Chapter 7

Charlie

My eyes fly open. The glaring light causes a sharp pain in my head. I hear muffled voices speaking quickly around me, but I can’t make out a single word they’re saying.

I’m not sure where I am, but judging by the pungent smell of disinfectant, I suspect it might be a hospital.

“Hello,” says a woman’s voice next to me. “My name is Dr. Jacobs. Can you tell me your name?”

“Charlie,” I hear myself murmur. “Where am I?”

“You’re at Memorial Hospital,” she says. “We’re going to help you, Charlie.”

I try to remember what happened, but every time I try to form a coherent thought, my ears ring and my head starts to throb.

I raise my hand to touch my temple, but someone grabs my arm and presses it back down onto what feels like a mattress.

Suddenly, my eyes are forced open and someone shines a small light into them.

“Pupil reaction is normal.”

“Can you tell us what happened?” asks Dr. Jacobs.

I open my mouth to answer, but before I can say anything, two more people enter the room. I can’t see them, but I hear a door open and close, and then footsteps.

“Charlie?” one of them asks, interrupting my thoughts.

It’s a woman. She sounds young. Somehow familiar. I turn my gaze toward her, but I can’t make out her features in the harsh light, so I squint and try to focus.

She’s wearing blue scrubs and has a stethoscope around her neck. Her blonde hair is tied back in a ponytail.
I watch as she walks toward me and takes my hand.

“Green, do you know her?” asks the other person—another woman.

Green, as in Jasmine Green?

That would make perfect sense, since she’s currently working as a resident at a hospital.

“She’s my friend, ” she says.

“Jasmine?” I ask, almost shyly.

“Yes,” she replies, squeezing my hand. “It’s me.”

“What happened?”

“We’re not sure, but it looks like you have a head injury. Someone called an ambulance after finding you on the street.”

“Do you remember what happened?” The other woman asks.

I try to remember what happened after I left the restaurant.

I remember wanting to get home as quickly as possible because I had some work to do for university. I remember thinking about Stella, and then…

“I think someone pushed me,” I say. I might even have an idea who it was, but somehow I don’t dare say it out loud or even let the thought fully enter my mind. “Or maybe I just tripped and fell—I’m not sure.”

“It’s okay,” says the woman, sitting down on a chair next to my bed.

I try to focus my eyes to get a better look at her name tag.

Dr Katherine Montgomery

“Oh, I remember you,” she suddenly says.

I look up from the name tag and study her face.

Now that I’m looking at her more closely, I realize I recognize her too. It’s the woman from earlier at the restaurant who came in with Stella.

“You’re one of Stella’s—excuse me, Professor Anderson’s—students, aren’t you?”

I just nod, since I don’t know what else to say.

“I’m Dr. Montgomery,” she introduces herself, then points to Jasmine. “And this is medical student Jasmine Green, whom you already know. She’ll be assisting me with your treatment today, if that’s okay with you?”

Jasmine gives me a shy smile, but I nod slightly to encourage her.

Over the next thirty minutes, they stop the bleeding, clean the wound, and bandage it. I’m glad I don’t need stitches, because that would have looked even worse than it already does.

Around one in the morning, I’m finally back home. They didn’t let me leave right away because they wanted to make sure I didn’t throw up or anything.

They said it didn’t look like I had a concussion, but as soon as I feel any of the symptoms they listed in my discharge papers, I should come back immediately.

List of possible signs of a concussion:
• headache
• dizziness
• nausea
• confusion
• memory issues
• fatigue

Apart from a slight headache, I feel fine, so I’m trying not to dwell too much on the worry that I might have a serious head injury. I’m not exactly a hypochondriac, but when it comes to things like this, I tend to overreact a little.

As I stand over the sink in the bathroom, I can’t stop staring at the cut on my forehead.

Why would Sam do that?

I mean, strictly speaking, I didn’t even see the person who did it, but I still remember the exact tone of his voice.

You little bitch.

I’m pretty sure it was him, but what am I supposed to do? I can’t go to the police because I didn’t even see him.

