Garrett is standing a couple of tables away, watching us with a placid smile. Did he see me nudge Rome? Does that mean anything, that I nudged him? What is a nudge? It’s nothing, right? But I lied to Garrett. Lied about tonight. Or I withheld information, which is the same as lying. Maybe Bethany should have sat in the middle. Having me in the middle, between Bethany and Rome, makes this look like…makes it look like…

“Hi Garrett,” I say, and I’m pushing my chair out and stumbling over to greet him. He doesn’t look mad. I want to hug him, but…I don’t know if I’m allowed. I wish he weren’t here. I would have come to him. I would have bent over and let him hurt me any way he wanted to—why did he have to come here now and ruin this tiny bit of joy? But…god, he’s beautiful. And he’s here to see me.

“I thought you might be here,” he says. “This is a popular hangout after Saturday night concerts.”

“Come sit, Garrett!” It’s Rome, playing friendly. But I know what Rome thinks of Garrett, and if Rome doesn’t like Garrett, there’s no way Garrett doesn’t know it. I can only imagine how Garrett feels about people who elect not to worship him.

“Sure,” he says simply, and he sits in a newly vacant chair on the other side of Bethany, who moves so that she’s next to Rome and I’m between her and Garrett. Rome’s mouth is smirking, but the rest of his face is cold and hard.

Garrett leans forward with an affable expression that I know is anything but. “So I heard you telling some pretty funny jokes, there, Rome.” His eyes are twinkling—just a little too jovial. “I feel terrible that I interrupted—tell another!”

Rome smiles with pursed lips and I think for a moment he’s going to tell Garrett to fuck off, but then he says, “Okay. I’ve got one for you, Garrett. Just for you.”

I shift in my seat.

“How does a serial killer get through the forest?” He’s full-on grinning now, and oh boy, I don’t like where this is going.

My eyes dart to Garrett. He’s staring blankly at Rome.

“He takes the psychopath.” Rome taps a pretend drum kit, ba-dum, chtsh!

Bethany laughs, because she just has no idea, and Garrett laughs, because…well, I’m not sure I understand why Garrett does anything he does. I feel like the air in this place has turned into a giant clump of ice. I sure as fuck can’t breathe it.

“And,” Rome continues, because Why not poke the beast? Isn’t this fun? “how many psychopaths does it take to change a lightbulb?”

How is Rome still smiling at Garrett? He’s looking him right in the eyes, smiling, yes, but barely blinking. I’m afraid to turn around and see Garrett’s face. His fingertips crawl lightly up my spine and stop at the base of my neck, under my hair.

“Zero,” says Rome. “Because he’ll just manipulate someone else into doing it for him.”

“Very funny,” says Garrett, and now his fingers are moving forward over my shoulder and landing at the base of my throat, at the soft indent between my clavicles.

Rome’s eyes twitch downward, settling on Garret’s fingers for a fraction of a second, and then his smile dims and brightens as if he’s had an internal power surge. “I have a million jokes,” he says, but his voice has lost some of its previous inflection. “You want a beer, Garrett?” He nods at the pitcher.

“I was actually planning on leaving. And I was hoping Malory would come with me.” I turn my head and look up at him. Superman. That dimple. I can’t reconcile that sweet face with the things he does to me, or with the creeping fear that is making it so hard to breathe. I glance back at Bethany and Rome, both of whom wear patient, expectant looks, though I can see a vein throbbing in Rome’s temple.

“Sure,” I hear myself saying. “I’m actually really tired, to be honest.”

Rome looks down at his beer and smiles, but with exasperation. The way his cheek is flexing, I think he might be grinding his teeth.

“Aw,” Bethany says. “But we were having fun. And…what about your car? You can’t drive.”

“You can take my car,” I tell her, digging my keys from my purse.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting at Garrett’s kitchen table, a stiff tangle of nerves, and he’s plodding around the house in his expensive leather shoes, sorting mail and pouring himself a glass of water like nothing’s the matter. But his jaw is set in a hard line, his eyes are cold, and his movements, and all the sounds he makes, are precise and refined. The suction of the refrigerator door, the clink of ice in his glass, the water—surely no less pure than water from any other tap—have a clarity in this kitchen, his kitchen, that doesn’t exist anywhere else in my life.

