Foreigner

Chapter 9

Living with a broken nose is hell.

Want to sleep? You can't.

Want to play basketball? You can't.

Want to express any goddamn emotion without feeling like your skull is being drilled into? You fucking can't.

The one thing keeping me sane is the thought that I'll repay this pain twice over to the person responsible, guilt-free.

For now, I'm alone in our dorm room, half-naked, pushing through another round of push-ups. My face pulses with every beat of my heart, the throbbing making it hard to focus. It's been a day since Julian tried to rearrange my face, and it hasn't gotten any easier. At least it's Saturday. At least I can suffer in peace.

The door clicks open, and I glimpse a pair of black boots in my peripheral vision. Whoever it is stands perfectly still, waiting. I don't stop my set—four more to go—until finally, I push myself upright, breathing hard.

Christian's green eyes meet mine, calm and assessing. Without a word, he tosses me a cold gel pack, then shrugs off his black coat and hangs it by the door.

"Thanks," I mutter, pressing the pack against my bruised nose as I sit on the edge of my desk. The cold stings, but it's a welcome distraction.

Christian drops onto his bed, kicking off his boots with an ease that somehow annoys me. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and lets his head hang low. His posture is casual, but there's tension in the way his fingers interlace, the way his shoulders hunch.

I notice he's favoring his right leg, though he doesn't limp anymore. I haven't seen him limp since that morning in the library.

The silence between us stretches, taut and unspoken. I know he's waiting to say something, but like always, he's dragging it out. The most I've ever heard him talk was yesterday in the nurse's office, and even that was just a few sentences. He'd questioned my intentions, asked if this fight was worth it. That's what worried people do. That's what good people do.

He cares—if only because having a dead roommate would be inconvenient. So why hasn't he dropped the whole brooding, tough-guy act?

Just say it already! You brought me a gel pack, for fuck's sake. The mysterious, closed-off thing doesn't work when you're halfway decent.

But no. We're both cowards when it comes to talking. I avoid it because of my accent, and he avoids it for reasons I can't begin to guess. Eventually, though, someone has to break the silence.

And I realize it's going to have to be me.

"Uh... thanks," I start awkwardly, the words stiff in my mouth. "For stepping in at the cafeteria."

Christian doesn't look up, but his shoulders stiffen.

"I appreciate it, but..." I hesitate. "You don't have to keep saving me. I can take care of myself."

At that, he exhales sharply through his nose, his fingers tightening into a steeple. Still, he says nothing. His side profile remains stony, eyes fixed on the floor. His dark blonde hair falls messily across his forehead, but the way he's clenching his jaw makes it clear his mind's racing.

Fine, then. I tried.

I toss the gel pack onto the desk, stand, and move toward the closet. My nose protests the movement, but I ignore it, pulling a shirt over my head. Just as I'm about to let the conversation die completely, Christian speaks.

"What's your plan?"

His voice cuts through the silence like a blade, low and sharp. His eyes lock onto mine, green and unyielding.

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. "Everyone's got secrets," I say. "All I have to do is find the right ones. Then I can do whatever I want with them."

Christian's jaw tightens, and he bites the inside of his cheek. He's holding back something. I can see it, and I know he's weighing whether or not to tell me.

"Spit it out," I say, crossing my arms.

His lips part slightly, but it takes him a moment to speak. When he does, his tone is colder, almost detached. "Julian Maryland used to be in the Blue Cobras."

I blink. That's not news - he doesn't exactly hide the navy blue tattoo on his shoulder. The Blue Cobras are infamous for their drug deals, thefts, and everything else illegal under the sun. At Whittiker, being dangerous isn't a flaw—it's a fucking résumé boost.

"So what?" I ask. "Everyone already knows that. They look up to him for it."

Christian's gaze hardens. "That's what he tells people." He pauses, his next words deliberate. "The truth is, Julian's never touched a drug in his life. He's here for petty theft, nothing more."

I frown. It pulls painfully at my nose, so I drop the expression quickly. "And the tattoo?"

"Fake," Christian says. "He buys temporary ones online. A month's supply, shipped straight to his door."

For a moment, I just stare at him. Then, slowly, I start to grin.

"Seriously?"

Christian's eyes flick to mine, watching my reaction closely. He doesn't answer.

If this is true—and I can prove it—then Julian's entire reputation is as fragile as the tattoos he slaps onto his skin.

"Why haven't you said anything?" I ask, curiosity creeping into my voice.

Christian stands, grabbing a towel from the closet. "If it doesn't affect me, it doesn't matter." He walks toward the bathroom but stops at the door, turning just slightly. "And you didn't hear it from me."

"Right," I say, smirking. "I'm a genius. Figured it out myself."

Christian's mouth twitches—almost a smile—but he steps into the bathroom and shuts the door.

¤ ¤ ¤

It's my second Sunday at Whittiker.

When I woke up this morning, Christian was already gone. No surprise there. I went to the cafeteria early, hoping for some peace and quiet while I ate.

Mom said she and the family would visit today, but I'm not looking forward to it. My bruises have darkened into purple blotches, and the bags under my eyes are worse than ever. I look like I got jumped, not like I slammed into a wall—which is the lie I fed the nurse.

My mom's a lawyer. She's seen too many battered faces to buy whatever story I give her.

A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts. Sighing, I set down the basketball I'd been tossing between my hands and open the door, bracing myself for my family's shocked reactions.

But it's not them.

A woman stands in the hallway, blonde, thin, and tired-looking. Her gray-green eyes glance nervously past me, then drop to the floor.

"You must be Christian's roommate," she says softly. Her voice wavers. "I—I didn't think he'd ever have one."

Her resemblance to Christian is unmistakable, and I realize who she is immediately.

"If he's not here, I'll leave," she adds quickly, pulling an envelope from her pocket. She thrusts it toward me, her hands shaking. "Just... make sure he gets this. And make sure he reads it."

Before I can respond, she's already hurrying down the stairs.

I shut the door and stare at the envelope in my hand. It's blank. No clues, no names, no context.

Setting it on the desk, I sit back and fold my arms, thinking.

Christian doesn't want to see her. That much is obvious. He's avoided this room every Sunday so far. Whatever's in this letter, it isn't good.

I'll have to give it to him tomorrow, but I won't mention who it's from right away. Knowing Christian, he'll rip it up without a second thought.

¤ ¤ ¤

I get a text from my mom around dinner, saying they won't make it before visiting hours end. She promises to FaceTime me "soon."

It's only the second Sunday, and they're already bailing.