No one will ever believe me if I tell them that the brilliant engineering student Sam Hastings, a straight-A student, has even a single violent bone in his body.

Nor can I just tell them that I might have heard him say those words.

And besides, his parents are top-tier lawyers. They’d bail him out without him getting a single scratch.

That’s what he always told me. That nothing would ever happen to him, because as much as his parents hate him, they still care about him. Or at least they like to pretend they do.

A sigh escapes my lips as my trembling fingers reach for the cut above my eyebrow. I don’t actually feel anything, since they injected anaesthetic there to ease the pain.

Still, I gently run my finger over it, waiting, hoping that it will burn again like before.

Somehow, I want to feel the pain again.

I want the pain to prove that all of this really happened. I know that’s probably sick, but it’s the only thing that reminds me of what he actually did to me. I need the pain to remind me of what this whole relationship did to me.

The sudden shrill ring of my cell phone startles me. I let my hand slide down to my side before walking out of the bathroom to the kitchen island, where I left it.

I see Ellie’s name light up on the screen. I cup my phone in my palm and let my thumb hover over the green button for a moment.

I know why she’s calling, and I’m not ready to talk about it yet. Jasmine probably texted her to make sure someone was looking out for me, and I love her for it, but right now I wish she hadn’t.

One thing is crystal clear: Ellie can never find out that it might have been Sam who hurt me. If she finds out, she’ll kill him, and even if he might deserve it, I don’t want anything to happen to her.

I might be able to live with the fact that he hurt me, but I could never live with the fact that he hurt her. Or any of my friends.

That’s why I let the phone ring. I don’t answer because I don’t want to lie to her. I don’t think I have the strength to do that.

I just put the phone back on the counter, double-check that I’ve really locked the door properly, and then go into my bedroom.

I turn on the TV so I don’t feel so alone, and put on my favorite show, Desperate Housewives.

I’ve seen it so many times by now that I could probably reenact the whole series, with me in every role.

I curl up in bed and just stare at the screen for a moment, without really taking in what’s being said. I just stare at the moving images, the light flickering across my room.

And then I cry.

And cry and cry and cry.

And for a moment, it feels like I’ll never stop. Like I’m drowning in a lake of my own tears and will never see the light of day again. But eventually the tears stop flowing and the pain in my chest seems to subside.

Eventually, I fall asleep after all, and when I wake up the next morning, the sun is rising again.

Just as it always does.

Because the Earth doesn’t stop spinning just because of me, so I keep moving too.

⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨ᰔ୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹

It was a rough weekend. I’ll be honest. I spent most of my time sitting on the couch, just staring at the wall and thinking about what to do.

I know I should go to the police because of what happened. Even if it might not have been Sam who actually did it, I’m still sure I didn’t just trip and bump my head.

Every time I close my eyes, I can still feel the grip of his hands around my neck and his warm breath on my ear as he whispers his insults to me.

Every time I think about it, I get goosebumps all over my body and my nervous system feels like it’s on fire. I’ve been in a fight-or-flight state all weekend, and it’s exhausting.

Still, I don’t dare go to the police.

Especially not after waiting an entire weekend to do so. The chances that they would believe me were slim to begin with, but now they’re close to zero.

No one will ever believe you, I remember my father’s words echoing in my head.

Even though I haven’t seen him in years, I still feel like his words are ture. How many times have I seen on TV women who tried to defend themselves but ultimately failed?

I’d rather say nothing and spare myself the embarrassment of having to prove that a man assaulted me.

My father did a great job instilling this mindset in me, and even though I know it’s his influence, I find it hard not to believe he was right about it.

You’re just a girl looking for attention at any cost.

Besides, the cut on my forehead isn’t that bad. They told me I should still go to the doctor, just to be safe. That’s why I made an appointment for today earlier this morning.

After that, I called Ellie, and we decided to meet in the cafeteria before English class.

We also talked about the accident, and I had to promise her about a hundred times that I was really okay before she finally hung up.

I was glad she didn’t keep asking how it happened and was more concerned about whether I was okay. That way, I didn’t have to lie to her or, rather, have toleave out important details about the incident.