“Do you want some?” He holds up his glass of water; it glitters like a diamond.

I shake my head and hug myself. Always so cold in here.

“I was happy to see you tonight,” I say.

“Were you?” He lifts an eyebrow. “You seemed happier before you saw me.”

“I…thought you would be mad.”

“Why would I be mad?” He takes a slow sip from his glass, and the ice falls on itself with a delicate sound.

Why would he be mad? My arms are still hugged around me, but I’m pushing furiously at my cuticles, the nail beds of each finger waiting in line to be destroyed, one push at a time. Why would he be mad? I’m afraid to verbalize why. What if he doesn’t have a reason, and he’s waiting for me to supply him one? I shrug, just to give him some kind of answer. Maybe I’m imagining the tightness in his expression. But then I remember the feeling I got when Mahler’s Fifth Symphony avalanched over me, and this feels the same: panicky, overwhelmed, What the fuck am I doing here?

As if in answer to my thoughts, Garrett sets his flawless glass of ice water on the flawless counter and glides to me, his face a mask of tranquility. He traces a finger along my collarbone, pushes my hair over my shoulder, away from my neck, and strokes my bare skin.

“Sometimes I think you are just too fucking beautiful for your own good.”

It’s not that you’re ugly, sweetie, it’s just that you’re not beautiful.

“I’m not beautiful—I’m ordinary.”

“Rome doesn’t think so.”

“He’s a friend. And he’s not my type.” But my voice is unsteady, as if I have something to hide.

Garrett tilts my chin up and searches my eyes.

“You’re my type,” I tell him, my voice inching higher with pleading.

“I’m your only type, aren’t I?”

“Yes.” He still has me by the chin and I need to swallow, but I can’t.

“Am I the best you’ve ever had?”

I’m pulsing between my legs even as my heart stammers with terror. “Yes.” It’s true, I’m not lying—he plays me like a piano.

He smiles, but then his face drops a little and he lets go of my chin. “How many guys have you fucked, anyway?”

My face is instantly on fire. “What? I…I mean I only had a couple of boyfriends in high school, so—”

“That doesn’t mean anything. I’m not your boyfriend, and you’re fucking me.”

Not my boyfriend? I’m boiling with shame, my skin actually stinging from the burn. He’s seen right through me. I was a little whore. I slept with that mechanic to get my car, and when we were moving around all the time after my dad lost his job I slept with whoever because…well, I don’t know what I was thinking. My dad knew, though, and he made sure I knew that. Those boys don’t know how to touch you…

Garrett grabs me by the chin again, turning my face from side to side as if this is the first time he’s had a good look at me. “Little slut, aren’t you? Did you sleep with the whole football team, too? I don’t know how you live with yourself.”

My heart is thudding hard in my temples, and hot tears are pinching out of the corners of my eyes. I wish he’d hurry up and get to the point. His hand is sliding into my hair, and I feel his fingers curling, readying to yank, so I do the quickest thing I can think of: I unzip his pants, pull out his dick, and bury it in my mouth. He already thinks I’m a slut anyway. Might as well be the dirtiest little slut he’s ever had in his life.

---

It is storming outside, and fat droplets patter hard against the old windows of Professor Yarvik’s room at a frequency like static, making the normally cozy space feel darker than usual, boxed in somehow. My bow is shaking—I can’t seem to get ahold of myself. I played downtown yesterday and made enough money to cover my expenses, but it took me four hours. Four hours. I really did feel like a bag lady, just a sad nobody with my hand out for loose change. I was mechanical, robotic, my arms and fingers moving as if through molasses, and sometimes my mind would wander off in the middle of a passage and I would snap back, realizing my mouth had turned to cotton, that I could barely swallow.

My mind keeps coming back to Garrett, that strange compliment, “too fucking beautiful.” Little slut, aren’t you? My mind is in a state of civil war. Beautiful, god, am I beautiful? I want to be.

It’s not that you’re ugly, sweetie, it’s just that you’re not beautiful.

Swinging your hair so proud like you’re something special…

Those boys don’t know how to touch you… The words are a roaring wind in my mind, crackling in concert with the static of the rain, popping and hissing at me like a broken walkie-talkie until I can’t tell the difference between the storm and my thoughts.

