Chapter 18
Emily's POV
The cheerleader's smile sharpened. "Oh, we're just getting started. See, I've been trying to figure out what kind of girl throws herself at the first guy who's nice to her. And then I realized—you probably think he's going to save you or something. Be your knight in shining armor because Daddy taught you that's all you're worth."
"That's so sad," one of the others added, her tone dripping with false pity. "She probably doesn't even know how pathetic she—"
"You think insulting me is going to work?" I cut her off, and my voice was steady now, cold in a way that surprised even me. "You think I haven't heard worse? From people a lot scarier than you?"
Her expression flickered—just for a second, but I saw it. Uncertainty.
I took a step forward. My heart was still pounding, my hands still wanted to shake, but I kept my face blank. They can't see it. Don't let them see it. "So what's next? You going to push me? Hit me? Right here, in the middle of Derek's party?"
"Maybe we will," the cheerleader said, but her voice had lost some of its edge.
"Really?" I looked between the three of them, forcing myself to hold eye contact even though every instinct was screaming to look for exits, to run. "Because if I go back downstairs with a bruise, or a split lip, or anything at all—do you think Ethan's not going to notice? Do you think he's not going to ask me what happened?"
I paused, let that sink in. My pulse was so loud in my ears I could barely hear my own voice, but I pushed through it. "He punched my father to protect me. You want to find out what he'll do to you?"
The silence that followed felt like it lasted forever. I watched the calculation move through their faces—weighing the satisfaction of putting me in my place against the very real possibility of consequences they hadn't thought through. My breathing was too fast, too shallow, but I kept my expression flat, kept my shoulders back.
Don't let them see. Don't let them know you're terrified.
The cheerleader's jaw tightened. For a moment I thought she might actually do it—might shove me, might take the swing—and I was already bracing, already planning how to fall without hitting my head.
Then she stepped back. "You're not worth it."
"Yeah," one of the others muttered. "Lucky bitch."
They stepped aside. I walked past them without looking back, every muscle locked tight, my heart pounding so hard I thought they might hear it. I didn't let myself breathe fully until I'd reached the bathroom and locked the door behind me.
Then I leaned against the sink and let my hands shake.
They trembled so badly I had to grip the porcelain edge to keep them still. My reflection in the mirror looked pale, eyes too wide, and I could see the fear I'd been hiding written all over my face now that there was no one to perform for.
Three against one. They could have hurt you. They wanted to.
I ran cold water over my wrists and told myself it was fine, that I'd handled it, that they'd backed down. But my body didn't believe me yet. It still thought I was in danger, still had adrenaline flooding my system like I was about to run or fight or—
You're not him. That's not who you are.
Ethan's voice, from Monday. Steady and certain.
I closed my eyes and breathed slowly until my hands stopped shaking. Until I could look in the mirror again without seeing the scared girl who'd just been cornered in a hallway.
When I finally looked up, I barely recognized myself. Hair down, color in my cheeks—some from the warm room, some from adrenaline—that green dress that somehow fit like it had been meant for me. I looked, for a moment, like someone who could stand up for herself. Someone who belonged here.
I looked away before I could decide how I felt about that.
---
Ethan found me again twenty minutes later. He appeared at my shoulder with a water bottle and the easy calm of someone who had been keeping track without making it obvious. We ended up near the back of the room, slightly removed from the main crowd. At some point I realized I'd been there for two and a half hours.
That felt significant in a way I couldn't quite articulate.
When he said it was probably time to head out, I agreed without arguing. We said goodbye to Sofia, who hugged me like we'd been friends for years and made me promise to text her about the thrift store. Then we were outside again, the October air cold enough to make me pull my jacket tighter.
"So," Ethan said as we reached the truck, "how bad was it?"
I climbed into the passenger seat and thought about how to answer. "The cheerleader wanted to murder me with her eyes for approximately ninety minutes. Then she tried to do it for real near the bathroom."
He went very still. "What?"
"She and her friends cornered me. Said some things." I kept my voice level. "About my dad. About me."
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "What kind of things?"
"The kind you'd expect. That I'm trash, that my dad probably had the right idea, that I'm pathetic for—" I stopped. "It doesn't matter. I handled it."
"Emily." His voice had dropped lower. "Did they touch you?"
"They wanted to. They didn't." I looked at him. "I told them if they did, you'd probably do to them what you did to my father. They backed off."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "I'm going to talk to her."
"Don't."
"She can't—"
"Ethan." I cut him off. "Don't. I already won. If you go after her now, it just proves I needed you to fight my battles." I paused. "I didn't. I fought it myself."
He studied me in the dim light from the streetlamp. Something shifted in his expression—not pride exactly, but something close. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"If that's what you want." He started the engine. "But if she tries anything again—"
"Then I'll handle it again." I said it with more confidence than I felt, but I meant it.
"But you know what?" I continued, surprising myself. "Even with her trying to burn holes in my skull, and the bathroom thing—it was actually okay. The girl Sofia was really nice. Actually nice. And I didn't hate being there."
"Yeah?" He glanced over.
"Yeah." I paused. "You knew she'd be there, didn't you?"
"I thought she might be. And I thought if you were going to talk to anyone tonight, she'd be a good option."
I sat with that for a moment. "That's either thoughtful or slightly manipulative."
"Which one are you going with?"
"Thoughtful." A beat. "This time."
He glanced over with something that was almost a grin, then focused back on the road. When we pulled up in front of my building, he didn't immediately say goodnight. He just let the engine idle while I sat there a moment longer than necessary.
"Thanks for making me go," I said finally.
"You made yourself go. I just provided the transportation."
I opened the door and slid out, then turned back with one hand on the roof of the truck. "Then thanks for the transportation."
He raised two fingers from the steering wheel in a small salute. I pushed the door closed and crossed the sidewalk toward the building entrance. Behind me, I heard him stay—engine still running, waiting until I was inside—and I didn't turn back this time. I just walked through the door and let the warmth of the lobby close around me.
I stood there for a moment with my back against the wall. The feeling in my chest hadn't entirely gone away. I recognized it, vaguely, from things I'd read rather than things I'd felt—the warm, directionless elation of a night that had gone better than expected, of being seen by a stranger and found acceptable, of standing up for myself and winning.
I took out my phone and texted Mom: I'm home. It was okay.