“Aspen,” the man calls, standing at the door to the small lounge.
I rise and follow him down a hall, into an office. There’s a couch, a chair, a desk. A window. For some reason, I go to the window first, peering out of it. We’re on the fourth floor, all the way at the end of the Administration building on campus. From here, I can see all the students crossing the quad in that in-between period between classes or heading to the dining hall for an early dinner.
My stomach aches.
I haven’t eaten all day. Every time I think I should, I think of that video and I get nauseous. I made the mistake of attempting coffee, only to lose it a few minutes later.
And then I got the email.
“Aspen, I’m Michael Hauser.” The man who collected me from the waiting room closes the door. He’s got to be only a few years out of college. His red hair is combed neatly and held immobile. “Thank you for meeting with me.”
“I was told it was mandatory.” My voice is tight, and I sit on the windowsill. “Is that correct?”
He looks down at the folder in his hand. “Well, ah, yes.”
“And you’re a…?”
“Counselor.” He smiles. “I’m here to help with whatever you need. Especially after…”
I go still and wait for him to say it.
“After the past few weeks,” he ends, somewhat lamely.
At least be up front and admit that I’m here because of that stupid video. It was taken down last night, and a little bird—Willow—mentioned that Steele told everyone to delete it. I guess the cat’s out of the bag that our parents are married, so there’s that unfortunate truth out in the world, too.
I’ve kept my head buried in the sand.
Still, no one was more surprised than me to get a supportive text from Willow, and another quickly followed by Violet. Apparently, an ugly video was passed around of Violet last year. She was quick to assure me that everyone will move on quickly when more interesting gossip comes to light, and to keep my head up.
Right.
The counselor takes a seat in one of the armchairs where I remain in his line of sight. Although he seems unperturbed by my choice of placement. Instead, he says, “Let’s talk about how your week has been. What are you majoring in?”
“Just to clarify, you’re not a licensed therapist, correct?” I lean forward and swing my feet. My heels hit the wall with steady, soft thumps.
He shifts. “That’s right.”
“So you don’t have to abide by HIPAA?”
“Oh, everything you say here is confidential—”
“You can tell me that all you want, but there’s no real repercussions if you don’t, right?”
“You’re right.” He sets aside the folder and notebook, his pen on top of it. “The whole reason you’re here is because the administration is concerned about you.”
“It’s mandatory that I show up here.” I lean back against the glass. The cold permeates through my shirt, and I fight the urge to shift away. Instead, I keep my hands completely still in my lap. “But if I can’t trust you, why would I talk to you?”
He nods, all understanding and serene bullshit. “Trust is a big thing for any therapist-patient relationship.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” I mutter. “Especially since this is getting blown way out of proportion. I was drugged.”
“You were drugged? By who?” He’s skeptical.
“And they videoed it,” I add. “Obviously.”
He picks up his notepad and writes something. Maybe, CRAZY!!!
“You’re saying you were under the influence of drugs?”
“I guess.” I twist around to look out the window again.
“Have you ever taken hallucinogenic drugs before?”
My attention snaps back to the counselor. “Why?”
“Because certain kinds will stay in your brain. They can come back days, months, years later and send you into an unexpected trip.”
My lip curls. “You think that’s what happened?”
“I’m not here to pass judgment.” He lifts his hands, like he’s surrendering. “Although as I’m sure you’re aware, CPU has a strict policy when it comes to illegal substances.”
What I know is that Steele O’Brien wants my family separated from his by any means necessary… and he’s hated that I’ve been spying on him. I mean, I all but admitted that his father wanted me to keep an eye on him when I first met him. How was I supposed to know that it was an abnormal event? Or something that Steele would freak out about?
“How about we talk about something else?” I suggest.
“Sure.”
His amiability is getting on my nerves.
“How about your sisters? You have two?” He flips open the file beside him and scans it. “Dakota and Lennox.”
I narrow my eyes. “Yeah…”
“They’re quite a bit younger than you. Fourteen and twelve to your twenty. Did you take on more of a parental role with them?”
“Nope, my mom is an excellent mother. She managed to take care of all of us and herself just fine.” I don’t think I like this line of discussion either. I grit my teeth and glance at the clock. At this rate, I have a feeling he’s just trying to get some—any—reaction from me.
“Where are they now?”
I force a smile. “With mom’s new husband, I would imagine.”
“Leaving you alone here?”
