1. Firehose of Knowledge

CHAPTER ONE

Firehose of Knowledge

A drizzle envelops Tanglewood University.

A thunderstorm would be better. Or clear skies. Instead, this in-between draws a haze through the air. It's as if the clouds are doing that slow, silent cry where tears leak out, drops quivering on eyelashes before falling.

"Thanks," I say, breathless, as I lug my duffel bag down the tall steps of the bus.

The driver grunts in response.

I step onto the curb and turn around—just in time to be splashed by the heavy tires going through the water-logged street. Rainwater drips down my chin. It soaks my long-sleeved T-shirt, leaving the fabric tight against my breasts.

Wet denim hugs my thighs.

At least my body managed to block my duffel bag and all the books inside from most of the spray. Hooray?

The bright side is looking more dim these days. It would be easy to sit down on the slick pavement and let the earth reclaim me if I didn't have a mission.

I start the walk towards my dorm.

It's not that long. I make this trek every day from the campus bus stop to Hathaway Dormitory, but it feels like a million miles when I'm weighed down with an entire puddle. All I have to do is drop off my stuff, and then I can go to campus security.

A chill seeps into my bones.

If they won't help me, I'll go to Dean Morris. Whatever works.

The campus stretches out like a living tapestry, each thread a building steeped in history. Ivy clings to the brick walls of stately structures, their gargoyles watching like sentinels. Massive oak trees provide shelter from the rain, their leaves whispering secrets only they understand.

The heavy academic aura suffocates and dazzles at once. It should feel like home, but it doesn't. I belong here on paper, but in my heart, I'm still that broken girl from Port Lavaca, wondering how I slipped through the cracks into this rarefied world. It always feels like someone is going to realize an error has been made, that I'll be summarily removed from campus .

Not smart enough. Not rich enough. Not even pretty enough.

Overall, not enough.

The library looms ahead, its gothic architecture intimidating under gray skies. But for me? It's just a fortress where I never quite fit in.

I pass by Whitney Hall—the building where Professor Stratford taught last semester. My heart does that annoying flip when I think of him. His voice echoes in my mind, confident and smooth like dark chocolate melting on my tongue. But I swallow hard. This year is about moving forward.

Hathaway stands a little apart from the other, fancier buildings as if they don't want to get too close. The air in the foyer hits me like an icy blast.

A group of guys pass by, shouting and shoving each other in that playful, competitive way that college boys do.

"Nice nips," a guy says, and they all laugh.

I look down to see that, yep, my nipples are hard and visible through the pale pink cotton. Embarrassment heats my cheeks, bringing a stinging warmth to frozen skin.

The old elevator carries the dampness with me to the fourth floor.

Outside my room, I pause.

There's most likely someone inside. A stranger. Someone to replace Daisy, even though that's impossible. We've been together since freshman year. Is she okay? The question has haunted me the entire winter break.

The lock yields to my old key.

The door swings open.

Shock holds me in its frigid grasp.

I'm standing there, dripping onto the thin carpet, mouth open, tears welling in my eyes. Because Daisy reclines on her bed, leaning against propped-up pillows while she pages through some kind of engineering text that probably weighs as much as she does.

"Daisy." My voice comes out as a croak.

"Hey," she says, flashing me a bright, quick smile. "You're back. Come inside and change your clothes before you catch your death."

She sounds breezy and casual and…ordinary.

"Daisy Mae Bradshaw."

"Wow, what's with the middle name calling? I'm happy to see you too. How was your Christmas? Did someone knit you a sweater? Et cetera, et cetera."

"Et freaking cetera? You disappeared."

She rolls her eyes.

She. Rolls. Her. Eyes. That's it. I'm going to kill her .

"I left you a note."

"Yeah, a note that said you were going home. Where you belong . Which is obviously code for being kidnapped and forced to write the note at gunpoint, because you don't belong there. You belong here."

"I went home, just like you went home. I'm sorry we couldn't sublet an apartment together the way we planned, but I needed some time away from Tanglewood. Now, are you going to dry off or are you going to get pneumonia?"

Frustration is probably enough to warm me, but I come inside anyway and close the door. I have to peel the clothes off me. Even my bra and panties are damp. I don't bother with new ones, pulling a fresh T-shirt and jeans on over clammy skin.

Then I join Daisy on her bed and drag the textbook away from her. I shove her thin notebook inside to keep her place because I'm not a monster.

"I called the school administration, the sheriff's office, and the FBI. They're very interested in your little not-a-cult commune, by the way. But no one could help me get in touch with you."

She blinks. "Um. Why?"

"Because I thought you might be hurt. Or dead. Or married , for God's sake."

"I specifically said in my note not to worry."

I spent hours on the phone, dialing different people. I even charted an elaborate bus route that would take 46 hours to complete, though what I would do when faced with electric fences I didn't know. Worry had waged a war inside me even as I put on a placid face to shlepp pancakes and watered-down coffee around a diner. How could I not worry?

I'd rather be angry at her. I'd prefer the heat of indignation to the cold, gnawing fear that clawed at me for weeks.

Instead, my lower lip quivers.

Now that I have a chance to pause and catch my breath, now that the tepid warmth of the dorm has started to thaw me out, I can see the brittleness of her smile, the chaotic lights in her blue eyes. The very rigid way she holds herself in an intentionally casual position, as if trying to convince me—or perhaps herself—that everything is fine.

She's not nearly as blasé as she appears. Underneath that careful fa?ade, I can sense the tremors of something deeper, something she's trying desperately to hide. Pain. Yes, I recognize pain, even if there are no visible bruises .

