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I feel like smoke, my edges dissolving with every mile that passes, every flick of his hand over the wand that makes the high beams come on, a flood of light, then another flick, dimming to yellow. The darkness concentrates his potency, makes him more solid and me less substantial, immaterial, unreal.
When he leans forward to turn down the radio—an obvious prelude to conversation—I have to pull myself back from somewhere far away.
“What’s going on with Nate?” he asks.
“Nothing.”
“He stopped posting the pictures?”
“As far as I can tell. They pop up sometimes, but that’s going to happen. I don’t think it’s him doing it anymore.”
Nate spent most of last school year posting and reposting our sex pictures online while I wasted dozens of hours contacting site owners to get them removed. It was the world’s least fun game of whack-a-mole.
He finally stopped after I took the problem to the dean’s office. When the college began to investigate, I hoped he would end up expelled for violating the campus technology policy, but it didn’t happen. He’d been too sneaky, and he’s a convincing liar. How else would he have convinced me he was a nice person for all the time we were going out?
The college let him off the hook with a suspension of his Internet privileges—a slap on the wrist—but the disciplinary investigation must have shaken him up, because he’s backed off the attack.
“You get a trial date yet?” West asks.
“No, we’re not done working on the complaint.”
“What about the Jane Doe thing?”
Filing as Jane Doe rather than Caroline Piasecki means my highly recognizable name won’t come out in connection with the case, and the public records of the suit won’t identify me.
Which means, in turn, there’s a chance that my entire economic and political future won’t be tainted by what Nate did and what I’m doing to get back at him.
“My dad knows someone who knows someone who says with the judge I’m going to be assigned, it shouldn’t be a problem.”
“So when do they set your trial date?”
“After we file the complaint, which is any day now,” I say. “Dad says it will probably be at least twelve months until the trial.”
“It’ll be nice to see that fucker raked over the coals for what he did.”
“I guess so.”
“You guess so?”
“It’s going to cost a fortune.”
“How much?”
“Maybe a hundred thousand dollars, according to the lawyer. Could be more.”
West whistles.
“And he says it could get ugly, like a rape case. They’ll attack my credibility. So I’m trying to get ready for all that.”
“Doesn’t sound easy to get ready for. Douchebag lawyers grilling you about your sex life.”
“Don’t forget my mental stability.”
“Your mental stability’s just fine.”
“I meant that they’ll grill me about my mental stability.”
There’s a smile flirting with the corners of his mouth. “Fucking great. Have ’em call me, I’ll tell ’em what a basket case you were at the bakery last year.”
