Chapter Eighteen

Whitney’s mouth was leathery. She hadn’t had a drink of water since leaving the house that morning. A part of her recognized this as punishment for her sins. Turn back now, this part said, but she marched past it as she eased her car into the gravel lot next to the stadium. It was the lot for commuting students and nearly empty. She grabbed the duffel bag and climbed out of the Lincoln. Her coat hung limp on her small body, and she worried about the kind of stares she’d receive as she made her way to Jamal’s dorm. But there were very few students walking around at nine in the morning on a Saturday, and the ones who were looked like they were more concerned with the color of the concrete than anything Whitney was doing. Whitney relished the feeling, the complete anonymity in a crowd of people.

She realized she had Jamal’s dorm name but wasn’t sure where it was located. She had never visited him at school. He had never asked her to, and Whitney pretended she wouldn’t have gone even if he had asked. She felt stupid, the knocked-up girlfriend working a nine-to-five and living with her mother. What did she have in common with people who had enough foresight to keep their legs closed or at least not throw caution to the wind? And how would Jamal even introduce her? The mother of his child? His high school girlfriend? There was something grainy inside of her, tumor-like maybe, that gave everything a negative feel. So even the fact that she was with a man who would be a college graduate one day wasn’t enough to change her perspective.

A man who didn’t love her.

Whitney felt for the belly of the duffel bag that swung on her shoulder. It frightened her knowing the gun was inside, but it was a consoling feeling too. All her life she had felt weak and unprotected. First, her father died, and then her mother stopped paying attention. And all Whitney ever wanted—craved on a visceral level—was someone to love her and to do it honestly. And when she found that one person, it turned out she had been mistaken. He had never even existed.

There was a girl walking her way, a redhead who seemed bright and cheery and immune to whatever hangover seemed to plague the rest of the campus’s Saturday morning crowd.

“Well, hey there!” Whitney said matching the girl’s bubbly smile. “Do you know where Yocum is?”

“Oh yeah, you’re actually right in front of it.” Whitney looked up at what looked like a prison. The facade was a sea of cinderblocks the color of faded sand. And Jamal was somewhere inside of them.

“Thanks,” she managed as the girl strolled away.

Inside, she asked strangers where the father of her child lived. It would have been embarrassing if her slight edge of fear wasn’t pressing its hand into her back. 

When she found his room, Whitney put her head against his door. She stood small and alone with the duffel bag at her feet. Her hand made a fist, a white rock against wood. She knocked and held her breath. She let it out. She knocked and held it again.