Sallinger, Elene - Reflection (The Chrysalis Series)

Much to his embarrassment, his voice cracked.

‘Damn it!’ she fussed. ‘Damn it! Damn it! You were supposed to be unreasonable so I could think you were a class-A dickwad and just hate you.’

He snorted. ‘Well, I keep wondering if I’m being that already.’ He stared into his coffee, wishing the answers would just appear. ‘You know what kills me the most?’

She shook her head, murmuring, ‘No, what?’

‘She’s letting the past define and cage her. I know in my heart that we could be amazing together, but she’s letting one event shape her whole life. And she’s completely wrong in how she sees it.’

‘Sounds a little hypocritical to me.’

Connor heard the vertebrae in his neck crack, so taken aback was he by her statement.

‘How can you even say that?’

An eyebrow raised and she leaned over her desk. ‘Bridget told me about your parents.’ She waved a hand to dismiss his objection. ‘Get over it. I badgered her to find out why you really wouldn’t show your work and she finally caved after you dumped her.’

He flinched at the harshness of her categorisation of his actions.

‘Long story short, m’dear, you are doing exactly the same thing with your art. Just as Bridget has a right to define just how far she’ll let you into her life.’ She clasped her hands together on the desk. ‘The question is how can you ask something of Bridget that you yourself aren’t even willing to give?’

At a loss for words, Connor just stared at Mona, who stood and came around the desk. Stopping at his side, she squeezed his shoulder.

‘My offer stands, Connor. I think you need to look inside and determine if this is really about your parents or if you’ve just grown comfortable not taking the risk. It’s not easy to put your heart on display for the world to judge. I know.’

She left him there, quietly closing the door behind her.

How long he sat there, he didn’t know. It was if someone had just opened the door to a closet that had been stuffed full and abandoned. Opening the door results in an avalanche and all you can do is endure the fall until it’s finally empty.

Memories tumbled through his brain, taking on new shape and perspective. That long-ago night replayed itself in vivid detail until finally Connor understood. And, in that understanding, he forgave himself.

A single, hot tear trailed down his cheek. He still missed them. He wished they could be here to see him now. Swiping away the moisture, Connor picked up a notepad and pen from Mona’s desk and jotted down what he wanted to say.

Leaving her office, he passed her on the way out and pressed the note into her hand before giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

‘What’s that for?’ she asked in surprise.

‘For kicking my ass.’ He smiled at her and, leaving the café, he headed home to plan.

Completely bewildered, Mona watched Connor leave. It ate her alive that those two hadn’t made it. She’d never seen Bridget so happy.

‘What can you do?’ she sighed under her breath.

Unfolding Connor’s note, a grin broke out across her face. Maybe, just maybe, there was hope after all.

In a barely legible scrawl, Connor had written, “You pick the date and time. We’ll call the show New Dimensions .” Along with his email address and phone number.

Mona tucked the note into her pocket and headed back to her office. There was planning to do.

Bridget gripped the steering wheel of her rented Taurus and willed her lungs to work. Her chest felt as if it had turned to stone. She forced air into her lungs and, closing her eyes, visualised all her tension as a big, red balloon floating into the sky. Rising. Rising. Rising and finally popping.

Opening her eyes, Bridget felt no change. So much for the visualisation exercises her rape crisis centre advocate had recommended. Clearly, will alone was not enough in this case.

After Connor had left, Bridget had truly felt as if she would die. The grief of losing him had been a crushing weight. She hadn’t been able to eat. She hadn’t slept. She could hardly function.

Skyler had threatened to have her committed to a psych ward. Ultimately, it had been Skyler’s obvious fear that had pulled her out of bed, but she’d still been only going through the motions.

Connor’s words echoed in her brain relentlessly. No matter how often she argued with his phantom, she couldn’t escape the realisation he’d been right.

She had grown complacent in her self-imposed prison. It provided her the excuse she desired to avoid confronting the shame and confusion she carried as a result of being raped. Especially how she’d responded during her rape.

She desired things she simply didn’t know how to process in the aftermath. Finally, she’d found the courage to call her local rape crisis centre and request counselling. Cathy, the advocate she’d begun seeing, had been wonderful. As compassionate as she was, she still called a spade a spade. Her brash, matter-of-fact attitude was exactly what Bridget needed.

She’d only had two sessions so far, but she already felt she had a better perspective on what happened. In particular, her misplaced shame over her reactions while drugged.

Ironically, Dean Whittier’s attack had served as a catalyst. The pain he’d inflicted on her had been just that – pain. There’d been nothing sexual about it and she’d responded the way anyone would have under the circumstances.

She’d also been in her right mind, not drugged as she had been with Trent.

Once she’d realised that, she’d been able to start the process of facing herself and recognising her urges for what they were. A desire for sexual and sensual exploration. A need for pain in a sexual context that heightened pleasure.

She couldn’t say why she was wired this way. But, in the end, she’d accepted the why didn’t really matter. So long as no one was harmed, there was no reason not to explore this aspect of her sexuality. Like Connor had said, consent was key. Both parties needed to agree, and Trent had removed her ability to consent.

Connor had also been right that she hadn’t even really tried. She’d been content to let him make all the sacrifices. And, through her resistance, she’d lost him.

Tears stung her eyes, but she blinked them away. Now was not the time for that. She had a purpose and she was going to see it through.

With a deep, fortifying breath, Bridget stepped out of the rental and, for the first time in almost two decades, she gazed upon her alma mater.

Corinthian University was everything Pinewood was not. Where Pinewood was stately and traditional, Corinthian had grown up within the urban sprawl of Chicago. The buildings were glass and steel and the only greenery was the carefully cultivated park area near the campus’ administrative building. The dorms were really a ring of converted apartment buildings that lined the outer edges of the small campus. The only real similarity between the two was the students. Grouped in clusters, they had laptops and iPads and were the picture of youth and potential.

That outer ring of dorms was where Bridget stood facing not just her former school, but the ghost of her past.

She adjusted her grip on her keys, being certain to unlock the pepper spray that now hung from the ring. Seeking closure didn’t mean being reckless and she had no idea what she was walking into.

It didn’t take long for Bridget to come to Pritchard Hall. Over the years, the building had been upgraded and the exterior had been whitewashed. The cosmetic enhancements did nothing to erase the crime scene aura radiating from it.

For her, it was tainted, and no coat of paint would change that.

Once inside, she was startled to see the number of young women occupying the lobby. From the heavily decorated doors lining the walls, it was clear to see that Pratt Hall had been integrated. Some of Bridget’s tension released at the realisation she wasn’t facing a legion of hormone-ridden college boys in her quest to reclaim her past.