SAM
“Okay, guys,” I begin, sitting myself on the edge of my desk. “Break out your textbooks and read from page fifty-six. You’ll be quizzed on this on Friday, so please be prepared.”
A collective groan fills the room as students clamber to open their books.
I wander around to my chair and sit down, pulling my phone out of my pocket. Chloe is a noticeable absence in my class again, and despite myself, I can't help but worry about her. Nothing bad should have happened to her, safe and alone in the hotel room that I paid for, but I still worry. She was attacked. I can only imagine the kind of trauma that would’ve caused for her, and being all alone with nobody to unpack all those emotions?
Staring at my phone call history, my mind clicks back and forth. Her number is right there, from when she called me two nights ago. Almost on autopilot, I bring up a chat and start texting her, but then I delete it and shove my phone back in my pocket.
As much as I want to reach out and make sure she’s okay, something holds me back. I suspect she has a lot more going on in her life and I’m not sure how to get through to her. Not only that, but I’m aware I’m treading a fine line. If I go past it, I might not be able to come back.
Halfway through class, the door opens, and I glance up. Catching sight of Chloe walking in like she’s not nearly an hour late, I give her an acknowledging nod. She doesn’t even glance in my direction as she makes her way to her seat and settles in.
With oversized sunglasses and makeup, she’d done a good job to hide the evidence of being beaten up. A few jokes scatter through the room about her being hung over, but I ask people to be quiet in my class and they taper off. She’s not in uniform, her tight yoga pants and form-fitting shirt designed to grab attention, but I don’t let my gaze linger. Instead, I try to focus on my job with thoughts of her crowding at the edges of my mind. She gets right to work, still not looking at me. I know it’s better than if she were staring at me, because there’s no way no one would notice that, but I still don’t like the fact that she’s ignoring me. I could interrogate her over why she’s late and no one would think anything of my actions, but I know doing so would likely make things worse. If she needs something or has something to say, I’d rather her come to me, not be afraid of being called out in front of her peers. I have this inexplicable need to make her trust me.
Somehow, I manage to get through the rest of the session with minimal issues. When the bell rings and students file out, I focus on the papers in front of me as if they contain the answers. Well, they do; it’s the answer key I’d worked up for the upcoming test, but unfortunately for me, those aren’t the answers I’m interested in currently.
As the last of my students file out of the classroom and the heavy door closes, I feel someone watching me. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out who’d be lingering. Only then does she get up from her seat and make her way toward me.
My body tenses with a mix of emotions I can’t even begin to describe. I wait till the last possible moment before finally dragging my attention from the form in front of me. I glance up at her as she makes her way to my desk, loose-limbed and clearly relaxed. When she removes the sunglasses, there’s a warm light in her eyes and my stomach tightens with desire that I know has no place being there.
“You’re not in uniform.” I point out the obvious.
She glances down, colour springing to her cheeks.
“I only have the one I was wearing last night…” She stops, pressing her lips together while I curse myself for not realizing that earlier.
Shit. I’ve just called her out for being too poor to afford a second uniform.
“I’ll write you a pass,” I mutter, scribbling out a note and handing it to her. “How are you feeling?”
She shrugs. “Not great… I took your advice.” Her voice, barely more than a whisper, has a profound effect on my body. Half-hard and angry with myself, I sit up, internally cursing myself, and lean toward her.
“Oh?” What advice did she take?
She shifts her weight to her right leg, outlining the shape of her figure in a way that makes my heart pound and my mouth go dry. “I went to the police. About the attack last night.” I lean forward to indicate that I’m paying attention. With a nod, I silently urge her to continue talking. “That’s why I’m late. They… They made me see a doctor.” She sounds ashamed, a normal reaction to being a victim.
“Did you tell them about your living arrangements?” I ask, before correcting myself. “Or lack thereof?”
Her arms cross protectively over her chest, and her eyes narrow. With a shake of her head, she answers me, but her tight lips and tense body language tell me more than her mouth could have. She’s closing down, shutting me out, but I stubbornly push forward.
“You should tell someone, Chloe,” I urge her. “If you don’t have a safe place to sleep at night—”
“I appreciate you trying to help,” she interrupts, “but you need to stay out of it.”
Her arms flex as she tightens them more, looking so innocent and vulnerable it pains me. I forcibly bite my tongue and blow out a frustrated breath. Is she running from something…or someone? Clearly, she doesn’t want anyone to know about her living situation and doesn’t want help. That tells me she’s trying to keep hidden.
But from who? And why?
“Is there someone else you can talk to? A friend, maybe?”
“Oh, I have so many friends.” She gives me a wry smile. “Because everyone is falling over themselves to be friends with the new girl.”
“What about back home?” I ask.
She shrugs, her jaw twitching in a way that I know she’s about to close down on me.
“I could talk to you,” she says softly.