Brandy Colbert - Pointe

I wrench my cast-iron arms from my sides because he isn’t real if I don’t touch him. I know I probably shouldn’t, but I have to. My fingers brush over his sleeve, his collar, but I stop myself before they can get to the cleft in his chin—because he flinched. Like he doesn’t know me.

A part of me wilts. I never thought Donovan could be uncomfortable around me. Even now, after four years apart, I never thought that. I look at him, stare at him, will him to look into my eyes. I don’t know if we still have the same connection after so many years have passed, if his eyes will tell me anything at all. But I have to try.

“Hey,” I say in the softest tone possible. “Hey, Donovan. It’s me. Theo.”

It works. He’s looking at me and then I wish he wasn’t. His eyes are the deepest, brownest pools of sadness. I swim in them. Wade through the depths of hurt and anger and confusion. Each wave is deeper than the next. Murkier, harder to see through. But when he looks away, I know one thing for certain: Donovan didn’t run away.

I reach both arms out to him and then I stop. Because he doesn’t move at all. Doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t say anything—of course he doesn’t say anything. I should probably just walk away, compose myself before I’m called inside. But instead I step closer and wrap my arms around him like someone who has never been taught to hug, like someone who doesn’t know you’re supposed to let go. I hug him until I think my ribs will crack and his spine will crumble and my arms will snap like twigs. I hug him so hard and I whisper, right in his ear: “I’m sorry.”

He just stands there. Paralyzed in my arms. And I know I have to let him go. But I can’t. Dad steps forward to pry us apart, his hands gentle as he pulls back on my arms. I stare at Donovan, try to look into his eyes one last time, but he’s gone in a second. Swallowed up by the prosecution team like a human tornado.

I watch them walk down the long corridor as Dad gently squeezes my arm, as Mom murmurs, “You’ll see him again soon, honey. Do you want some water? Maybe you should go to the bathroom before—”

I don’t catch the rest because I’m breaking away, running, trying to reach Donovan and his lawyers before they get to the door of the courtroom. My flats pound the concrete floor, the slap of the soles echoing against the walls. People milling about the hallway stare at me like I’m crazy, but I don’t care. I have to talk to McMillan before it’s too late.

“Mr. McMillan!”

Nothing. There are too many people ahead of me in their huddle, too many footsteps and voices bouncing along the hallway. And there’s no way I’ll be able to get through. Most of them are much taller than me. I’d have to fight my way through a wall of navy and gray and black suits and I’m smart enough to know that’s not happening.

“Mr. McMillan, I need to talk to you!”

Everyone stops. My voice echoes through the silent hallway like I’m speaking through a megaphone. McMillan is at the front of the pack and something tells me he’s not the guy you summon by screaming in a courthouse. But what other choice did I have? Let them walk through those doors without knowing what could be the most important piece of their case against Chris? Let Chris take a lighter sentence because I loved him once upon a time?

Love doesn’t change the fact that he was too old. Too old to be talking to me. To both of us. He was too old to spend his free time with a couple of thirteen-year-olds.

A murmur spreads through the group in front of me, and then the suits at the back are stepping aside and McMillan emerges. He looks peeved, to say the least. No half-moons this time.

“What is it, Theo? We really have to get in there now,” he says, his eyes flickering toward the courtroom door. “Judge Richey—”

“There’s more.”

It comes out so calmly, like it’s an afterthought. Like this hasn’t plagued me for months, like I haven’t already broken down exactly how my life will play out after this. I think it’s McMillan’s face that keeps me calm. Even when he’s not smiling—when he looks so annoyed—I feel safe with him. It will be hard to get it out now, but it would be even harder if I went into this at the last second, totally alone.

“What do you mean?” His eyebrows sink down toward his nose, but his eyes are still open and honest.

I’m doing the right thing. I am.

“I have more to t-tell you,” I say, looking down at my flats. “I have to talk to you before you g-go in there. It’s important.”

“Theo, this—”

“It’s about Chris Fenner. There’s more.”

I’m shaking.

Because if Chris was capable of raping Donovan, then what he did to me could be rape, too.

McMillan looks at me for a long moment, then says something to the man behind him in a low tone. The suit looks surprised. He must be shocked that McMillan is taking me so seriously. But he just nods and moves toward the front of the huddle.

McMillan puts a hand on my shoulder, looks at me with curious and cautious eyes. “We don’t have long. You’re sure this is essential to the case? To your testimony?”

“I’m positive,” I say as we start walking toward the elevators again.

I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.

THE COURTROOM IS FREEZING.

My parents sit in the second row, directly behind Donovan’s family. Their heads swivel as the heavy door thumps closed behind me. They have to wonder why I ran after McMillan, why we sat talking so long, and why he called in a couple of his colleagues after I’d told him everything there was to tell.

The thing is, as much as I know McMillan hates that I waited so late to tell him, it’s worth it. Because as soon as I told him Chris Fenner was my boyfriend, he got a gleam in his eyes. And I’m pretty sure that meant he had enough information to do some serious damage to the other side’s case.

“But what if they expect me to say something?” I asked when we were sitting in an empty room upstairs. It seemed like someone’s office—small and boring with a desk, a chair, and some filing cabinets. No windows. A lock on the door. My heart still wasn’t beating normally at that point, even after I’d gotten everything out. It would probably be the theme for the day.

“Well, there’s a chance he did tell his lawyers about your ‘relationship,’” McMillan said, scribbling something down on a yellow notepad. “But Theo, what did you tell me when you first described him?”

I looked at him, confused, but he didn’t wait for me to make the connection.

“You said you were in love with him and he knew it.” He paused, his pen hovering over the paper. “And since you didn’t go to anyone until now, he probably thinks you won’t tell.”

“Unless they think we’ve been hiding it this whole time on pur—”

“Don’t overthink it. Look.” McMillan leaned forward with the most solemn expression. His eyes were the biggest I’ve ever seen them, which isn’t very big at all. “This guy, he . . . he took a lot from you, a long time ago. And you didn’t tell anyone, not until the day you had to testify. He probably thinks he still has you wrapped around his finger. If he’s counting on Donovan not saying anything, he’s probably counting on the same from you.”

McMillan was right. Donovan and I used to believe everything Chris told us, do anything he said. If only to make sure we weren’t doing anything wrong, anything to make him stop liking us.

So now, as I walk from the back of the courtroom to the front, as my shoes make tiny clicking noises on the floor, I try to remember this. McMillan is right. My testimony is going to shock everyone—my parents, my friends, everyone in this town—but it will shock Chris most of all. And him thinking I’m not strong enough to go through with it, not strong enough to stand up for my friend and myself . . . well, I guess it’s typical Chris. But I’m not typical Theo.