“No,” I reply steadily, except my heart is beating faster. I’m not alone—I have Thalia. And if I really had to stretch, I’d say I had Willow and Violet, and maybe some of the other girls. I mean, we’re not friends by any means, but they both showed compassion when that video went around. And if I had to stretch further, I’d include Uncle.
Not my father, though. Never him, no matter how much money he throws at me.
“Your mother mentioned you had a traumatic childhood,” he continues. “In fact, it was noted in your school records by your stepfather to be on the lookout for resurfacing of such trauma.”
I go completely still. Is that the truth? Did my mom and Stephen tell Crown Point University that I was… traumatized? What my father did to me as a kid has nothing to do with Steele drugging me. That doesn’t even make sense.
“Should we talk about your father?”
I cringe.
The big bad monster I so desperately needed saving from as a child? No, we shouldn’t talk about him.
I stay silent, and the counselor continues his notes. He doesn’t seem bothered by my unwillingness to speak. He exudes calmness, and it’s driving me crazy. I sit there and stare at him writing god knows what. I fidget with my hands, pick at my nails. My heels drum into the wall.
Time passes so freaking slowly, until finally, his phone chimes.
He scans the screen quickly. His focus returns to me. “Our time is up, Aspen. Although I hope to see you again. If anything, I can refer you to a specialist outside of school.”
Thank god it’s over. I take a deep breath and rise.
I grab my bag and march out of the office without a backward glance. Mandatory counseling, my ass. Luckily, they’re only making me go to one.
I’ve got an email on my phone from the financial aid office. I scan it, my stomach knotting. They want to see me as soon as possible. They’re down a floor, I think. I wander until I find it, the glass-walled office sleek and efficient-looking. And cold.
The receptionist takes my name and points to a chair along the wall. My advisor will be out shortly. I’ve never met the person, so I’m not sure what to expect. It certainly isn’t the matronly woman, her steel-gray hair pulled back into a bun, who comes bustling out from an office. She’s got the classic chilly-all-the-time vibe, wearing a cardigan over her plum-colored dress, thick socks and boots hiding her legs.
She motions for me to follow, and we step into a small office. There’s a space heater on the floor, directed at her chair, and she smiles warmly when we’re both seated.
“So, Aspen. We’re halfway through the first semester, and I was informed today that your funding for the second semester would not be covered.” She frowns. “This is highly unusual, but nothing to worry about. We just need to know how you’ll be paying.”
I stop. “What do you mean, it’s not covered? Did my—” I hesitate. “Did my stepdad call you?”
“Mr. O’Brien did let us know, yes.” She has a sympathetic expression. “He tried to confirm your withdrawal from the school, but that’s not our department. And unfortunately, there’s not much we can do about the funding at this stage…”
My stomach knots, and I swallow down the bile rising in my throat. I should’ve expected this, but he moved a little faster than I thought. I mean, the asshole didn’t even call me.
“What…” I clear my throat. “What are my options?”
She slides a folder toward me, with clear Crown Point University marketing on it. This is probably what they give all their accepted, prospective students. I open it and flip through the pages tucked inside. A guide to applying for financial aid, a list of ‘helpful’ tips for budgeting, et cetera.
“You can try to apply for financial aid—grants, loans—for next semester. However, most of our allocation is decided over the summer. I would suggest reapplying for aid next semester to cover your final year.” She slides me a box of tissues. “It’s okay if you’re upset.”
I stare at the tissue poking out of the top. “I’m not upset,” I say slowly. “I’m pissed.”
She sits back. “Oh. Um—”
“Not at you.” I rise. “When do I need to pay?”
“Before the start of next semester. I can file for an extension, give you until the end of January—”
“I’ll let you know.” I swing my bag over my shoulder and book it out of there. Once I’m free of that cold, depressing office, I head straight to the elevator. With it being during a class period, it’s quiet in the halls. The elevator arrives empty, and I stand silently in it until the doors close.
The scream that tears out of my mouth has been building for hours.
It echoes in the small space, bouncing around me, but it feels so good to let it out. I scream until my voice is hoarse and my throat burns. The elevator stops, and I lick my lips. My breathing is ragged, but I don’t give a shit.
Steele’s been targeting me since I told him I was passing information back to his father. His father, who told me that my way was paid as long as I was useful.
Does that mean I’m no longer useful?
Or… trustworthy?
I shudder. It seems awfully convenient timing. The website, my address being leaked, and now this. Steel’s been making everything worse for me, but this seems to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. The camel being his father.
The idea of giving in to the O’Briens makes my head hurt.
Letting Steele win isn’t an option.