Now, as I wait outside the cafeteria, I let my gaze wander over the crowd.
It’s much quieter now that a few weeks have passed since the start of the semester. Most people stop coming to class after the first two or three weeks because—just like me—they know that most lectures are useless anyway. Most professors just read aloud what’s on the lecture slides, which you have to go over again at home anyway.

I’m not exactly sure why I keep going to some of my lectures, since it’s a waste of time anyway, but what else am I supposed to do all day? I don’t want any more free time than I already have. That would just give me more time to think, and that’s the last thing I need, especially now.

When Ellie finally arrives at the cafeteria, we hurry inside and walk to class together. She doesn’t ask about the cut on my forehead, but I notice her glancing at it more than once.

When we enter the classroom, I see Ollie already sitting at our usual spot and slide into the seat next to him.

As always, Professor Anderson announces her arrival with the loud click of her heels on the wooden floor. My gaze immediately falls on her back, and memories of our conversation on Friday come to mind.

It’s nothing personal…

I haven’t been able to get you out of my head…

After what happened, I completely forgot about Stella. I completely forgot her words, and when I think about them now, I feel my cheeks flush. My heartbeat suddenly quickens, and I get that feeling in my throat again, as if I can’t breathe properly.

I haven’t been able to get you out of my head…

What did she even mean by that?

I know I interrupted her and that she wanted to say something else, and now I’m cursing myself for it. I think whatever she wanted to say would have put it in the right context.

I mean, she couldn’t seriously mean that she couldn’t stop thinking about me.

That would be… hard to believe.

Either way I don’t have time to dwell on it any longer when I suddenly feel Oliver kicking me under the table next to me.

“What the hell, Ollie?” My hand slides down to my ankle, and I massage the pain away with my fingers.

“You look like a deer in the headlights,” he says, almost laughing. “What’s wrong with you?”

I shoot him a dark look and furrow my brows, but instead of saying anything, I just look straight ahead again and decide to simply ignore whatever Ollie finds so funny. I just don’t have the energy for small talk right now.
Besides, I don’t want to get in trouble again for missing the start of the lecture. Not today.

When I look up, I notice that my professor is already looking at me. To my surprise, though, she doesn’t immediately look away when I catch her staring. Her gaze lingers on my forehead, and I could swear her whole expression darkens.

But for the first time since I’ve known her, I don’t feel like it has anything specific to do with me. Her gaze remains fixed on the wound above my eyebrow for a few more seconds before she looks away, sending a cold shiver down my spine.

She looks angry; her shoulders are tense. I see her clench her jaw, and every now and then she glances back in my direction, as if to make sure she hasn’t just imagined the cut on my forehead.

Our eyes meet briefly once more before she straightens up and begins the lesson.

For the entire next ninety minutes, she doesn’t look at me again or speak to me. She doesn’t even scold me when I accidentally drop my pen, but simply continues with the lesson without even glancing in my direction.

It feels almost strange to be ignored by her, when I’m usually the center of her attention. I don’t miss it, not at all; I just don’t quite understand why. I guess I should just be grateful for it.

Class was almost over; there were only a few minutes left when she suddenly ends it early. Most of the students had already lost the ability to pay attention anyway, so they yawned gratefully, stood up, and started packing up their things.

I, too, push my chair back and start stuffing my things into my backpack when I suddenly hear my professor call my name.

“Ms. Campbell,” she says. “I’d like you to stay for a moment.”

Her voice sounds strangely gentle, not filled with anger as it usually is when she speaks to me. When I look up at her, I immediately meet her gaze.
She’d been watching me for the last twenty minutes of class, and even though I’d tried to ignore it, it was hard not to notice that she was looking at me.

“Sure,” I say, finish packing my backpack, and walk over to her, ignoring all the curious glances from the other students.

“We’ll wait outside, Charlie,” I hear Ollie say in my direction.

“No need,” I say. “I’ll text you guys later.”

I watch them walk away, just like the last time I had to stay after class, but somehow I don’t feel as nervous as I did then.