My throat tightens. "Can I hug you?"

She swallows hard, her eyes flickering with a mix of emotions that she's trying so hard to keep at bay. "You're making a big deal out of nothing. I'm fine. You're fine. Everyone is fine. But I'm not into hugging. Okay? Not right now."

Not right now.

Which probably means she has bruises. Places I would hurt if I squeezed her like I want to, just to reassure myself that she's really here and not some sort of rain-inspired fever dream. She's not really fine. I'm not, either. But we're back at Tanglewood University, and maybe for right now, that's good enough.

"I was going to go to campus security. Then the administration. I was going to march right into Dean Morris's office and demand they do something."

"You know they would say it's none of their business what happens off campus." Daisy's voice is resigned, her blue eyes avoiding mine.

"It's their business if you had just been traumatized while on campus. They can't just brush it off." I feel a surge of protectiveness, my hands clenching at my sides. "I won't let them."

"It was just a prank. Nothing serious."

Her attempt at nonchalance doesn't fool me .

I would not call leaving someone freezing cold and half-conscious in a fountain in the dead of night to be a prank. It's criminal, but I'm not going to argue with her about that.

Not now, when she's so fragile.

"If they didn't listen, I had a backup plan. I was going to take it to the Tanglewood Tea. They have a voice, and I'd make sure they used it."

Daisy shakes her head, her blonde hair catching the light. "As if they would care. It's not exactly the hottest gossip like they usually post."

"I would make them care. They have a valuable platform, and we'd need it."

Her laugh is unsteady, a mix of gratitude and disbelief. "Thank you for caring enough for that. Really."

"We still can take it to them," I say, nudging my knee against hers, the barest hint of human contact, maybe the most either of us could take. I have a feeling that after a summer spent at home, I have a wild light in my eyes, too. "Someone should pay for what they did."

"Let your handsome professor worry about it."

"He's not my professor anymore," I say, too fast, before realizing that my voice is shrill. It's important that I won't have any classes with him. I checked my spring schedule three times to make sure. "I mean, he was never mine. And he's not going to take them down."

"He's not?"

"He's part of the Shakespeare Society. One of them, back when he was a student here. And now he's back to lead them. Or protect them. I don't know."

Blonde eyebrows rise. "Sounds like I missed a lot."

I force a shrug. "Not really. It was a boring break. I worked at the diner."

"Then you probably have enough money for textbooks." Her voice is definitely casual, but I can read the question in them. Or actually, the accusation.

"No."

"No?" she asks, drawing the word out. "They don't tip well at the trucker stop?"

"They don't, but that's not why I don't have money."

She sighs, resigned. "You gave it to them."

"They're my parents."

"They lied to you. And stole from you, basically."

"They can't steal what I gave them. And I don't know about the lie. "

"You said they admitted it."

"Yeah, but…"

It's hard to explain the strange vortex in which my parents live. Even after confronting them, even after hearing them admit the cancer was never real, they still maintain the pretense. The pretense that she has chemotherapy. That she might not get better.

It's the fabric of their lives, as real as the beams holding up the ramshackle house.

I'm not sure they would know who to be without it.

"I started reading up on Munchausen syndrome. It's a real disorder that—"

"Oh God. You're using your love of research to excuse her."

"She's actually losing weight. Her hair is falling out."

"How?"

"I couldn't figure it out. People with Munchausen have been known to inject themselves with medicines or even toxins to produce the symptoms they need. I looked through her stuff, but I couldn't figure out what was doing it."

"So you gave them all your hard-earned diner money."

I rub my eyes, exhausted. "I know I'm an idiot."

Her hand takes mine, her fingers cool but soothing. Her gentle squeeze compels me to meet her blue gaze. "You're not an idiot. You're a kind person. A wonderful daughter. Better than they deserve, but then the world is hardly ever fair."

"It's different when I'm there. Like we have to believe in these things with blind faith, and any questioning is a betrayal. I know we give you a hard time, but maybe my family is the cult."

"All families are cults."

"That sounds…a little extreme?"

"Think about it. Children need their parents for survival. Which means that parents can do anything, and the kids have to not only take it, they have to love them. That's all love is, in the end. A survival mechanism."

I crack a smile. "Now you're going to study anthropology?"

"I already know how people work. That's why I'm in engineering."

"Well, I envy you then, because I don't understand people at all. That's why I'm in literature. Poetry, plays, novels. They're sips of knowledge."

"You want to know people? Sex is a firehose of knowledge."

I groan. "The visuals, Daisy. The visuals . "

A light laugh. "I'm going to the hotel tonight. Are you coming with me?"

"Shit."

"Of course you're coming with me. The only question is how long it's going to take me to style your hair so you don't look like a bedraggled street urchin about to clean a chimney."

Sex. With a stranger.

Can I do it?

If I want textbooks this semester, I don't have a choice.

They've taken most of them online, which they say is to help us avoid breaking our backs by carrying them around. I'm not sure if that's the real reason or if it's so they can kill the used textbook marketplace. Now we have to pay the same full price we would have paid for a shiny new thick textbook for digital access.

Which means I'm screwed.

Literally.

That's okay, though. Maybe having sex will wipe away the memory of Professor William Stratford's hands on my breasts, his cock in my mouth, the memory of his hard masculine grunt as he climaxed, his body holding mine as if in a sheltering embrace.

It was a lie, just like my mother's cancer .

Maybe Daisy has the right idea.

Love is nothing more than a survival mechanism, a story that I tell myself in order to endure what I need to endure, a fiction that makes it more palatable. As Hamlet said, there is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so .