by Tracy Wolff
While I tend to agree—Alex is a jackass and he does deserve all the bad karma—I can’t help feeling like I’ve fallen into the middle of a joke, where everyone knows the punch line but me. “Wait, did I miss something?”
“I don’t know. Did you?”
“Well, you’re the one calling me to do what sounds like an awful lot of gloating. So you tell me.” There’s a long pause and it sounds like Chloe’s trying to figure out what she wants to say next. “Come on, Chlo. Just spit it out.”
“So you haven’t seen the news?”
“No. You just woke me up.” I turn my head and squint at the old-fashioned alarm clock on the nightstand. Eight forty-nine.
“Oh my God! I can’t believe Miles didn’t get you out of bed for this! He sent me an email at six this morning, so I know he’s awake.”
Impatience sweeps through me, clearing out the last of the fogginess in my brain. I’m tired of being three steps behind my best friend. “This is ridiculous! Will you just tell me what’s going on?”
“The news broke early this morning. CNN led with the story that Alex raped a girl seven years ago when he was in college.”
Forget three steps. I’m a whole city block, walking in the wrong direction. “Whoa, wait a minute. What did you just say?”
“I said, Alex raped someone. He was never convicted of it because they couldn’t prove it—”
“So what’s changed? If the police couldn’t prove it, then why would the media run with the story? He’s going to sue them—”
“That’s the best part. He can’t. They have proof from his cellphone records and social media activity, plus those of the kids he used to go to school with. A group of them spent a night raping an unconscious girl and posting about it on social media. Three of them went to jail for it, but Alex and a few others got away with it. Until now.”
I’m totally awake now, the sleepiness dissipating under the hundreds of questions bombarding my brain all at the same time. The biggest question, though—and in my mind the most important—is, “Why?”
Chloe pauses, as if she’s confused. Which somehow only makes me more suspicious. Suspicious of what, I’m not sure yet. But suspicious of something. “Why is this all coming out now? If the rape happened seven years ago and they convicted someone for it, you can’t tell me that some overzealous detective just suddenly decided to take another look at the case right in the middle of my sex video scandal.”
“No, of course I’m not saying that. The whole video thing has been a big deal in the media the last few days, made more so by the fact that it’s opening up a debate about how women are treated versus men in situations like this—which is why I wanted you to do the interview in the first place. In fact—”
“I know, I know. I already told you I would do the interview,” I remind her as I sit up in bed. But as I do, the sheet falls to my hips. My naked hips, and I remember again what Miles and I spent a large part of the night doing. I remember, too, the realization I had in the middle of it all. The realization that I had fallen, hard, for my best friend’s big brother. The realization that, despite everything, I love Miles Girard.
It’s a realization that should have me shaking in my boots in the cold light of day, and maybe it would if it wasn’t currently being overshadowed by another feeling, one I can’t quite put my finger on.
“So how’d the media get the story?” I ask again.
“I don’t know,” Chloe admits. “I guess someone at one of the big outlets got interested because of the story. They started to dig. Isn’t that how the press gets most of its big stories?”
“No. They get most of their stories because someone leaks those stories to them.” As I say it, the reason for my uneasiness coalesces in my stomach and has my hand clenching on the phone. “Did one outlet lead with it way before the others, or did it happen one right after the other?”
For long seconds there’s nothing but silence from the other end of the line and, instinctively, I know this isn’t about her being distracted by the baby. Chloe’s thinking, too, her big brain reaching the same conclusions that I just did. “CNN led with it, but within minutes everyone else had stories up. Internet-only sites, Tumblrs, hell, even local affiliates were getting in on the action.”
That’s what I was afraid of. The sick feeling in the pit of my stomach is growing. Still, I feel honor-bound to ask. “It wasn’t Ethan who did this, right?” I wouldn’t put it past him—Ethan’s the protective sort, the kind whose protection extends beyond his wife to her best friend, as seen by how he’s handled things for me since the sex video broke.
For the first time, Chloe sounds uneasy when she answers. “No. I know he had people digging into Alex’s past, but I don’t think they found anything yet.” She pauses as she figures out what I already have. “You should talk to him before you start freaking out about what he did or didn’t do,” she finally says softly.
“Ethan?”
She snorts. “We both know we’re not talking about my husband anymore.”
She’s right. We’re not. After listening to her voice platitudes for a couple more minutes—platitudes I can barely pay attention to when my mind is racing as fast as it is—I finally convince her to hang up.
After she does, I can’t move for long seconds. Instead I just sit in the bed, listening to the sounds around me. Beyond the open balcony door I can hear the hum of morning traffic filling up the quaint La Jolla streets. I can hear the ocean slamming against the rocks in its endless cycle. And far off, in the distance, I can hear the upbeat and electric strains of Marina and the Diamonds’ “Power and Control.” It’s too far away for me to do more than make out a couple of lyrics here and there, but I don’t have to. I’ve had four and a half years to learn the lyrics even if I’m only now coming to truly understand them.