When the others finally leave the room and the door clicks shut, I turn to her, to my professor, who is already standing so close to me that I can feel the warmth radiating from her.

“Is everything okay?”

“You tell me,” she says. Not angry or anything. If someone asked me, I’d say she sounds almost… concerned.

“What do you mean?”

“What happened to your head?”

I look up at her, confused. So I didn’t just imagine her staring at my forehead—she actually did.

I just don’t quite understand why she cares? And why is she making me stay here after class just to ask me that?

“Why do you care?”

“You don’t answer questions with counter-questions,” she says, leaning against her desk. “That’s rude.”

Her eyes won’t let me go, and I feel myself faltering under her gaze. She just has that effect on me, and I don’t know how to escape her.

I thought after our last conversation the whole thing would end. I thought this strange back-and-forth between us was over. But it isn’t, or at least it doesn’t feel that way right now. She still doesn’t seem able to just leave me alone.

“I hit my head,” I say simply, hoping that’s enough to make her leave me alone.

She studies me, my facial expressions, and I can tell from the look on her face that she doesn’t believe me, that there’s no more to it than that.

Her hand reaches for my chin, her finger holds it gently and turns my head to the side to get a closer look at my injury.

“You yourself?”

“Yes,” I lie. Again.

Her fingers feel hot against my skin, as if they were literally burning into it. I hold my breath and try to regain control.

Her touch confuses me profoundly, and I don’t know how to deal with it. I have no idea why her presence makes it impossible for me to think clearly or to breathe for that matter.

I hate her. Not just that—I loathe her—and yet she has this effect on me that speaks a whole different language than my mind.

Her thumb glides over my chin before she lets go of me. A shiver runs down my spine as her touch leaves me.

“I don’t really like it when people lie to me, Charlie. So I’ll ask you again: What happened to you?”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

I don’t want to tell her. Of all the people I could talk to, she’s the last one I’d confide in. I haven’t even told my best friend what really happened, so I’m not going to tell her either.

But the way she looks at me, the way she tilts her head and waits for my answer, makes it hard for me to keep it to myself.

I’m used to seeing anger in her eyes, but seeing concern in them is something else entirely. It reminds me of the woman I met a few weeks ago that night, the one I would have loved to tell my whole life story to.

“It was an accident.”

“Was it?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “It happened last Friday after work. I was on my way home, and then there was someone behind me. The next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital.”

I see her jaw clench again.

This woman is a mystery to me. I don’t really understand why she’s so upset that I hurt my head. Sure, she’s my professor and all, but it’s not like she cared about that before, when she used to pick on me at every opportunity.

I just don’t understand what criteria she uses to decide when to be nice to me and when to drive me totally crazy.

Maybe it depends on her daily mood. Maybe she has some kind of bipolar disorder or something.

Whatever it is, I don’t want to have to deal with it anymore, because it confuses me and I don’t need any more confusion in my life.

“You’re bleeding,” she says suddenly.

“What?” I lift my hand and run my fingers over the wound.

She’s right.

When I look at my fingers, they’re covered in blood.

I’m usually fine with the sight of blood, but right now I feel pretty dizzy.

Her hands wrap around my elbows and steady me as I start to waiver. My head is spinning, and I feel like I’m going to throw up.

I look around and try to focus on something, but the only thing my eyes seem to find is her.

I hate that look on her face, as if she actually cared. I know she doesn’t care and that it’s not her job to worry about this, but the fact that she’s pretending to care strangely hurts even more, because I know it’s not real.

“Sit down,” she says, trying to guide me to her chair.

“No,” I say, trying to push her away. “I’m fine.”

“Charlie, you’re as pale as a ghost.”

“I don’t need your help,” I say, almost crying as she pushes me down.

“I know you don’t need it,” she says. “And I know you wouldn’t want it even if you did, but let me help you anyway.”

I look up at her as she stands over me, her hands now on my shoulders, holding me steady. Her expression is full of concern, but gentler than before, less angry.

She means it; she wants to help me. I can see it all over her face.

