Chapter 49
Bree
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“Hi,” I said, my voice wavering only slightly as I stood in front of the reception desk. “I’m here
to see Mrs. Gobsmann.”
The man behind it looked up, his face neutral but polite, his smile small and professional. He
pressed a button on his desk phone and muttered into it, “Your two o’clock is here.”
Before I even had a chance to breathe, the door behind me opened, and there she was.
Charlotte Gobsmann.
“Miss Morgan,” she beamed, her voice warm and smooth, filling the air like she was already
trying to set me at ease. “Please, do come in!”
I turned, offering her a tentative smile as I followed her into the office.
She was the picture of composed elegance–mid–fifties, though she carried herself with the kind of sharpness that made you think she had a decade less on her shoulders. Her pencil skirt fell neatly to her mid–calf, paired with a deep maroon button–down that looked both stylish and practical. Silver streaks wove through her brown hair like threads of wisdom, catching the sunlight that streamed in from the wide windows. And those eyes–warm brown, but sharp enough to cut if she wanted to.
I’d always heard she was a force to be reckoned with, and just standing in her space, I
believed it.
“Thank you,” I murmured, stepping fully into the room.
Her office was not quite what I expected. Smaller than I had imagined, almost modest considering her position. A heavy dark–wood desk dominated one side, covered with neat stacks of paper, a green writing mat, a keyboard and mouse set just off–center, and a computer screen angled toward her. The walls were decorated with framed photographs- sweeping shots of campus, brick buildings draped in ivy, student events frozen in time.
Across from the desk was a smaller rounded table, intimate rather than intimidating, with four chairs around it. A silver thermos of coffee sat on top, accompanied by a neat stack of white mugs and a small bowl of cookies.
“Please,” she said, gesturing to the table with a graceful sweep of her hand. “Have a seat.”
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I obeyed quickly, pulling out one of the chairs and settling into it. She mirrored me, lowering herself into the chair across, her legs crossing smoothly as she leaned forward to fiddle with
the thermos.
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Sure, thanks,” I said, forcing a smile. My hands twitched slightly as I reached for one of the tiny milk containers, a packet of sugar.
She poured, the liquid steaming as it filled the mug she slid toward me. I busied myself with stirring in milk and sugar, though the truth was I wasn’t much of a coffee drinker. I preferred
sweeter things–hot chocolate, chai, anything that didn’t make my stomach twist from bitterness. But refusing felt impossible. I needed to appear polite. Cooperative. The kind of student worth keeping around.
“So, Miss Morgan-”
“Please, just call me Bree,” I interrupted quickly, giving her what I hoped was a soft but firm
smile.
Her lips curled into something genuine, almost motherly. “All right, Bree,” she said, testing the name like she wanted to make sure it fit. She cradled her own cup of coffee, looking down into the dark liquid for a beat before glancing back up at me. “I offered up this meeting because of the misunderstanding that happened here a few weeks ago.”
I nodded, my fingers tightening around the warm mug.
When I’d told Mom about the invitation, she hadn’t hesitated–she insisted I stand my ground. “Make her hear you, Bree,” she had said, eyes fierce in a way that only came from protecting
her child. “Tell her everything, exactly what happened. Demand something in return. Don’t let them walk all over you.”
But I wasn’t like Mom. I didn’t crave confrontation, didn’t feel strong when standing toe–to–toe with authority. Honestly, all I wanted was to stay here. To prove I deserved my scholarship. To quietly keep my place without anyone looking at me like I was damaged goods.
Charlotte Gobsmann set her cup down gently, her expression softening. “When I received an
anonymous email about you, I must admit I was… curious. But seeing what happened-” she shook her head slowly, as if the memory still unsettled her- “I panicked, Bree. Our school has a high reputation, one we guard fiercely. I was saddened to see the things I did. You’re an honorable young woman, and to have you be part of this establishment was something I
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looked forward to.”
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Her words pricked something inside me. I could appreciate her honesty, even respect it. But part of me wanted to laugh–not because it was funny, but because it felt naïve. This campus was full of young people, emotions bubbling at the surface, hormones spiking at every glance. To think she could control all of us, to keep us tidy and spotless like her polished desk… it felt impossible. All she could do was guide us, hope we’d follow.
“But I was hasty,” she admitted, her eyes lifting to mine again. “After I sent you that email, I looked deeper into what was going on, and I could see that the likelihood of you posting
those things yourself was very slim.”
My gaze dropped, shame and anger fighting for space in my chest. My thumbs brushed over the ceramic of the mug, grounding myself in its warmth.
