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I’ve got a bunch. I had the ringer off last night, my phone deep in my bag, and I didn’t realize.
They’re all from my dad.
“See you later, babe. ”
One at nine o’clock last night. One at nine-thirty. One at ten. Ten-fifteen. Eleven-thirty. Six o’clock this morning.
My stomach sinks like a rock.
“What’s a guy have to do to get his woman to say goodbye around here?”
I look up. West is leaning in the doorway, hand braced against the jamb.
“My dad called six times last night. ”
“That’s—that sounds excessive. ”
“Yeah. ”
Bad news, cunt, the Internet Asshats whisper.
I’d almost forgotten about them. I’d let myself forget. Let myself pretend.
Not ready to listen to Dad’s voice mail, I switch to email. Fifty new messages. I scroll through the list, seeing strange email addresses and threatening subject lines.
Seeing my dad’s name. Call Me. Urgent Matter.
An email from my sister Janelle. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.
I don’t click on any of them.
I open the web browser and type in my name.
Caroline Piasecki. Advanced search. Limit to last twenty-four hours.
So many hits. All the worst sites. All the same pictures, all over again.
This isn’t supposed to be happening, but it is.
West is behind me, hands on my shoulders. The phone’s hidden from view by the fall of my hair, and I wish I had something better to hide behind. Some place, some world where I could take him, where everything wasn’t already being ruined.
“It’s bad,” he says.
It’s not a question. He can feel it. He knows.
“Yeah. It’s bad. ”
But after that, it only gets worse.
I walk in to my dad’s office armed to the teeth.
West stays in the car, parked all the way down at the end of the driveway. I feel shitty about that, but he said I can only fight one battle at a time, and he’s got a point. Probably the day to reintroduce West to my dad and fess up to his being my boyfriend is not Sex-Picture Day.
Still. Just knowing West is out there, waiting. Knowing he’s on my side. It helps.
We both skipped class this morning. He called in sick to the library. I don’t think he’s skipped class all year, and he’s definitely never missed work, so I appreciate the gesture. Plus, I need him. He’s not much good with computers, but he’s good with me. He sat next to me for hours while I pulled up my spreadsheets, Google-searched until my eyes itched, ranted and raved as I uncovered layer after layer of Nate’s assault.
It’s worse this time. Way worse than before.