Her jaw is still tense, probably out of fear that I might say no, that I’ll be angry with her, that I’ll refuse the help she’s so gently offered me.

I know I can’t leave the room like this.

Everyone will stare at me, ask if I’m okay, and then some stranger might end up helping me.

The fact that she’s touching me is scary enough, but the thought of someone else touching me is even worse.

So I give in. “Okay,” I sigh.

She takes her hands off my shoulders, her fingers finding my forehead. I feel the small, damp bandages that have soaked up the blood. It feels uncomfortable and stings slightly as she places her fingers softly around the wound.

“I’ll get the first-aid kit. I need to clean the wound and reapply the bandage. You stay right here—do you understand me?”

I nod and watch her turn around and walk out of the room. When she comes back, she’s holding a small white box with a big red cross on it. She sets it on the table next to her laptop and opens the lid.

“Please lift your head for me, okay?”

I do as she says and watch her begin to peel off the old bandages. She’s so gentle it almost makes my heart melt. I see her frown as she concentrates on not hurting me any more.

I gasp as she accidentally brushes her finger across the wound.

She takes her hands off of me and her eyes immediately seek mine to make sure I’m okay.

“I’m fine,” I whisper into the air between us.

She seems almost relieved that she didn’t hurt me, not even by accident.

“I’m going to clean the wound now,” she says as she drips some alcohol onto a small tissue. “It might sting a little.”

“Okay.”

I bite my lip to keep me from crying out in pain, but I can’t stop a sharp gasp from escaping me. A stabbing pain shoots through my forehead as she gently cleans the open wound. I feel tears welling up in my eyes, but I don’t want to let them fall; I don’t want to cry, even though I feel like it.

“I’m sorry, darling.”

I’m not sure if she even realizes she just called me darling, but I don’t really care. What worries me more is the way my body is reacting to it. It’s letting me down in every possible way, but for now I decide I’m just blaming it on the pain.

“I’m almost done,” she adds, biting her lip intently.

“Did you learn that from your friend Montgomery?” I ask, looking up at her and focusing on her teeth as they dig into her lower lip. She doesn’t answer right away, so I keep studying her face.

She’s wearing a soft reddish lipstick that makes her lips look full and matches the color of her cheeks perfectly. She has a few freckles on her nose—less noticeable than mine, but still there—hidden under a light layer of foundation.

Her blue eyes are piercing and seem to be focused solely on me. I’m starting to wonder if she wears contact lenses, because how can eyes be so beautifully blue? I wonder if I were to look up different shades of blue, would I be able to find the exact tone of her eyes.

“She was the doctor who treated me that night,” I clarify, trying to take my attention off her again.

“Yes,” she finally says absently, still focused on the task at hand. “I learned a lot from her.”

“She’s nice,” I hear myself say, though I’m not exactly sure why I’m mentioning it.

“She is,” she agrees as she applies the last bandage to my wound. Her fingers gently stroke over it to make sure it’s in place. “All done,” she adds quietly.

“Thank you,” I mouthed, unable to form proper words.

She looks down at me, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. I’ve really tried to hate her, because she gives me every reason to.

But when she looks at me like that, I find it hard to stick to my guns. I know it shouldn’t make a difference, that it shouldn’t be so easy for her to make me forget her stupid behavior, but somehow it is.

It’s the same look she gave me when we first met. Back then it seemed more sincere than it does today, but I don’t care, because even if it’s just an act, it still comforts me, so for now I’ll just take it all in.

“You really should see a doctor about this.”

“I have an appointment today, don’t worry.”

“I don’t,” she suddenly declares, her voice now lacking the softness it held before.

“I know you don’t,” I snort.

Her mood had shifted so quickly that I don’t even try to pinpoint the exact moment it happened.

I’m sick of trying to figure this woman out. With her, you just never know what’s coming, and I’m tired of trying.
I tell her once again how grateful I am for her help, and I mean it.

Then I just walk out of the room. I don’t wait for her to say anything else that might ruin this moment of kindness even further; I just leave her standing there.