Page 204 of Because I Killed Him
I already knew she hated me for being a member of Edmund’s entourage. I know she hates me even more now that she knows we were together. But I think there’s another reason, too. I think it’s because I saw her alone on the deck of the yacht, whispering to her monkey as she cried over Jack.Me. Someone she despises, catching her vulnerable and exposed, down on her knees in the dark. Now she wants to break me for it. She wants to grind me down until my will cracks, and I finally stop getting back up. No matter how many therapists Phillipa throws at her, nothing will split her focus.
I slump back against the pillows, wincing at how stiff my leg is. I wish I could walk, even to the window. But I’m marooned in this bed, seething in silence while the world keeps moving without me.
Charlotte still hasn’t returned from her meeting with Jack. It’s been hours, but I know she wouldn’t stall without a reason. So, for now, I do the only thing I can. I hunker down and fire off ten identical emails, one to each of the second-year Cloning Theory professors listed in the university registry.
I tell them the truth: that I need help, that I’m willing to do the work, meet whenever they’re available, and take the first-year exam once they think I’m ready.
Time drips by. I eat lunch without tasting it, then ask the Pinkies to help me into the lavatory for a shower. When I finally get back in bed, wrapped in fresh sheets, I check my Bond to find ten replies, all nearly the same. Every professor says their classes are already full, over-enrolled with first-years looking to get ahead.
All except one.
Subject: Optional
Waldsten—
Cloning Theory’s full. But I’ve got one spot left in Genetic Engineering, and if you want it, it’s yours. I’ll tutor you in Cloning Theory on the side. No paperwork, no fuss.
You didn’t take GenEng this year, so you’ll be behind. Don’t worry, I’m a generous man. I’ll help you catch up.
If you’re in, reply before tomorrow. I don’t chase.
Jerome
Cloning Theory & Genetic Engineering Faculty
I frown at the email, brushing wet hair from my forehead. What kind of professor is this? There’s no greeting or sign-off, just blunt orders, like some back-alley hustler trying to charm girls on the curb. But I have no other door to knock on. That means I’m screwed, sailing straight out of shit creek and headfirst into shit river.
I have to take the one class IsworeI’d never touch: Genetic Engineering. I bark out a laugh that stutters into a gasp. Pathetic. If my life were a drama series, people would switch the channel. There’s too much losing, too much crawling back for more.
Still, my throat locks up as I start drafting my reply. This is real. I’m actually doing it. I’m walking into a course where I’ll stare my differences with Edmund in the face every day; where the gap between us—heart, mind, and body—will be mapped out in detail on brightly colored graphs, exactly as it was meant to be.
Jerome’s reply arrives in my inbox a minute later:
Top. Be at my office on Friday morning—anytime from nine to eleven. No smoking, or Henry will kick you out. There’s usually a line. Be ready to wait. Or to chase.
My frown deepens as the muscles around my eyes clench tighter. Who the hell is this man? I’m about to pull up the faculty registry to investigate when the door of my hospital room swings open and Charlotte appears.
The worry etched on her face makes me forget Professor Jerome entirely.
“Edmund wants to meet you,” she says quietly. “On Thursday morning. Alone.”
Waiting for Thursday feels like dying in slow motion. Every hour pulls at my heart, dragging the end closer but never close enough to finish it. Patience has never been my strong suit. “You’d rush a sunrise if you could,” Hillaire once snapped at me. But waiting for this meeting isn’t about patience. It’s a test of every shred of sanity I have left.
Outside my window, the campus fizzes like an uncorked bottle of champagne. Now that classes are over, the streets vibrate with music, fireworks, and the laughter of students too drunk to worry about tomorrow. Among everyone, the first-years seem most dedicated to the revelry, burning through what’s left of the year before the Mensur on Saturday.
I tell Charlotte she should go out, too. “Dance with a stranger. Let yourself forget for a few hours.” But she shrugs and insists she’d rather be here, waiting with me.
So we stay curled up together on my bed, the blankets pulled up to our chins. We talk all night and into the next day, mostly about Jack. The whole time, I keep turning the Florence Engine over in my pocket, letting its weight ground me. I no longer need the device, but wanting it is another story.
Charlotte’s voice quavers as she picks at the corner of the quilt. “I know it’s over with Jack. I do. And most days, I’ve made my peace with it, but… I think I need one last push. Then the rope snaps. Then I drift off clean. I’ll throw myself back into track, my classes, my future—whatever the hell that’s gonna be now.”
She gives me a faint, crooked smile, and in her eyes, I see she means it. She’s not entirely free yet, but she’s on her way. She keeps talking, and I listen, but between the words there’s a space she doesn’t try to fill. Because inside it, she knows what I’m waiting for.
Thursday.
And she knows exactly how much it’s going to hurt.
Thursday morning breaks with an orange sunrise that feels like an omen. Whether the omen is good or bad, I can’t tell. But it’s too bright, too easy on the eyes, and too pleased with itself for showing up. It spills through my window, reckless and entitled, warming everything insistently.