Let me show you how it’s done…

Don’t say a word…

“Malory?” Yarvik is speaking to me.

There is a crack of thunder from outside, and suddenly the walkie-talkie’s connection is severed, leaving only the oppressive static of raindrops on glass. “Yes?”

“Are you hearing a word I’m saying?” She’s staring at me, furrowing her brow.

“I’m sorry, I…” I sit very still, embarrassed that I’ve been caught with my mind wandering. I’m going crazy.

“Malory, my dear, is everything okay? At first I was worried that you were simply having trouble adjusting to college life, but we are in November now, and I’m afraid you seem to be…well, it seems to me that you might be depressed.”

Something inside me tumbles a little, such a real, powerful shift that my heart seems all of a sudden too heavy to beat. “I don’t know,” I say. “I came here with such conviction, with such determination to…to succeed.” I try to recall that feeling, that tenacity I used to be so sure about, but it’s inaccessible right now. I don’t know where it went.

“Did something change? Are you having trouble with your classes? Or personal trouble of some sort?”

I think of the bruises on my thighs where Garrett grabbed and twisted my skin last night, how, when I cried out in pain, he clutched even harder. He made me cry, but then he toyed with me for hours, brought me to the edge of orgasm again and again and again, only finally letting me have it early in the morning. I’d screamed with such an outpouring of relief and ecstasy that I probably woke the neighbors.

“No,” I say. “Classes are going okay, and I have a nice group of friends.”

I’m not your boyfriend, and you’re fucking me.

She rubs her forehead with her gnarled hands. “Fine. I can’t seem to get through to you. When you decide you want to talk to someone, please do…there are counseling services on campus.”

I laugh. I know it’s inappropriate, but I just can’t help myself. Counseling services, oh please, as if my life is even remotely fixable. That’s hilarious.

Yarvik is staring at me with wide eyes like she thinks I’m crazy—a logical assumption.

“Sorry,” I tell her. “I’m just…it really is just an adjustment thing. Homesickness, I think. I’ll be fine.” I straighten up in my chair and shake out my arms, push my hair away from my face, and lift my chin.

I can act normal.

---

I spend all my spare time with Garrett, and even some time that isn’t really spare. Sometimes I study on the couch next to him, but he doesn’t seem to like it when my head is in a book; he always finds a way to distract me. It makes me feel wanted, though, so I don’t fight him. I never fight him.

After a couple of nights, though, he sends me home in the evening, says he needs to sleep alone. I seek my old study partner, but Rome’s not around—probably off being someone else’s loyal, comforting friend. I try not to let this bother me.

When I return to my room, Daphne is surprised to see me: “Sleeping in your own bed tonight, huh? You and Garrett doing okay?” I don’t even try to explain it to her, the way he sometimes needs his space. She doesn’t ask, either; but later, she wakes me up in the middle of the night climbing into bed with me. I like having her there, her brittle body lying close to mine, offering me a connection I didn’t know I craved. But the next time Garrett sends me home, while she’s curled around my back like a kitten, I feel her mouth against my neck, her lips forming a kiss, and I whisper, “Oh, Daphne, not me, not me.” She begins to cry, pulls away from me as if to leave, but I grab her and hug her arm to my chest while she cries.

“It’s impossible,” she says. “I can’t live this way.”

“Yes you can,” I whisper into the dark. “Just not with me.”

She cries, sad little hiccupping sobs, and I say, “Is it too much, lying with me like this?”

She doesn’t answer me, but she chokes her tears into submission and hugs me tighter, and we sleep that way, a pair of cold, hard spoons, each seeking warmth from one who has none to offer.

---

Later that week I get my quiz back in Twentieth-Century Europe. The 78 percent is there in bright red, circled, garish, accusing. My ears flush with the same embarrassed heat. I flash my paper at Rome, and he grimaces guiltily, and yes, we did miss that last study session together before the quiz, but it’s not his fault I’m stupid. After class, I tell him so, that I’m stupid, and he shakes his head in exasperation: “You’re not stupid, Malory.”

In studio class, Bethany plays the prelude to Bach’s fourth suite. Her intonation is lovely, right in the center of the pitch, but she spends too much time languishing on the first note of each triad and it annoys me the way she just sits on that sad, dark note and won’t move forward. Listening to her, wishing she’d move on, makes my palms sweat. I bend my neck from side to side trying to get it to pop.

