The Dream

Owen was not especially good at keeping our relationship a secret.

Neither was I, but I at least understood the assignment.

On Monday, Marcus watched him carry my laundry basket into our room.

On Tuesday, Ben found us sitting so close together on the couch that there was an entire empty cushion beside me and no explanation for it.

By Wednesday, Marcus had stopped pretending.

“Should I knock before entering the common room?” he asked.

“You should knock before expressing an opinion,” I told him.

Owen went red.

Marcus pointed at him.

“That is not a denial.”

I leaned against Owen’s shoulder.

“No,” I said. “It isn’t.”

Owen looked down at me.

The look was worth Marcus’s insufferable grin.

Alone with me, my supposedly shy boyfriend was becoming less shy by the day.

He kissed my cheek when he passed my desk. He caught my hand beneath dining hall tables. Once, when I stood in front of his chair making fun of his terrible posture, he put both hands at my waist and lifted me onto his lap.

I forgot the rest of my sentence.

He looked pleased with himself.

“You were saying?”

“That your chair is too small.”

“You’re the one sitting in it.”

I stared at him.

He smiled.

I had encouraged this.

I could hardly object now.

He also learned when to leave me alone. If I put on my headphones and turned toward my desk, he stopped trying to feed me and worked quietly beside me. One evening, I took the headphones off after finishing an essay and found a sandwich waiting beneath an upside-down bowl.

The little handwritten note said, This is not an interruption.

I kept that note too.

I discovered that I liked being gathered close. I liked the way his attention settled on me even when someone else was speaking. I liked how, after practice, he would come back tired and quiet and still ask about the smallest part of my day.

I did not like needing any of it.

That was becoming a problem.

On Thursday afternoon, I took a nap while Marcus and Ben were in class. Owen had a shift, and I had a headache from ignoring three calls from my father.

I fell asleep with my phone facedown.

In the dream, I was back in the hallway outside my father’s study.

The carpet was familiar. The shut door was familiar.

A hand closed around my wrist.

I tried to pull away.

The door would not open.

I woke with a cry and swung before I could see who was there.

My fist struck Owen’s cheek.

He drew back at once.

“Julian. It’s me.”

The room was bright. My curtain was open. He was kneeling at the edge of the mattress, one hand braced against the rail.

I could hear myself breathing.

He did not touch me.

“It’s me,” he repeated. “You’re in our room.”

I stared until his face became his face again.

Then I grabbed his shirt.

He came closer immediately.

“I hit you.”

“It’s okay.”

“Your face—”

“It’s okay, Jules.”

He had started calling me that when nobody else was listening.

Usually I teased him about it.

I put my forehead against his shoulder instead.

His arm settled around me.

For a while, neither of us spoke.

“I thought you were working,” I said eventually.

“They cut the afternoon shift. It was quiet.”

“You climbed up here?”

“You sounded upset.”

I let out a small, shaky laugh.

He stroked my hair once, then waited.

I touched his cheek. There was a pink mark beneath the cheekbone.

“Sorry.”

“You had a bad dream.”

He said it without judgment, as if waking up frightened was something I could do in front of him without losing anything.

“My father,” I said.

Owen’s hand paused against my back.

“Was he in the dream?”

“Something like that.”

I looked down at the sheet.

“He keeps calling. He wants me to meet more girls.”

“Does he know about me?”

“No.”

“Does he know you like men?”

“Yes. Since high school.”

Owen went quiet.

I told him about the film, about the way my father’s face had changed. About the other woman and the child whose existence had made it easier to leave me alone.

I told him about the accident.

The words came out flat. I had spent years making them sound like things that happened to somebody else.

“My brother needs care now,” I said. “None of that is his fault. But my father thinks it means I should become the son he wants.”

Owen’s jaw tightened.

“Is that why he arranged dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Does he think you can just change?”

“He thinks I can obey.”

I tried to smile.

It didn’t quite work.

Owen held me a little closer.

“You don’t have to go,” he said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I looked at him.

There was no challenge in his face. Just concern.

“My mother left me money,” I said. “He can’t take that away. I’m not trapped.”

The last three words sounded too deliberate.

He noticed. I could tell.

But he didn’t ask me to explain them.

Instead, he said, “Do you want to get down? I could make you something.”

“I want to stay here.”

“Okay.”

He shifted until he could sit against the wall, and I leaned into him.

After a while, I pulled out my phone and blocked my father’s number.

Then Victor’s.

Owen watched my face rather than the screen.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He nodded.

The headache began to fade.

I thought that would be the end of it for a little while. My father valued his reputation too much to turn up at a university and make a scene.

I had confused shame with restraint.

The following afternoon, Owen texted that he had found something good for dinner and would meet me outside the athletic center.

I arrived ten minutes early.

My father was already there.

He stood beneath the awning in an expensive charcoal suit, speaking too quietly for the passing students to hear.

Owen’s shoulders were rigid.

Even from several yards away, I could see the color draining from his face.