The morning sunlight wakes me before my alarm does. As I roll to one side to face the window, I make a mental note to talk to Chelsea about getting heavier curtains. My cell phone clock tells me it’s six a.m.—fifteen minutes before the alarm goes off. I choose to forgive the sun and lift my head, glancing over the edge of my bed. As usual, Chelsea’s bed is unmade and she’s not in it. After I’m up, I find a note from her on top of our mini-fridge.

Went to yoga class before lectures. You should consider joining. Chelsea

Yeah, I should, but I hate anything to do with exercise. Though it would be nice to do something with Chelsea. Our schedules are getting so busy, it will be hard to see each other as much. I walk over to my desk and pull out a piece of paper and pen.

Things to do: Go see Paulette Stevens (guidance counselor), Think about joining yoga class (seriously)

Unable to think of more things that need doing, apart from the obvious, I drop the note into a drawer. I’m about to walk away from the desk to go have a shower, but I tip my head back and look up. From down here I can’t see anything but the wood planks supporting my mattress, but in my mind I see the letters tucked underneath.

They’re not there, of course. Two days ago, Chelsea shocked me with the news that Judson Devereux was not only a professor, but a murderer. I promised her I’d get rid of the letters; luckily she didn’t insist on doing it herself. I still have them in my possession, safe inside one of my backpacks. I’m still struggling to believe the hands of such a passionate guy are stained with blood.

Not long after Chelsea gave me the news, she had to cancel our dinner date; Neil had a bad cold and she wanted to go take care of him. I haven’t seen her much since then, which means I still don’t know much about the murder rumors. At least, I’m assuming they’re only rumors.

Only I can decide the letters’ fate, the fate of the words that touch me so deeply, even when I’m not reading them. I’ve read most of them now. I remember each word as though it’s dancing before my eyes.

I keep telling myself to stop thinking about them, to let them go. I want to destroy them, pretend they never existed. But how will I ever be able to destroy the words inside my head? How can I stop imagining the way they would sound if he said them in person? I can’t help wondering how old he is. The thought that he could be a lot older than me actually makes me feel more drawn to the idea of him. What’s wrong with me?

I take my shower, get dressed, and switch on our new blender. I watch the mango, apple, and grapes swirling inside the machine, merging into one. Once the smoothie is done, I pour myself a glass and enjoy the sweet taste as it awakens my tongue. I move to the window and look out into the garden. Students are already hanging around the pond, riding past it on bicycles, or hurrying down the little path close to the bike shed with books tucked under their arms, and a coffee or sandwich in hand.

A group of skinny girls dressed in tight-fitting prismatic patterned sportswear, push open the heavy doors of the Dunkin Hall gym, where some of the hottest guys hang out to show off their six packs before or after lectures.

My phone rings. This early in the morning, the wind chime ring tone is gentle on my ears. I lick drops of smoothie from my lips and pick up. I don’t bother to check the caller I.D. I know who it is, and I can’t avoid her forever.

“Ivy Hollifield, I’m your mother. How dare you not answer or return my calls?”

“I’ve been busy settling in, Mom.”

“It took that long?” Mom coughs her raspy smoker’s cough.

“I just moved into a new dorm room. A pipe burst above my old one and we had to move out.” I place my smoothie glass on the coffee table.

“We?”

“My roommate Chelsea and me.” My throat is tightening, and I swallow. “What is it, Mom? If you’re calling to tell me what a mistake I’m making, I’m not in the mood for it. I have to get ready for class.”

“Ivy, are you really stupid enough to throw away your life like this? God blessed you with beauty and you’re letting it go to waste.”

“Just because I no longer want to model doesn’t mean I’m wasting my looks. Seriously, I can’t do this. Not now. Not ever.”

“Think of all the money you’re throwing away.” The dark poison dripping from her voice makes me shiver.

“I earned money from pageants as a kid. I modeled for your agency for years. I earned a lot of money, yes. But do I need to remind you where it all went? I’m no longer interested in funding your gambling and plastic surgery addictions.”

“You rotten, ungrateful piece of—”

Before I can stop myself, I end the call and switch off the phone. I’ve never done that to her before. Coming to Oaklow has shown me another side of myself, one brave enough to stand up to her. I feel rotten all the same. The tight knot inside me begs for release. I’m almost tempted to switch the phone back on, to call her, to apologize. Almost.

Our conversations will always end in tears. Why torture myself more than I already have? She should be the one apologizing, not me.

I drop onto the couch with my head in my hands, drawing in deep breaths, and expelling them slowly. Maybe I really should try yoga.

