Page 82 of The Perfect Love

I swear to the goddess, Trevorgrowls.

“She belong to you?” the guy asks as we move past him.

“You need to back off, man,” Trevor says.

“Aw, come on. We could share her.”

Trevor stops, his body going rigid. He spins, blocking me with his body while still keeping one hand on me.

“You need to back the fuck up.”

The guy raises his hands. “I was just asking.”

“Well, don’t. You need to walk away and stop harassing people.”

But Trevor doesn’t wait to see if he does. He turns back around, tugs me close again, and hurries toward the stairs. Thankfully, the guy doesn’t make a move to follow us.

I’m a little shaken, but it’s clear the guy needs some help.

That’s when I notice the flashing light at the top of the stairs. When we get up there, two campus police officers are waiting there.

“Hey, I’m Trevor Matteny. I’m the one who called. It’s that guy down there. He looks drugged out of his mind and he’s saying inappropriate sexual stuff to women.”

“We’ll take care of it,” the first officer says, then they head down the stairs.

“You—you called the police?” I ask in surprise as he guides me to the parking lot.

“Yes. It needed to be done. The fact that none of the people in that lounge did anything…” He shakes his head in frustration. “Everyone should feel safe to walk across campus—leave their classes—and that guy clearly needed help.”

He helps me into the car, and I’m still so stunned, trying to make sense of everything.

Of course he called the cops. Trevor cares. He’s one of the good ones. I think Rae told me something like that. Or maybe it was Sarah. It doesn’t matter who. It’s the truth, and I know it in my bones.

Trevor sits down in the driver’s seat and heads for my apartment, as I sit here, fidgeting, overwhelmed with feelings. My fear is rapidly fading and my anger is seeping in.

Anger that the baseline for men is to feel comfortable sexualizing and going after women. I don’t care if he was high or drunk or anything else. Plenty of guys do it without. Maybe that guy wouldn’t have hurt me. Maybe some other guy who Iwouldn’t have thought twice about would’ve been the dangerous one.

When we get back to my apartment, I fling the car door open, desperate for that cool air to wash over me, maybe give me a hint of calm, but nothing does.

“Chels?” Trevor appears at my side.

“Come on.”

I’m in a spiral of anger and frustration at men, at our society that accepts treating women like trash, at myself.

When we get to the third floor, I shove my apartment door open and chuck my bag on the floor.

Trevor follows me in, watching me like he did the night we first met, when I ran away. I might be just as jumpy, but that was a very different emotion. That was pure panic. I’m not panicking anymore.

“This is going to sound stupid, but I don’t know how else to ask… are you okay?”

I spin to face him, swallowing hard, and shake my head. The words start flying out of my mouth.

“No. No, I’m not okay. I’m mad. I’m mad that men ever make women feel unsafe or like objects for their sexual pleasure. Get a fucking sex toy, you pathetic pieces of shit. Hey, a sex doll won’t talk back, either. They won’tfightback. Not that I can say much. I didn’t exactly fight tonight. I fell apart. I mean, what if you hadn’t been there to save me? I should be stronger than this by now! I’ve healed. Or I’m healing. And I want to be able to fight back, not cower in fear. Why is my first response to panic? How do I stop that? How do I stop being catatonic and learn to fight past my fear—my trauma? I—I want to be strong enough…”

I drop onto the couch, my head in my hands, crying. Tears that make me feel even weaker.

The couch shifts next to me.

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