Page 54 of I Almost Do

The next day, Clarissa texts me.

Clarissa: Just so you know, no one here is speaking to me. Including Sasha. So thanks for that.

Me: Be pissed at me all you want. I'm pretty fucking angry with you too.

I know this anger well. It's the rage of watching helplessly from the sidelines, unable to do a damn thing to make a difference while the unthinkable happens. It doesn't matter that I got Sasha and security down there before anything happened. It doesn't matter that it was even possible that the men weren't a danger to them.

My gut doesn't care about what did happen. It cares about what could have. Every nightmare scenario plays in my head, over and over on repeat. I remember Mom crying. Gasping. Then not making another single sound.

Yeah, I'm angry.

I don't hear from her for another forty-eight hours.

When my phone rings, I stare at Clarissa's name and photo for a long beat before I pick it up. "You're alive," I say, voice flat.

Her voice is subdued when she says, "Don't act like you haven't been checking in with Sasha and Dean this entire time."

When I say nothing in response, she finally makes a sound like a shuddering sigh. Then she says, "I'm a huge bitch. I'm sorry."

"You're not a bitch. But you were irresponsible, and you—"

I take a breath myself, and if mine shudders, too, there's not a thing I can do about it. "There are evil things in this world. Your security team exists for a reason. You don't—" I blow out a hard breath while I work out the right words. "You don't have to do it for me. But do it for yourself."

Clarissa is quiet for a long moment. Then she says, "I will. I won't ditch security like that again. I didn't think it through first, and then…."

I wait for her to finish her sentence, the silence thick between us.

"It could have ended badly. Thank you for looking out for us. Seriously."

"Always."

Her voice is an octave too high when she says, "I miss you."

"I miss you too. Still love you, sweet girl."

"Still love you, James."

She returns from her trip two weeks before the start of her senior year of college. She's tan, with a new haircut and a different style of makeup that's heavy on the red lipstick and light on everything else.

She left here looking and acting like a nervous twenty-year-old. Seven weeks later, she's striding through JFK like she owns the place.

I watch her face change the moment she sees me. She runs the rest of the way, then throws herself into my arms with wild exuberance. She wraps her legs around me, and I laugh and stagger for a second under her weight, slight though it is, just because of how unexpected it is.

I hold her tight. "You did miss me."

"I always miss you," she says and kisses me sweet and slow.

I have to forcibly pry my hands off her ass to let her slide off me when it’s over. I look toward her luggage. "Got everything?"

"Yep. We're good."

I shoulder her bag. "I bought you the house we talked about, so you can move off-campus when the fall semester starts."

"Perfect. Thank you. Bronwyn isn't sure she's going to stay at BSU for our senior year. Her dad keeps pressuring her to transfer to a 'real' school, but I was already planning to reach out to my friend Sydney to see if she wanted to move in too. So whether she stays or goes, it'll all work out. Though I’ll miss her like crazy." She grimaces when she repeats Bronwyn's father's comment about transferring to a "real" school, but she has to know that's going to be a pretty typical reaction among our social sphere.

"Do you want to change schools? You could try to come back to Columbia. Or even Barnard or Fordham?"

Columbia will open doors for her that BSU never will. Not because the education is necessarily better but because people assume it is. Not to mention the networking opportunities. There's a building at Columbia with her name on it. Literally.

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