We take and give a little more
Eternal game of tug and war.
The last half of the chorus runs through my head again and again, long after the song has ended and the music’s purveyor has moved on to other places. But absent doesn’t mean gone and I can’t help thinking about the message of the song, can’t help thinking about how much of my relationship with Miles really has been “tug and war.” And how, while it was kind of fun in the beginning—all those months when I wanted nothing more than to hate him—now it just feels sad. And wrong. And like we’re covering the same ground over and over and over.
It’s that thought that finally galvanizes me, that has me throwing back the covers and strolling, bare-ass naked, from Miles’s room to mine. Once there, I grab the robe from the closet but don’t bother to put it on as I catch sight of the tablet Miles got me sitting on my nightstand, where I left it yesterday.
I pick it up and open up my browser, planning on going to a couple of the big news sites to see what’s up. But I don’t even have to do that as a headline about Alex—and me—is sitting right there at the top of my browser, just asking to be clicked. ALEXANDER PARSONS, NOT YOUR AVERAGE CREEP. DID TORI REED DODGE A BULLET?
I click on the link and then skim through the article, my stomach getting sicker with each line I read. I slept with this man. I fucking slept with this man who is so much more than an opportunist, who is a rapist and a predator and a narcissist of the first order. This man who is the biggest fucking coward I’ve ever met in my life.
When I’m done reading the whole article, I can’t stop myself from Googling his name. Can’t stop myself from finding more—at CNN, at The Huffington Post, at The New York Times. Hundreds of news pieces are already up, with editorial pieces slowly creeping into the mix. Pieces that do more than report on what happened at that long-ago party. Pieces that call for Alexander’s head on a fucking platter.
I don’t know how I feel about any of this—about the fact that I slept with this monster, about the fact that I dodged a pretty damn big bullet when all this came out and took over the conversation, about the fact that all this renewed coverage has to be dragging up all the bad me
mories for the girl who was assaulted. The girl who is probably still just trying to move on with some semblance of her life.
Maybe she’s grateful that her rapist is finally facing some sort of accountability for what he did. Or maybe she’s just tired, maybe she just wants to move on and put this whole thing behind her. Something that this new coverage cycle will make impossible to do for a while.
With what Chloe went through last summer, with what she’s gone through since she was a freshman in high school, the idea that I am somehow responsible for this girl’s continued suffering hits me really fucking hard.
It’s not the only thing hitting me hard this morning, but it’s definitely one of the top three.
Dropping the tablet on the bed, I forgo the robe and take a quick shower instead. Then I deliberately ignore the clothes Miles got me, which are hanging neatly in my closet, and get dressed in the yoga pants and tank top that I was wearing when I showed up here.
Then I pick the tablet back up and make my way down to the kitchen. The smell of freshly brewed coffee is in the air, but Miles isn’t there. He’s not in the family room, either, or out on the patio that extends over the ocean. Which means there’s only one place he can be. His workshop.
A part of me longs for a cup of coffee, but I recognize it as the crutch it is and walk right past the mug Miles left on the counter, presumably for me. Instead I make my way to the temperature-controlled garage that doubles as Miles’s workshop, trying with each step that I take to figure out what I’m going to say to him.
But when I get there, when I see him hunched over three different computers, spinning back and forth among them, I lose all ability to form coherent words. With his early-morning stubble and his tired eyes and his hair standing on end from the many times he’s run his fingers through it, he looks better than he has any right to. Especially considering he’s dressed in nothing but boxers. Or maybe because of it.
Either way, it’s obvious that he’s been awake all night, even without taking into consideration his undisturbed side of the bed and all that he’s managed to accomplish in the national and international press in the last few hours.
Looking at him, I lose my words—every single one of them—but I must make a sound, because suddenly he whirls to look at me. Then he’s pushing back from the modified workbench that serves as his desk and heading straight for me.
His glorious eyes are narrowed and his jaw is tight as he studies my face, my posture, the way I have my arms folded across my middle as if I need protection from him, this man with his good intentions and bulldozer techniques. This man who has no faith in the system and almost as little in me.
It’s the thought that maybe I do need protection that has me backing up a step for every one that he advances, a fact that—judging by the look on his face—isn’t lost on him. He stops abruptly, several steps away from me, and waits for me to speak.
I have nothing—and everything—to say.
I start with the only thing I can start with. I hold the tablet out to him and ask, voice hoarse and heart in my throat, “Did you do this?”
He barely glances at the tablet before looking back at me, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes them seem fathomless and omniscient. Silence stretches between us, and the longer it goes on, the easier it is for me to see him trying to gauge my mood, trying to handle this, trying to handle me.
But in the end, to his credit, he doesn’t try to lie. He just says, “Yes,” and leans back on his heels to study me.
“Why? Why would you do this without talking to me first?”