The doorbell rings. For an insane moment I wonder if it’s my mother, and she was in Oaklow when she called. But it can’t be. My mother is incapable of leaving her precious modeling agency in anyone else’s hands, even for a day.

Maybe Chelsea forgot her key.

Opening the door, I drop my gaze to find a large bouquet of baby pink roses resting against the doorway. The Pansy Blooms logo sparkles on a glossy piece of paper hanging from the end of the string that holds the slender stems together. I pick up the flowers and bring them inside, pulling out the little yellow envelope tucked between them. Maybe they’re for Chelsea, from Neil. I place the flowers on top of the small fridge and sit on the couch. There’s no name on the envelope, so I take a quick look inside.

Ivy, don’t deny us the chance to create something beautiful. Milton

I run a frustrated hand through the ropes of my still-damp hair. After the upsetting conversation with my mother, the last person I want to deal with is Milton. When I bump into him—and I most certainly will—I’ll have to make it clear once more that I’m not interested.

“Stay away from guys like him,” Chelsea warned me when I told her about my latest encounter with Milton at the study hall. “I heard he’s nothing but a player who’s dying to get between the sheets with a cover girl.”

Maybe it’s my need for a balsam for my wounds after Mom’s insults; maybe it’s an attempt to search for the romance I’m failing to find in guys like Milton. But before I know it I’m back on my bed, surrounded by Jennifer’s letters. I tell myself I’ll only read one, but I keep going. I’m scared Chelsea will return from yoga to find I still have the letters, but I can’t stop myself. The letters are like a forbidden fruit, calling for me to take one more bite.

I have a visual communications lecture in an hour—one whole hour to myself. As I read, I’m afraid, guilty, and aroused all at once. And in a weird way, I feel as though there’s someone else in the room. Him? He’s not talking to his girlfriend, Jennifer, anymore. He’s talking to me. It’s so hard to believe the man behind these sensual, loving words is capable of taking someone else’s life. Maybe it’s a lie, a rumor. Surely Chelsea got the wrong information.

I run the tips of my fingers over the pages, the words caressing me back. Is this how Jennifer felt when she read them? His words reach out like fingers, touching my heart, my skin. Following the path my desire wants me to take, I drop one of my hands from the letter I’m currently reading, and push my fingers under the waistband of my jeans and then my underwear.

I’m unable to stop myself from responding to his words, from doing what he tells me to do to myself. I gasp when my finger slides deep inside. My muscles clench around it as my back arches. Blood surges from my fingertips to my toes as I move my finger in and out, imagining it’s him inside me. Then my whole body tightens as the orgasm takes hold of my senses. A delicious shudder heats my body, and the air in my lungs gushes out, followed by a low groan.

My head is spinning as though I’ve just stepped off a rollercoaster. Even though I’ve never felt a man inside me, I’ve touched myself before. But I have never experienced an orgasm like this.

When my body relaxes again, the heat of shame rushes to my cheeks. I start to pack away the letters, but stop. As I lift the last letter—one I had been saving—I find another underneath. This one is inside an envelope, with a return address on the back and Jennifer’s full name on the front.

Why wait any longer? I unfold the last letter on top of the envelope. It has a different tone to it—no longer sweet and sensual. There’s a desperation to the words now, as if each letter is dipped into the ink of pain and frustration.

Ma chérie,

Don’t be fooled into thinking your body could belong to someone else. After tasting what we had, it would reject anyone who dares touch you in the places that belong to me. My hands have marked you; my lips have sealed you. You belong to me, my love. All of you. Please write back and we’ll pick up where we left off. You know you want this as much as I do.

I fold up that letter and pick up the final one, the one inside the envelope. My heart is thudding as I pull it out. A tinge of disappointment taps my heart; there will be no more letters after this.

Your silence is thick and solid in the night, a silver sword that plunges into my heart, burns my soul to ashes. I want to see your smile, to hear the laughter between your words. Life without you is an empty shell. Worthless. Death is more appealing than a second of knowing you don’t want me.

This is the last letter I’ll write to you. If you don’t respond by the 10th of September, I’ll be left with no choice but to leave this empty world behind. Only you can choose if this is truly goodbye.

Forever yours,

J.D.

The letter slips from my hand and flutters to my lap.

Monday, the tenth of September, is less than a week away.

Shit. What do I do now? I have to do something—I don’t want to be responsible for a suicide! My stomach burns. Why didn’t I listen to Chelsea and just throw the damn letters away?