We sit there in silence, waiting. I’m waiting to be dismissed. Dad’s waiting me to say something, anything. I’m hollow inside. I retched out every ounce of liquid in me earlier today when I woke up nearly bare-assed in my bed with only vague memories of what happened the night before.
I dry heaved for half an hour after Nick anxiously recited how he found me in a room on the third floor of Juliette’s house starring in my very own personal porno.
After I kicked Nick out, I sat in shock and horror watching the video while texts from Charlotte came in, first cheerful and then worried. After my continued silence came the calls and the unplayed voicemails.
The sounds echoed in the bathroom, and I turned the volume off to shut out the barf-inducing fake porno sighs from the two girls in the video. One of the girls I hadn’t ever seen before. She’s kissing me, or at least her face is on top of mine. I look dead. My mouth was slack, and my eyes were closed. Greta was grinding on top of me. It looked like they were fucking a corpse. Nick swears we weren’t fucking. That it was all for show. I don’t even care at this point. What I know is that someone took something precious from me: Charlotte’s trust.
What could I say to her? No matter how many times everyone says it wasn’t my fault, I know that isn’t true. I could have made different choices. Like staying home and not going to Juliette’s. Or walking away when the fuckhead challenged me. Or paying more attention to Nick’s warnings about Greta.
“You’re not at fault,” Dad says gently, as if he can read my mind. Maybe he can. And if that’s true, it’s just another reason to get away. I don’t want to be where everyone knows me and can tell every little thing I’m thinking. Where everyone looks at me with pity. “You’re the victim.”
I fucking hate that word. I’m over six feet tall. Over two hundred pounds. “I’m no victim,” I bite out.
Mom sucks back a sob, which tears at me. I should have protected all of us. That’s my job. But I let everyone down, and now I’m weak and used up. Worse, the guys at school are acting as if I’m some kind of fucking hero. The texts they’d sent? All congratulatory with a whiff of jealousy. No, no one would believe that I’d been done wrong, no matter that I was drugged. No matter that I didn’t want it.
Man, you got some at JW’s. Major props.
We’re not worthy!
Shit man. 2 at 1 time. Your getting your bucket list done!
Charlotte would have made me text back “It’s you’re, you dumbass.” I didn’t respond to any of them.
No one is going to believe that I was forced to do something against my will. No one would believe I was . . . I can’t even say the word in my own head.
Dad sighs again. “Okay, hoss. You’re going to have to come to your own conclusions. But let me repeat my words. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not by going to the party. Not by fighting some asshole. Not by drinking. No one deserves what happened to you. Not a female and not a male. With time, you’ll come to that realization too. I called Gray. He’s expecting you at the beach house, where you’ll spend time with Sam and him and the kids.”
I open my mouth to protest, but Dad gives me the I’m talking look. “Only for a week. No arguments or you don’t get to enlist early and you’ll have to cool your heels here until your eighteen.”
It’s a compromise I can live with. “We done?”
At his nod, I rise and walk toward the door. As I’m leaving, he says, “I’m proud of you. Proud that you’re my eldest. You’re a good boy, Nathan, and you’ll be a good man. Don’t listen to the rest of the shit that’s swirling around your head. We love you.”
He draws my stiff body into a hug, and I’m tempted to lean into him like I’m a child again, but right now, I don’t deserve it. Mom is next.
“You think you see pity in my eyes, but it’s not. It’s anger. You can be angry too. You have the right to be angry about what happened but don’t hold that inside you. Let it out. We love you so much, honey.” She clutches me tight.
I squeeze her back because, shit, I can’t help it. She’s my mom. But the hug is all I can give.
Nick comes in while I’m packing. “Charlotte texted me. Said she was having problems connecting.”
Unspoken is the question of when I’m going to call her. “Yeah, I just . . .” I run a hand through my hair. “You gotta take care of her now, Nick.”