Then it’s my turn. I’m performing the Elgar today, the piece I’ll be using for my Aspen audition in January. I settle my cello’s endpin into the little hole in the carpet that all the cellists before me have carved out, and I begin the slow, haunting intro, digging into the notes, trying to feel them. But my hands are shaking again. Dirty little slut, says a voice in my mind.

You play very well, for someone who doesn’t have very much talent.

Midway through a phrase, I have to stop and peer out at the faces before me. What do they see when they look at me? Am I even a cellist at all?

…couldn’t have been more seductive if you had stripped your clothes and spread your legs for them.

What am I?

Yarvik is getting up from her seat, coming toward me. “Malory? Are you well? You’re very pale.”

Sweat pours down my back, sticking my shirt to my skin. My armpits are soaked. Even my scalp is burning up, and now I’m having trouble breathing. My airway’s the width of a straw.

“I’m…” But I have to try again because my voice has gone froggy. “I think I’m sick.”

Yarvik nods, and I rise unsteadily. I can see from Bethany’s face that she is worried, that she knows I’m not really sick, not physically, anyway. I avoid her eyes while I pack up my cello and leave.

On my way out of the room, I bang into the doorjamb because I’m so shaky and stiff that I cannot walk straight.

---

I try to play downtown that night, but I’ve come down with a headache so bad that I’ve lost my peripheral vision. I give up and drive home with only twenty-five dollars in my pocket. At least it’s enough to stop by the pharmacy for some Excedrin because I simply cannot stand another minute of this pounding in my head. Maybe I really am coming down with something. My glands seem swollen, so I add Nyquil to my basket too, anxious to get back to my dorm and go to bed.

On Friday the virus hits me head-on. My glands are enormous and aching, my ears hurt, and I’m so congested I can’t breathe. I don’t remember the last time I was so sick. Garrett messages me, expecting me to come over that night, and I am too sick to feel nervous when I tell him I can’t. I pull the blinds in my room closed and chug Nyquil so I can sleep.

I sweat through my sheets and then the extra set so fast that I end up in the laundry room early Saturday morning, hunched over the back of a chair waiting for my linens to wash. I can hardly lift my head, but I can’t bear the thought of sleeping on those nasty, germ-infested sheets. I need to smell something that doesn’t reek of illness.

Sometime Saturday afternoon I’m roused from a Nyquil-muddled sleep by the sound of knocking. I sit up, blinking, the light from outside only slightly less painful to my eyes than it was yesterday. I shuffle to the door and open it a crack.

“Rome?”

“Holy fuck, you look like ass.”

I raise an eyebrow at him.

“Um, I brought these for you.” He holds out a plastic Walgreens bag: a bottle of Nyquil, Theraflu, Vicks VapoRub, and a tube of dissolvable vitamin C tablets.

“Whoa, thanks. I just ran out of Nyquil like an hour ago. How’d you know?” I’m so congested I sound like the world’s biggest nerd.

He shrugs. “I wasn’t sure you had any at all. Anyway, I’m on my way out for the night. Just wanted to bring that by.”

“Thank you, Rome. This is awesome.” But I’m wondering where he’s going, who he’s going with.

“Don’t mention it.” He gives me a warm smile. “Feel better, okay?”

I close the door slowly, shaking my head. I do not deserve how nice he is to me. But I chug some more Nyquil, smear a glob of Vicks all over my chest and neck, and am asleep again within minutes.

Daphne stays out Friday and Saturday night—trying to avoid getting sick, I’m sure—and by Sunday morning, though still weak, I’m at least awake and moving. I take a long, hot shower, then come back and sit on my bed to watch Daphne’s TV while I force myself to eat some cheese and crackers. It’s the first time I’ve had anything solid since Thursday because I haven’t been able to swallow. It feels good to finally be clean. I was starting to be able to smell myself.

I hear a knock at the door—Rome again, probably. He texted earlier to ask how I was doing, and I’m sure he wants to check on me even though I ordered him to keep his distance.

I swing the door wide, smiling, but it’s not Rome standing in the hallway.

It’s Garrett.