If We Were Villains: A Novel

I didn’t sleep long, and I slept like a man on a raft, waves rolling underneath me—seasick more than drunk. My eyes opened before I even knew I was awake, and I stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling. Meredith lay beside me, one hand pressed under her cheek, the other arm tucked tight against her chest. A tiny line had appeared between her eyebrows, as though whatever she was dreaming troubled her.

The lamp on the nightstand leaked watery orange light across the bed. I reached carefully over her to turn it off but paused, my arm outstretched. Meredith’s breath fluttered against the back of my hand. I couldn’t help staring—not, for once, because she was beautiful, but because the small dark spots on her body I’d mistaken in my drunken fervor for shadows and tricks of the light hadn’t faded. The delicate line of her wrist was marred by tiny blooms of purple, like budding violets on her skin. Older marks, weak as watercolors now, showed where a heavier hand than mine had touched her, where phantom fingers had squeezed too hard: the nape of her neck, the curve of her knee. She was every bit as bruised as James. I felt nauseous, but the sick feeling settled in my chest instead of my stomach.

I risked brushing a strand of hair off her cheek, then turned the light out. The room shrank in around me, the eager darkness encroaching at last. I lifted the sheet and put my feet on the floor. I wanted water, badly, to soothe my dry throat and clear my head. Halfway across the room I pulled my underwear on.

Before I opened the door, I pressed my ear against it. Was Richard crazy enough to wait outside all night for one of us to emerge? Hearing nothing, I opened it just a crack. The hall stretched empty and dark in both directions. The lights and music downstairs had been shut off and the whole building felt skeletal, like an empty shell where some soft spineless creature used to live. I crept toward the bathroom, wondering if I was the only person awake. Evidently not—Alexander’s door was open, his bed empty. I moved quietly, hoping not to rouse anyone. I knew a confrontation of some kind was unavoidable, but I didn’t want to face it any sooner than I had to. Not before I could convince myself that it had all actually happened—my memory of the party had the gauzy, chimerical quality of a dream. Part of me wanted to believe that was all it was.

Assuming an inebriated partygoer had left the light on, I opened the bathroom door without knocking. In the instant it took my eyes to adjust, a crouching figure sprang up from the floor.

“Jesus!”

“Hush, Oliver, it’s me!” James reached around me to pull the door shut. His arm brushed across my bare stomach and I shivered at the dampness of his skin. He took one step back, naked and dripping wet. The shower drummed softly in the background.

“What are you doing?”

He pushed the toilet handle down and the water swirled away as he wiped his mouth. “Just been sick,” he said.

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Drank too much is all. What are you doing up?”

“Needed some water,” I said, averting my eyes. We’d shared a room for three years and James naked was nothing I hadn’t seen before, but I’d surprised him and it felt somehow intrusive.

“Do you care if I get back in?” His hand rose briefly from his side, a loose abortive gesture toward the shower. “I feel disgusting, I hate vomiting.”

“Go ahead.” I slid past him to get to the sink and cupped cold water into my mouth as he stepped over the side of the tub. The spray hit his skin with a hiss, and he pulled the curtain halfway closed.

“So,” he said, a little too casually. “Did you just come from Meredith’s room?”

“Um. Yeah.”

“You think that’s a good idea?”

“Not especially.”

My reflection was messy, disheveled. I surreptitiously wiped a smear of lipstick from the corner of my mouth. In the mirror I could see James leaning on the shower wall, water dripping from his nose and chin.

“I guess everyone knows,” I said. I splashed my face, hoping my skin would cool.

“One of the first-years came in from the stairwell and basically announced it to the room.”

“I really hate first-years.” I shut the faucet off, then closed the toilet lid and sat on it.

“So. How was it?”

I glanced up at him, anxiety prickling sorely on my skin. “You do know Richard’s going to kill me.”

“That did seem to be his plan.”

James turned his face into the water, eyes squeezed shut. My limbs felt heavy and useless, as if the muscles and bones had dissolved and been replaced with half-mixed concrete. I raked my wet fingers through my hair and asked, “Where is he, anyway?”

“Don’t know. Disappeared into the woods with a bottle of Scotch after Pip and Alexander stopped him kicking Meredith’s door down.”

“Christ.” I hung my head for a moment, then pushed myself to my feet before I felt too heavy to move.

“Are you going back to her room?” James asked. His back was to me, the water slithering down between his shoulder blades in two narrow streams (for a moment I indulged the idea that maybe it would wash his bruises off like paint).

“I don’t want to just leave her in there, like a one-night stand.”

“Is that not what this is?”

I couldn’t remember ever being angry with James before. The feeling surged up unexpectedly—broad and vulnerable, raw as a burn. “No,” I said, too loudly.

He glanced over his shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion. “Oh?”

“Look, I know she’s not your favorite but she’s not just some girl either.”

He blinked. “I guess not,” he said, and turned his back to me again.

“James,” I said, with no idea what I meant to say after.

He turned the water off, one hand lingering on the handle. A few tiny drops clung to his eyelashes, rolled down his face like tears. “What?” he said, slightly delayed.

I struggled to form words—I felt the shape of them, but not the substance—until a smudge on his cheek distracted me.

“I— You’ve got puke on your face,” I blurted.

His expression was blank as the odd sentence registered, and when it did he blushed to the roots of his hair. “Oh.”

Suddenly we were both embarrassed (which seemed absurd, after the last five minutes of intimate conversation and casual nakedness).

“I’m sorry, that’s vile,” he said.

“It’s fine.” I stooped down to grab his towel from the floor. “Here.” We’d both reached for it, and when I stood up again we nearly bumped heads. I eased back, enormously aware of my own body and how clumsy it was. He looked wide-awake, almost alarmed. I felt my own face going hot.

I garbled a goodnight, put the towel in his hand, and hastily left the room.