the back of her lower thigh, and when her dress rises I recognize the topography of her legs; an outpouring of memories comes to the forefront of my mind. I tip a little toward the wall. I want to touch her so badly, would give almost anything to have her in my grasp for just a few seconds, to be certain she is real, to have her arms around my body, to feel her warmth and her heart beating against my chest. Almost anything to feel her lips against mine, to experience just once more the way she could part my lips with hers and breathe life into me. Almost anything to whisper in her ear how I will love her forever.
Almost anything. But not her freedom.
As she continues toward the bottom of the board, she hesitates, stops in mid-scribble like something doesn’t seem right in her solution—and at the same time, I’m struck the same way. I’ve overlooked something big. I drop my gaze to the floor as Sean’s words echo in my head: “I’ll get the car and pull it into the parking lot in front of the building.”
The winding paths, the amphitheater, the reflecting pond: There was no parking lot in front of this building.
I turn and run so quickly I stumble to my knees, fall against the wall as I get myself to my feet. I race down the steps, crash through the door at the bottom of the building, and rush out into the morning sun. I run back out the paths that brought us to Martin Hall, go flying toward the road that led us onto the campus just in time to see Sean escape the university grounds, turn back onto Old Greenville Highway, and slowly disappear.
I stand on a patch of grass at the front of the university and watch him fade away, hands on my hips, my breath nowhere to be found.
I am abandoned. I am dirty and unshaven, still smelling of chopped vegetables and seared meats and Sean’s fast food. I am tired and sore from a night’s rest in the backseat of a car. I have no change of clothes. I have no means to shower. I do not have my wallet, do not have a single penny on me. I am a baby left in a basket on a stranger’s front stoop.
I stand still, long after I’ve caught my breath and regained my composure. I watch kids come and go, watch the campus show more signs of life as it approaches nine o’clock.
I can’t stand Sean. I hate that he did this to me, that he left me here with nowhere to turn, that my only hope of food and shelter will have to come from Melody, that he stripped everything away from me, from my possessions to my free will. He’s a pompous bastard who used his knowledge and investigative skills to disassemble my life and put Melody’s back in danger—all because he thought he knew better, that he knew what was best for everyone.
As I twist my body around and face Martin Hall in the distance, I realize I should be hating myself as well, how Sean and I are more alike than I’d ever care to admit, more like cousins than Ettore and I ever were. Did I not do the same thing to Melody? Did I not toss her in the direction I thought would most suit her, most protect her? I left—abandoned—Melody in the Greyhound station because I thought I knew what was best. Is Sean not doing what he thinks is best for me?
Not a chance. He’s doing what he thinks is best for Melody.
What Sean just delivered to my existence might as well have been the most violent event of my life. It didn’t knock. It didn’t tap me on the shoulder, suggest I get ready. It created change by way of the most capable tools in the toolbox: confusion, humiliation, destruction. And now it’s my turn to feel the world shift beneath my feet, to utter those simple words: I never saw it coming.
I walk slowly back toward Martin Hall.
FIVE
I hold the door for a line of students, a group more alert and talkative than the eight o’clock crowd, follow the last one in and make my way to the restroom. I wash my hands and arms and face with astringent antibacterial soap, run wet hands through my hair until I shape it back into something recognizable, gargle with tap water.