Page 29 of Fractured Ice

My phone says it's seven forty-two.

I have class at eight thirty.

I stand up, peel off last night's clothes, brush my teeth, get in the shower and stand there under the water until my legs stop feeling unsteady. Then I get dressed on autopilot, pull my hair back, grab my bag and go.

The walk across campus gives me too much time to think. Every time I try not to replay Ethan's face when I said it, I replay Ethan's face when I said it. The way he went still. The way he didn't argue or get angry, just closed something off and kept talking. I've spent years building a file on Ethan Walker, everything I thought I knew about who he is and how he operates, and none of the things in that file include a man who would hurt me. Or who deserved to be accused of anything like that.

I tell myself I don't owe him the benefit of the doubt. I tell myself I was scared and I had reason to be scared and I was reacting to a situation that would terrify anyone.

I tell myself this several times and arrive at class still feeling like something's sitting wrong in my chest.

The lecture hall is filling up when I get there. I'm scanning for a seat when someone says my name. I turn and there are two girls I half-recognize from the party, blond and brunette, both of them looking way too excited to see me.

"You're the girl from last night, right?" the brunette says. "The journalism one?"

"I'm a journalism student, yeah."

"We saw what happened," the blond says, and her voice has the particular breathlessness of someone delivering information they think is important. "Outside. We were on the porch."

“On the porch?”

The brunette leans in like she’s telling a hot story. “The fight.”

The blonde continues, “Ethan Walker like a fucking knight-in-shining-armor!”

Something in my stomach tightens. "What did you see?"

They tell me.

All of it. They were on the porch when the guy walked me out, they saw the whole thing from the beginning. They describe me barely being able to stay upright, the guy's hand on my arm, him talking about his car. They describe Ethan coming down the steps, saying something they couldn't hear, and the guy shoving him.

"He didn't even hesitate," the brunette says. "The other guy shoved him and your guy just went."

"He's not my⁠—"

"He got hit a couple times," the blond says, and she says it almost reverently. "Like, actually hit. His whole torso must be one giant bruise. But he didn't stop. He just kept going until the other guy stayed down."

My stomach does something uncomfortable.

"And then he picked you up," the brunette says. "Like actually carried you. You weren't walking great and he just— yeah. Carried you."

"We thought it was the most romantic thing we've ever seen," the blond adds.

"It wasn't romantic," I say automatically. "He was just—" I don't finish the sentence because I don't actually know how to finish the sentence.

They tell me a few more details, the guy's face when Ethan stepped in, the sound of it, and by the time Professor Abert calls the room to order I've been standing in the aisle for ten minutes and my world has been blown completely upside down.

Why didn’t he tell me any of that?

I find a seat, open my notebook, and stare at the blank page.

Ethan got hit. Multiple times. And he didn't stop. He didn't back down or wait to see how things developed or make a reasonable assessment of the situation. He just kept going until the guy who'd tried to walk me to a car, when I could barely walk at all, stayed on the ground.

And then he carried me home.

And slept on top of the covers.

And woke up to me accusing him of doing the thing he'd just spent the night preventing.