I nod again, grateful for her suggestion—one I’d thought about myself. It’s hard to give up time with the person I admire because her son happens to be an awful human being. Then again, I’m not sure how wonderful Miranda is after all. She saved my life, but maybe that doesn’t make her a hero—maybe it just makes her good at her job. I’ve seen glimpses of the cracks in her selfless façade, and they’re discouraging.

“Just promise you’ll think about it,” Lindsey says, her hand on my knee. “You have options.”

* * *

My conversation with Lindsey stuck with me, even now, hours after she left.

I have options.

I’m not so sure I do, but looking at Andrew…watching him lay here—so much working on his behalf just so he can breathe—I feel a little angry with myself for letting Graham off without any punishment for what he did. I know he’s not the hand that put Andrew here today, but he’s partly the reason. And he is the hand that struck me.

I wonder how many others he’s abused?

My mind keeps replaying the switch flipping in him. I go to all of those moments where he wasn’t quite a gentleman in the first place. He was short, or rude, or curt during a conversation. His hands were always just a little too assuming with me, crossing the line a little too far; his presumption that I was his property happened quickly, and without my consent.

“You should take a break,” Owen says, kicking my foot from the chair he and I have both commandeered as our footstool. He smirks, spreading his enormous feet out on the surface of the seat in a teasing way, taking up all the space.

I sit up, rubbing my face and sliding my advanced bio book back in my bag on the floor. I haven’t slept but for a few minutes here and there, and I can feel the knots in my hair around the base of my neck. I think…maybe…I also smell a little.

“Go home. Take a nap. Get some rest. I promise I’ll text you if anything happens,” he says, holding out a fist for me to pound. I laugh at it, then squeeze it between both of my hands. Twenty-four hours together in this situation has formed an instant bond between Owen and me. I get why Andrew loves him so much.

I pull my bag over my shoulders and head through the door, spinning around before leaving and pointing at him. “You promise. If anything happens,” I say.

Owen crosses his heart, and I believe him. I’ve learned that’s part of the deal with Harper boys—they don’t swear on their hearts often, and when they do, they mean it.

I think about going to my old apartment, and when I hail a cab out front, that’s the address I give the driver. But when I step out of the car, my legs carry me to Andrew’s. The smell is comforting, and I feel him alive here. I need that—the image of him living, him just being. I shower quickly and leave a note for Trent asking him to text me when he gets home. He was taking care of alerting the school and the coach.

My hair dried and my clothes changed, I feel a small reserve of energy kick in my body. I brew myself a double cup of coffee and fill one of Trent’s mugs so I can carry it with me to stave off sleepiness for a few hours longer. I lock up and begin to walk back to the hospital, but I notice the light outside, the glow of late afternoon, and I check the time on my phone. It’s not quite four-thirty, and Miranda’s office hours end at five.

I don’t want to go. I stop walking at least a dozen times, a dozen more I turn around. But Lindsey is right. And Andrew was right. I need to tell someone—I need to tell Miranda first.

By the time I get to her door, I can hear the sounds of her on the other side powering down her computer and packing up her things. With a deep breath, I knock lightly, and her door slowly slides open with the force of my touch. Her body leans back in her chair, and soon our eyes meet.

“Emma, hi. I was just packing up. I missed you today,” she says, no longer looking at me. She’s checking out, moving on to her next thing. I step into her office and watch as she pulls her makeup bag from her purse, pulling out a mirror and lip gloss that she circles around her lips twice. I wonder who she’s wearing that for?

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry I missed today. I…a friend of mine was in a terrible accident. I’ve been at the hospital with him,” I say, sitting down as she stands. She glances as our bodies play opposite, her lips pursing and her brow furrowing with inconvenience. She sits anyhow, because she’s not a rude person. She’s just not as selfless as I always thought.

“I hope he’s all right,” she says, and I notice how rehearsed her sympathy sounds. I think she may be a sociopath—I read somewhere that most successful people are.