Riding St. George

“What?” the driver screams from the front seat, and several horns blare around us. 

He flips the partition down quickly, almost breaking the thin glass with his bare hands. The windows roll down slowly, smoke drifting in as other road users shout curses at us. 

“What just happened?” I look at him, my hand on Jasmine’s back rubbing small circles as she whimpers. 

“Is she alright?” He doesn’t even look at me while speaking. 

“No, genius. What just happened?” My voice gets an octave higher with every word that comes out of my mouth. 

He breathes in and out, facing forward and shaking his head before speaking. “I was worried.” 

“You almost caused us an accident because you were—Oh my God, just drive. Please.” My fingers tighten on Jasmine’s, and she squeezes my hand back. So tight my fingers turn red at the tips. I don’t let go. 

The car zooms off as a man with his fist raised approaches, the smell of burning rubber filling the back seat before air filters in and I roll the windows up. 

“What do you need?” She doesn’t answer, just keeps squeezing my hand in hers and rocking back and forth in her seat. 

I wrap my arms around her, shielding her sobs as he speeds through the evening breeze. 

We get to her house, and by then her sobs have reduced. I can tell this doesn’t mean the pain has lessened. 

I carry her to her room, tiptoeing through the mansion, and silently praying none of the staff let her mother know we are here. 

Most of them go about their business as if it’s perfectly normal for the two of us to be here at this time, but some stare at me, and I see the hesitation in their gazes. As if they’re just about to ask a question—only to change their mind. 

I find my way to her room, surprised I even remember the way, it’s been so long since I’ve been here. 

When I lay her on her bed she curls up, promptly squeezing the life out of two pillows. I don’t know where to put my hands. 

“What can I do to help?” She just shakes her head, rocking. Her eyes are bloodshot. 

“I don’t know,” she says, breaking into another round of tears. 

I notice blood seeping through her dress, spotting the floor as she shifts, and slowly my mind breaks, struggling to put together how she can even bear this much pain. What have I done to her? 

My knees fall to the ground, and I cry useless tears, I don’t even recognize the sound of my sobs until there’s a knock at the door. 

I don’t answer, instead, I tell her to stand, as I lead her into her adjoining bathroom, wiping her face with my hand. 

Somehow a ghost of peony perfume lingers in the air, and she feels all the more fragile in this moment. 

As I’m helping her clean up, Henrietta, their housekeeper, walks in brandishing a hot water bottle as if it’s a weapon. 

“This will help,” Henrietta murmurs softly, lifting her gently to place the bag on her tummy. Jasmine moans again, but this time it is better, softer. The pressure of the bottle steadies her. 

“Y’all have made a mess on the floor outside,” she says, matter of factly, her Western accent drawing out each word. 

“Sorry,” I stutter, embarrassed and surprised. 

She nods once, taking small steps away, her business with the two of us done. She turns once she’s at the door, her lips turned down. “I’ve never seen you have cramps so bad, Jazz, you should take something for the pain.” 

She closes the door with a small bang, making me wince. The sound of running water is the only thing that breaks the silence for a while.

“Why did you choose this?” I don’t know why I ask. My fingers on her don’t still when she flinches. 

“Would you rather I didn’t?” Her voice is a knife, sharp and cutting. 

I just sigh, feeling a sudden tiredness wash over me. 

I bring out my phone to check the time. 6:55 pm. “I have to leave now if I want to make it back to Aton before dinner,” I say.  

She looks away from me, folding her arms. “I’m sorry,” I say. 

She nods, “I love you.” She proceeds to vomit into the sink. 

The lie stings the back of my throat, “I love you too. ” 

I rush through the door and down the stairs. I really don’t want to cry.

My phone buzzes with a notification as I enter her car. I open it, and blue lines the edges of my screen, white lines twisting between the colour until they combine to form the Aton College logo. Underneath it, I see the message: Welcome to the Second Semester, dear students! To celebrate this new semester, Aton will be throwing a Dorm Party tonight. Enjoy! 

I remember the last dorm party, boys so drunk on spiked soda that we didn’t know what we were doing. That was the first time I decided I would never drink again. But right now, I think a drink is exactly what I need. 

I tell Jasmine’s driver to speed up, already anticipating the buzz I’d feel all night long. 

My phone buzzes again. Timothy. You should break up with Jasmine. 

Below the text is an image, and it takes forever to load. 

My anger increases as I wait, thumbing through our past messages. Who the fuck does Timothy think he is to demand that? He can go ahead—

My thumb freezes on the screen; the image finishes loading.

Oh shit.