
I stop, taking a deep breath. He huffs a sigh. “I just need some time. Belle needs me right now. And I need you safe—which means I have to stay away from you. She’s not in a good place, and I won’t risk you because she’s feeling vulnerable.”
I jerk, looking back at him. “What are you talking about? Are you breaking up with me?”
He shakes his head. Stands and wraps his arms around me. All of the tension eases out of me in the safety of his embrace. “I need time.” His lips brush my hair. “Can you give me that?”
Chapter 21
It's strange. A kind of waiting settles over me--things are better now between me and Micah, and James has cajoled Orchid into speaking to him, even if she refuses to allow more than that. Even the weather has shifted, an abrupt end of the soft fall weather that shifts toward an icy chill.
It's like even the weather knows things have changed and has done the same to accommodate me. Or Peter.
It’s harder than I anticipated, this time of waiting. I focus on my classes and my own sanity, my friendships with Orchid and James—and how odd is it that I have become friends with James?
We have a strange kind of relationship, the kind of friendship that the more I spend time with him, the more I have come to value. An asshole, he makes no apologies for it, with a kind of refreshing honesty that's the shockingly invaluable. And neither he nor Orchid have commented on the crazy that I sometimes show when things spiral out of my control.
But the more time I spend alone waiting on Peter to sort out his issues, the more my sanity solidifies. Micah and Grayson both notice, and even Aunt J seems pleased when I check in with her and the Board. My birthday still looms, but there's less worry now—less concern I'm going to fuck up royally.
But despite all of that: the friendships, sanity, the approval of my family, I still miss Peter. I see him around campus—sometimes alone, sometimes with his frat brothers, but very very rarely do I see him with Belle. It's a fact that is both confusing and comforting.
The tiny blonde is very much in evidence, but very little in sight.
Which is why it's so surprising when I turn around in the middle of the café and she is standing there staring at me with wide eyes.
Irrationally, I'm angry. This coffee shop is mine, and she can’t have it. Let her have everything else, Peter and the frat boys, the rest of my college, for crying out loud. She can't also have my café.
“What are you doing here?” I demand, my voice cold.
She nods at the counter behind me. “Getting a drink, same as you.”
I want to argue, but from the light in her eyes, I think she knows that. She wants me to, and I won't give her the pleasure. I also won't run away. I brush past her and take a seat in the corner booth that I favor. It's cozy and away from the noise and dappled with sunlight from the windows. We don't have much sunlight anymore, but it's warm. It's quickly become one of my favorite places on Campus.
As I pull out my textbook, I watch Belle out of the corner of my eye. She hesitates at the counter after retrieving her drink, looking around nervously before she makes a decision. I'm not terribly surprised she walks over to me.
“Peter doesn't want you talking to me,” I tell her without looking up.
She makes a snort. “Do you care what he wants so very much when it comes to me?”
That does draw my gaze, and she smiles, bitter. “You want to make me jealous.”
“I don't,” she responds. “There’s nothing to be jealous of. Peter’s mine.”
“You keep saying that,” I say, leaning back. “But he's not with you, is he?”
Anger flickers in her eyes. “He's not with you either,” she says, tone ugly.
I laugh, “He’s not with me because he doesn't want you attacking me again, not because he wants to be with you.”
She’s quiet for a long minute, and I look back at my textbook. I’m a little surprised when I hear her whisper, “I know. I’ve known for a long time that he doesn't want me like that. It doesn't make it easier for me to watch him be with you.”
“If you know he doesn't want you, why does it matter if he's with me?”
“Because what he's going through for chance to be with you. You don't deserve it, you don't even know how far he’s gone—he’s destroying himself—”
She freezes, her eyes impossibly wide.
“What the fucking hell are you talking about?” I demand, furious.
“Nothin
g,” she says quickly. “I'm not talking anything. Just forget it.”
“I'll ask him, and he'll know you were talking to me. So just sit your ass down and explain what the hell you're talking about.”
“You do that, he'll send me away,” she says desperately.
“Not my problem. You have two options: explain or I tell Peter.”
She hesitates for long enough that I think she'll take the option of exile, and then she picks up her drink with a trembling hand.
“It was a long time ago. I don't know if you remember. You were young, and he was young, and he never forgot you. It's that simple—he couldn't forget you. I tried to make him forget. But you changed him."
She sounds so baffled and confused. Like change is unknown to him—like it's never happened before and she's not quite sure how to handle it.
“Where?” I asked.
“Don't know. That’s all I know, so you can do anything you want. It won’t change anything.”
She says it too fast. She's not quite telling the truth, but from the stiff set of her shoulders, I know I'm not getting any more out of her about where, and it doesn't really matter.
“Why didn't he tell me?"
"He kept thinking you'd put it together. That he wouldn't have to tell you. But he found you healthy and sane, and Peter won't jeopardized that." She glares at me, tears standing in her eyes. “He cares so much for your health and wellbeing and he’s forgetting his own.”
“I didn’t ask for that,” I say softly.
She snorts, shakes her head. Stands abruptly. “You never asked for anything, Gwen. But that never changed anything, did it? You changed everything for him. For us.”
I stare at her as she hurries away and decide I’ve had enough. It’s time for some answers.
He doesn’t want to take me. I know he doesn’t—he’s only doing it because I’ve been a horrid playmate for the past three days. But I know when I realized where he was vanishing every afternoon—when I realized that the noises from the forest were actually other children, I had to be introduced.
“They’re savages, Gwendy,” He says, again.
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