“You were asleep. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“What are you doing with all these laconic answers? Do you think the fact that you won’t explain yourself makes you look cool?”
He arches a brow and I see it then, see his mask slide into place. I haven’t seen the look since the first morning I showed up here—half devil-may-care and half I’m-an-asshole-and-proud-of-it. I hadn’t even realized it had disappeared until it showed up again.
I can’t say I missed it.
“I am explaining myself,” he tells me. “You just don’t like what I’m saying.”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying, any more than I understand why you did this without so much as consulting me.”
“What was there to consult you about? You didn’t want to do the interview. I made it so you didn’t have to. I’m not going to apologize for that.”
The utter arrogance of his statement has me staring at him openmouthed. “Are you serious?”
“What do you want me to say, Tori? I care about you and I did what I thought was best for you. What’s wrong with that?”
“Do you hear yourself? You did what was best for me?”
“Damn right I did.”
“You don’t get to do this,” I tell him, working hard to keep my voice level. “You don’t get to make choices like this for me just because you think you know what’s best—”
“I do know what’s best.” He nods toward the tablet. “Especially in this case. The press is totally on your side now and they’re crucifying Parsons. Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Yes. I did want that, so much I’m a little ashamed to admit it. But still…“What about this poor girl? What about the fact that you’ve brought back everything that happened to her? How do you think she’s feeling this morning?”
“Maybe vindicated that the asshole who got away is finally being forced to pay? And if Parsons is as big a weasel as we both think he is, he’ll probably roll on everyone else who was involved. Maybe she’ll finally get justice.”
“That’s if he’s arrested.”
“Oh, he’ll be arrested. I made sure of it.”
He closes the gap between us then, and reaches for me. But he freezes, arm outstretched, when I stiffen and scoot back until my back is literally against the garage wall.
“Why didn’t you talk to me?” I demand. “Why didn’t you see if this was what I wanted before you did it?”
“There wasn’t time. You were set to give the interview in a few hours and I knew you didn’t want to do it. I needed to get this info out there so you wouldn’t have to.”
“Do you hear yourself?” I ask for the second time in as many minutes. “You knew, you needed. What about what I need?”
“This is what you need.” He takes the tablet, scrolls through some stuff, and then holds it up to me. “Are you looking at this? Are you seeing what they’re saying about you? You’ve gone from whore to victim in the space of four hours.”
“Maybe I preferred being a whore, Miles. Did you ever think of that?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah, well, you don’t always make the best choices, do you?”
I gasp, which totally pisses me off because the last thing I want to sound like right now is some nineteenth-century virgin with a case of the vapors. But I can’t help it, not when his words—and the contempt that motivated them—are making me want to curl up into a ball and hide.
Shame swamps me, makes my hands and my voice shake as I answer, “No, I haven’t always made the best choices. But I’ve spent the last few months trying to change that, and for you to throw it in my face now over something that isn’t my fault…that’s low, Miles. That’s really fucking low.”
He sighs, shoves a frustrated hand through his hair. “You know that’s not what I mean. I’m just saying, in the past week you’ve been disowned by your father, become notorious on the Internet, and been forced to go into hiding with nothing but a backpack and a couple of pairs of yoga pants. This is your way out of that. You say you want to find a job, want to have a life. Fixing this mess gives you a chance to do all that and more.”
“So you fixed it for me.”
“Of course I did. I—care about you a lot, Tori. There’s no way I’m going to let you suffer through this if I can fix it.”
“I get that. I do. And I care about you, too. But did it ever occur to you that I need to be
the one to fix it? Not you? That I need to be the one to put my life back in order because it’s my life? We just talked about this—”
“Are we back to the fucking clothes?” he demands, exasperation ripe in his voice.
“We are back to the fucking clothes. And the fucking electronics and the fucking shoes and everything else you thought it necessary to buy me without consulting me.”
“I was trying to help!”
“I know. You’re always trying to help.” It’s why I can’t be angry at him, no matter how much I wish I could. Because if I was angry it would make what comes next so much easier to bear.
“Except you’re not doing it just because you want to help. You’re doing it—”
“If you’re about to accuse me of helping you for sexual favors, I strongly suggest you don’t.” His voice is deadly quiet, deadly serious. Just the idea is obviously a hot button for him—not a surprise considering the guilt he carries for what happened to Chloe—but that isn’t what I was about to say.
“You know, you could give me the benefit of the doubt and wait to hear what I say before you jump down my throat.” A bit of that anger I was looking for finally sparks to life inside me. “Then again, why would you? It’s not like you give me the benefit of the doubt on anything else, right?”
It’s his turn to look offended. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means that you always think the worst of me.”
“Excuse me? I’ve worked my ass off to help you because I don’t think the worst of you and I don’t want anyone else to, either.”
“No, you’ve worked your ass off to help me because you don’t think I’m capable of helping myself.”
