Page 5 of Shadows Within
I knew before I came here that a lot of rich kids attended Langford, but until I started, I didn’t have a clue just how many thereactuallywere. I’m nothing like them. Without my scholarship, I wouldn’t be here, and I have to work my ass off to keep it. My grades have to be top notch, and after four years of ass-kissing, it’s become more difficult to keep up. I’ve earned enough respect from my professors to know that using flattery to get ahead won’t work. Besides, I’ve had too much noise in my own head to care. Maybe it’s harder to fit in when you know you don’t belong.
I sit in the middle of the lecture hall in my Early Development psych class. It’s late in the afternoon. I tap mypen against a notebook, not because I’m bored, but because the professor has already given away his theory.
Professor Shane Elliot paces in front of the board.
“So, let’s build off Bowlby’s attachment theory and explore how early caregiver relationships might influence adult romantic attachments, particularly in the context of emotion regulation.”
He looks around and everyone avoids eye contact. No one rushes to answer. The room is silent.
I raise my hand. “Anxious or avoidant attachment styles don’t just show up, they’re survival strategies. If comfort wasn’t reliable as a child, then intimacy as an adult can feel like a threat, not a reward. It’s neurological and not necessarily behavioural.”
Professor Elliot leans against the podium and crosses his arms. “Exactly, well said Scarlett.” He pauses and scans the room, then looks down at his watch. “And that’s the end of the lesson. Make sure to do your readings and be prepared to discuss them next week.”
Everyone files out of class. I’m not in a hurry to fight the crowds, so I take my time. Over the last four years, I’ve learned a lot and caught on to the ebb and flow of the school.
“Scarlett.” I look up to Professor Elliot in front of me. “I just wanted to say, your insight there was sharp. You’ve got a gift for cutting through the noise.”
I shrug and softly smile. “It’s something that comes naturally to me I guess.”
He nods. “Keep speaking up. You’re perceptive.”
Professor Elliot turns and walks away. I watch him, my cheeks still red from his compliment. Finally, I snap out of it and pack my bag to head over to the library. Once I get there, most of the tables are full. This always happens at the beginning of every school year. Give it a few weeks and I’m sure everyone will be less invested in their studies.
I see an open spot at one of the large study tables. I know they are usually reserved for seminars, but there’s no one here right now. I place my bag down on the light wood table and pull out the matching chair. Everything about Langford screams money—from the polished oak tables and chairs in the library, to the cast iron light posts outside.
Time slips away. I sit in the library an hour longer than I planned to. As I’m about to pack up my things, I notice someone walking in. It’s not unusual for that to happen,in the library, but something about him makes the air shift.
I can tell that this man doesn’t belong in a place that smells like old paper and lemon cleaner. He wears dark clothes, his face is unreadable. When he walks in, he doesn’t scan the room, almost like he already knows what’s coming next.
My eyes can’t help but linger on him. For a second, sounds seem muffled, and it takes a moment to snap back to reality. I shake my head and ground myself, returning to the chatter of the library.
I make my way back to the car and head toward the gym. I can’t help but think about the man from the library. I know I’ve seen him many times before.Am I just noticing him now, or has he always been around this much?He was definitely at that party four years ago, staring at me from beside the pool shed, but something about him has changed. He used to look like every other guy at school, unfazed and full of life. Now he looks aged, not in years but in the way he carries himself. It’s like he’s been fighting battles and keeping secrets that have slowly carved away pieces of him—ones that will never return.
I get lost in my usual pump-up music that ranges from Beyoncé to The White Stripes.When I arrive at the gym, I’m greeted by the smell of sweat and broken dreams.
I open my locker and place my runners and gloves on the bench behind it. Before I shut the rusty door, I pause to lookat the pictures hanging inside. There’s one of Dad and me in the garage. Another of us from a camping trip. Below them are two snapshots of me and Sophia, mid laugh, frozen in what was probably something stupid that we thought was hilarious. The pictures remind me of the times when Dad tried so hard to fill the broken pieces that Mom left shattered.
I stare at his face for a moment longer.He’s aged so much since then.Within the first few years after she left, we spent more time together than ever before. Instead of pulling away and closing each other off, we leaned on one another. We didn’t talk about the family stuff much, but he always kept me busy. We went camping whenever we could. Even though Dad wasn’t much of a fire starter, we always got to the s’mores by the end of every trip. If he had too much work to get done after being away from the shop for the weekend, he’d ask for my help. He never wanted me left alone, and part of me thinks he didn’t want to be alone either.
I tie my shoes and slip my mouth guard into the top of my sports bra. I climb through the ropes that surround the ring. The canvas is rough under my shoes. Ricco stands in the corner, his arms crossed as he chews on a toothpick. He’s sizing me up for a fight, not a lesson.
“You’re late.”
“Oh, you still love me.” I tighten my glove.
“I love discipline and your left hook.”
I smirk at him and roll my shoulders. “Flattery will get you nowhere old man.”
He snorts. “Let’s see if your punches can show up on time then.” He steps toward me. I pop my mouth guard in and we touch gloves.
He’s going to make me work for it.
The sting of my sweat burns my eyes and pools inside of my gloves. Ricco doesn’t care, it never stops him.
“Keep that right arm up, Scar.” He isn’t even winded, and I call him an old man.
I grit my teeth as I try to reset my stance. My legs burn but I stay sharp. This is the only place where my thoughts don’t crowd me.
