You’re spiraling, Charlotte. Pull it together.
She willed herself to breathe, drawing her legs up against her chest. “My name is Charlotte Thorne,” she whispered to her knees. “I am twenty-seven years old. I live in Brooklyn. I work for The Front End Review.”
As she reminded herself of who she was, she studied the patio under her feet. The more she repeated the anchoring words, the more color returned to the world around her. The ruddy beige of sidewalk pushed away panic’s inky black. Grass grew between the cracks, stubborn streaks of green and dirty yellow. Someone had planted blue and white pansies around the courtyard to match Hein’s school colors.
“My birthday is April thirtieth. My best friend is Jackie Slaughter. I am safe here.”
She didn’t feel safe. She wasn’t safe. But maybe if she told herself often enough, she could trick herself into believing it.
Charlotte once loved it here—this school, this campus, this little town. She loved Hein University like a child loves Disney World, only she got to wake up here every single morning for four years. She never felt homesick, not for a day, not even for a minute. As other freshmen lined up in the mail room to collect care packages from their parents, Charlotte felt blissfully free. For the first time in her life, no one turned up their noses at her sketch pads or the books on feminism she smuggled home from the library. She left her dorm room whenever she wanted, and she returned whenever she damn well pleased.
When she bought two family-size bags of Cheetos at the student grocery, no one sneered at her taste. When she slept until one p.m. on a Saturday afternoon, it was no one’s business but hers. And when she kissed girls, and boys, and folks who identified as neither, she had nothing to fear.
A few months into that first fall semester, she looked at her dresser and wondered what it would be like to dress for herself—not for her mother’s scrutiny, not for her private high school’s uniform, not even for the hipster kids down the hall. She had never liked that metallic pink pencil skirt. In fact, she had never liked skirts at all. Those espadrilles could go, and the atrocious patterned sundresses, and the cardigans, all the shit her mother bought and hung up in her closet like Charlotte was a doll and not a person.
She didn’t want any of it. She was done.
Ten minutes later, a heap of clothes sat on the floor. As Charlotte considered the few items that survived the purge, a girl she vaguely recognized from downstairs popped her head through the open door. She held a cardboard box of mac and cheese. “Hi! Do you have a microwave?”
Charlotte blinked at the sudden invasion. The brunette ignored her discomfort and did a double take at the mess. “Ooo, you weeding out?”
At a loss for words, Charlotte merely nodded. She blew hair out of her face and stood still as the girl picked a pair of barely worn shorts up from the floor. The stranger cringed at the embroidered whales on the pockets. “Yikes, I see why. Hideous or not, you could make a killing reselling some of this online. These are brand name.”
By the time they were done, Jackie Slaughter had helped Charlotte make two hundred dollars on eBay. They took what didn’t sell to Goodwill, where Charlotte’s new friend taught her how to flip through the racks quickly but methodically. She learned to identify polyester versus cotton with a simple touch, and she found a pair of black combat boots in exactly her size.
When Jackie saw her eyeing a fleece-lined denim jacket in the men’s section, she forced her to try it on. “Clothes don’t have a gender,” Jackie insisted. “If you like it, wear it.”
All told, Charlotte bought several loose men’s button-down shirts and a few pairs of well-worn jeans. Plus the jacket. She wore that jacket until the elbows gave out.
College offered Charlotte more than a respected degree and a few thousand peers to learn from. It let her be herself. It let her find herself. Hein was the only place she’d ever felt independent and safe.
Ben changed that. Not immediately, not right away. But when their relationship was finally over, campus never felt the same. Even now, six years later.
Charlotte pressed her forehead against her knees.
Deep breath in. Deep breath out.
Of course Ben was attending the reunion. Of course he’d be a panelist. How naïve of her to imagine she could ever have Hein for herself. He was the son of a trustee, so this campus was practically his birthright. His last name was etched in marble above the doors to Mead Library.
It took her a long time to see the irony: Her ex-boyfriend had liked to think of her as his preppy blond trophy girlfriend from the suburbs joining him on the edge. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t traditional trophy material—Charlotte was shy and bisexual and helplessly afraid of sailing. Nor did it matter that Ben, the eldest son of a hedge fund manager, was hardly a rebel without a cause. The romantic tale of the leftist bad boy and the Chevy Chase, Maryland, girl-next-door flattered him and made her small. Insisting that her denim jacket wasn’t warm enough, he bought her a camel designer peacoat made of virgin wool, and then elegant white snow boots lined with shearling. The more feminine she dressed for him, the better.
Now Ben was a niche podcasting celebrity to young progressives who spent too much time online. He painted himself as a hero in public while he treated women like garbage in private. No one took a closer look to see if his talking points lined up with his behavior.
Footsteps whispered through the grass surrounding the patio. Charlotte looked up to see a loose dog padding toward her on dainty paws. The fluffy animal couldn’t have weighed more than twenty pounds soaking wet. It nudged her hand with its nose, a pink tongue lolling happily out of its mouth.
“Hello there,” Charlotte murmured. She stroked through the dog’s silky red fur to find the tag on its collar. “Misty, huh? Who do you belong to?”
Maybe she lived at one of the frats and slipped out an open door? Judging by her pristine coat and trusting nature, the dog was loved and well cared for.
Misty nuzzled against her knee, demanding pats. Charlotte obliged.
“You can hang out with me, sweetheart.” She let the dog lick her hand. She probably tasted like red wine and embarrassment.
Misty’s unrelenting affection made her feel grounded, the way animals always did. Mrs. Thorne showed dogs when Charlotte was little, and her prized Airedale terrier Cymbeline was the only member of the family who enjoyed Charlotte’s company. Dogs never judged her for getting overwhelmed at crowded parties. One day when she felt settled enough, with a less demanding job and more financial stability, she would adopt a rescue in need of a home.
“I see you’ve met my girlfriend.”
Reece materialized from the darkness, a leash balled up in his fist. He gave them a bemused smile. “Fancy meeting you here, Charlie,” he said.
A new wave of humiliation crested over the last. How many times during college did she text Reece after a run-in with Ben, her face streaked with tear tracks and mascara? How many times did she use his warmth to chase away the cold grip of shame?
Welcome back to Hein, the universe sneered.
She said nothing as Reece squatted at her feet. “This is Misty,” he continued, politely ignoring how odd she must look sitting alone outside the career center, spilled wine drying on her jeans. He gently pinched the tips of the dog’s floppy ears between his fingers and hoisted them up in the air. “She’s my soul mate.”
Charlotte cleared her throat. “We met, but we haven’t been introduced. Is she yours?”
“Garrett’s. She needed a walk and I volunteered. Anything to get away from that reception.” He cooed at Misty and rubbed her chin with the pads of his fingers. She closed her eyes in bliss. “Someone’s gotta take care of this girl while her dad parties, and she just beelined right to you.” He glanced around the deserted patio, and then at the career center behind them. “Nice place to take a break from all the fuss, huh?”
“It’s a bit much.” She left it at that, hoping Reece wouldn’t pry. The last thing she wanted to do was admit she’d fled a panel featuring her ex-boyfriend. Especially not to Reece. “Is she allowed to be here?”
“Of course not, but Misty gets away with murder.” He took the dog’s face in his hands. “Who can say no to this sweet face?”
Indeed, Charlotte could not.
Misty wiggled out of Reece’s hold and plopped her chin on Charlotte’s knee again. Her fur felt like silk as it flowed through Charlotte’s fingers. “Do you have your own yet?”
Reece eased himself down to sit on the concrete, his knees cracking. “No, not yet. Jess was allergic.”