“I usually pride myself on listening to both sides of a story,” she continued, her voice carrying a touch of regret. “And if you’d like, I’d appreciate hearing your side. Or, if there’s anything I can do to help you, I want to do that. Truly.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat, trying desperately to push down the avalanche of emotions threatening to bury me. Thirty–six hours. That’s all it had been since everything shifted again–since Gage, since Jenna, since the cruel reminder that my life wasn’t neatly tied with ribbons but instead tangled in knots I couldn’t unravel on my own. The urge to spill everything out to Mrs. Gobsmann–to word–vomit until I was raw and hollow–throbbed inside me. But she wasn’t my mother. She wasn’t my best friend. It wasn’t her job to shoulder my heartbreak. And I already had enough people willing to pat my back and tell me they were
sorry.
What I needed was something different.
“Actually,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt, as I shifted in the chair. “I think I could benefit from talking to someone… someone professional.” I lifted my gaze, meeting her eyes across the table. “I think a lot of what has happened to me has changed me, and not for the better. I’d like to see if I could work through it, and maybe talking to a professional would help me.”
Her expression softened, her eyes warm but firm, like she approved of my courage. “Of course,” she said without hesitation, nodding as she rose gracefully from her seat and walked behind her desk. “Dr. Playton is our on–site psychiatrist. He’s helped many young women and men untangle what they’re carrying. He specializes in working with younger minds–how to process trauma, how to redirect pain into something manageable.”
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The rapid clack of her fingers against the keyboard filled the room as she typed. The sound
was steady, almost soothing.
“I’ll send him an email right now,” she explained, eyes scanning the glowing screen. “He’ll
contact you directly to set up a time. You’ll be able to talk to him as often as you need, for as
long as you’d like. There’s no limit.”
Relief washed through me so suddenly it felt like oxygen rushing into lungs that had been
starved too long. My shoulders sagged, my chest eased. I had been bracing for a fight, for
resistance–for the chance that I’d have to push, maybe even threaten to leave if I didn’t get
help. But she was giving it freely, almost eagerly.
“Thank you,” I breathed, a small, tentative smile blooming on my lips.
Because no matter what had happened with Gage–no matter how over we were, no matter
how impossible we felt–I still needed this. I still wanted to find a way to heal. To better
myself. To carve out some version of a future where I wasn’t trapped by fear, where my worth
wasn’t tangled up in someone else’s cruelty.
She returned to the table, her cup of coffee in hand, and eased back into her chair with a
warm smile. “Of course, Bree.” She sipped delicately before setting the cup down. “Am I right
in understanding you want to major in English?”
“That’s correct, yes,” I replied, straightening a little in my seat. “I want to become a teacher.
I’m hoping my journey takes me somewhere I can make a difference.”
Her eyes lit with recognition, and she nodded, her expression thoughtful. “That is an
honorable path. We need teachers–good teachers. Ones who care, ones who remember
what it’s like to be young and uncertain. I understand your wish completely.”
Heat crept into my cheeks as she regarded me so openly. “I… I haven’t chosen a minor yet,” I
admitted. “I know I should be taking classes that directly support my dream of teaching, but…
“I bit my lip, hesitating. “I really enjoy creative writing, too. Books have always been a big part
of my life, something I used to immerse myself in when I was younger.”
Her smile brightened, almost conspiratorial. “Books can be a great way to escape,” she said
knowingly. “Do you dabble in writing yourself?”
The question made my stomach flutter. I shook my head, my gaze dropping to the swirl of dark liquid in my mug.
The truth was, the journal waiting back in my dorm room wasn’t just a notebook anymore. It
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was filling, page by page, with letters I’d never send, thoughts too heavy to say aloud, fragments of something that was beginning to resemble a story. Maybe not a proper one yet, but… maybe it could be. Maybe it could become the most heartbreaking love story of all time
-mine.
“You definitely should,” she encouraged gently. “I’m sure your voice would be powerful. With
your past experiences, I imagine there are plenty of subjects you could dive into. Fiction,
memoir, even biography. Whatever feels right to you.”
A strangled laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “I’m not exciting enough to write a
biography.”
“You underestimate yourself,” she countered, her eyes earnest. “I’ve seen your application materials, Bree. I’ve read your essays, your recommendations. We don’t often grant full rides, but when we reviewed everything you’ve accomplished, your scholarship was an easy decision.”
Pride swelled in my chest, unexpected and warm. But tangled with it came something else, sharp and aching.
I had done everything I could to earn that spot. Every hour of volunteering, every night hunched over textbooks, every attempt to turn myself into a flawless, walking encyclopedia- it had all been for this. For college. For a future. For something better.
And yet, here I was. Alone. Miserable. Still hopelessly in love with a man I couldn’t have.
“Thank you, Mrs. Gobsmann,” I said softly, forcing myself to smile instead of revealing the storm inside. Some truths, I decided, I would save for Dr. Playton.
She returned the smile, kind but firm, as though she could see just a fraction of what I was hiding. “My door is always open for you, Bree. If you need anything–anything at all–don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Okay,” I whispered, nodding, my hand tightening around the warm mug. For the first time in weeks, I felt like maybe–just maybe–I wasn’t entirely lost.
44
Emilia M
