Page 86 of Cocky Brutal Sinner

I drag myself to the kitchen where I find a full pot of coffee, still warm. Next to it, on my Hello Kitty notepad, there’s a note from Beau.

I’m here for you. Call me.

Next to Hello Kitty, he drew a little stick figure of himself with his arm around her, smiling and waving at me. That small bit of tenderness nearly undoes me. I close my eyes until the tears vanish, then pour myself a cup of coffee. I’ll need it if I’m going to face the mountain of problems waiting for me.

My phone is still a disaster of anonymous texts and cruel comments. The girls’ group chat is still silent. Whit’s email about my lease is still sitting in my inbox like a bomb. Not to mention, the little problem of the world knowing I’m Peppermint. The information is spreading through Toronto’s social circles whether I like it or not. The story has been told by a PI report and a poker room and whisper networks.

I didn’t get to control the narrative. Well, screw that. If my story is going to be out there, it’s going to be in my words. Not Luke’s. Not a PI’s. Not some random gossip’s. Mine.

Grabbing my coffee, I head back to the bedroom, hop up on my bed, and open my laptop. When I open the Toronto Tea dashboard, the system shows The Earl’s name in bold. Good—he’s online. I’d rather have his answer quickly.

Peppermint: As I’m sure you’ve heard, people know who Peppermint is now. Obviously, I can’t go on like I have. I’d like to publish one final piece, under my real name.

I stare at the chat window, waiting. It alternates between nothing and an acknowledgment that The Earl is typing. Finally, he sends his answer.

The Earl: We can publish it, but there’s no coming back. Anonymity was always a prerequisite for writing for the Tea. Once you break it, the relationship is over. I look forward to reading your final article, and I wish you well with your next adventures.

Relief swells in my chest. It’s a surprisingly warm sign off from someone I’ve never met in person, and frankly, it’s nice to have one more person in the small stable of people who aren’t pissed at me right now.

It takes me the rest of the day to finish the post. Sometimes whole paragraphs flow out from my keyboard, and other times I agonize over every word. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever written—harder than the angry screeds, harder than the takedowns, because it’s honest. It reveals parts of me I was ashamed of, and parts that will leave me vulnerable to ridicule. But I guess at this point, the public backlash can’t get any worse.

Six hours and four Pop-Tarts later, I’ve finally got something I’m satisfied with.

Peppermint Unmasked

By: Brinley Windsor

Many years ago, I created the Peppermint persona, driven by revenge and bitterness. When I felt weak and helpless, I let Peppermint be my warrior. She fought my battles by sharing my enemies’ secrets, by stripping them bare the way they stripped me bare. She defended women from men who would mistreat and discard them, or so I thought at the time. I was Medusa, using my words to turn everyone who wronged me stone.

Of course, stones can’t change. But people can. That’s not something I realized until I had hurt too many of my best friends.

The story of Peppermint began ten years ago, when I was fourteen. Like many girls that age, I had an all-consuming crush on an older boy. I was stupid enough to write about it in my diary, where my brother could find it. He and his friends tricked me into believing my crush wanted to go out with me. Instead, they confronted me with my diary, and read my private, pathetic, secret thoughts aloud to a room full of people, including that crush. Until recently, I believed he played a part in the plan, as well.

It was a cruel prank, and you can probably guess what I must have felt. Humiliation. Anger. Grief. It taught me that the world was cruel, and that powerful men were the cruelest of all.

I won’t name the friends that helped my brother, though eagle-eyed readers can probably guess who they are. You should know that they’re different now than they were ten years ago. Better men, for the most part. Several of them fell in love with bold, intelligent, remarkable women who, unbelievably, became my friends.

When I wrote about those men, I didn’t only hurt them—I hurt my friends. They became collateral damage in my crusade, their lives made into public fodder because I chose to write about them. I crossed the line between justified anger and cruelty, over and over again. I became harder, meaner, and more merciless while the men who tormented me grew into generous, open-hearted, fundamentally decent people.

Peppermint was supposed to be my shield, but instead, she became my sword. I used her to cut down innocent people, and for that I’m deeply sorry. I became a villain while I was masquerading as a hero, and it took me far too long to see my own misdeeds clearly. I wish I could wipe away the pain that I caused, but I’ve already left my mark. I hope that one day, I can issue my apologies in person. I also understand that some things can never be forgiven.

This will be Peppermint’s final article. I wish all my readers well, and I hope this might inspire one person, at least, to let an old grudge go.

I reread it twice, making sure I’ve said everything I want to. Once I’m satisfied, I hit publish and sign out of the Toronto Tea for the last time. I close my laptop and set it on the bedside table.

I’m struck by how dark the room is. Staring at my laptop screen, I missed the afternoon sliding into evening. I lie back and stare at the ceiling, taking in the silence around me. I feel simultaneously lighter and more terrified than I’ve ever been. I just published my real name. My real story, with no pseudonym, no anonymity, no armor. Just Brinley Windsor, telling the truth about who I am, what I did, and why.

Gazing over at my laptop, I wonder if I’ll ever feel the urge to write again, or if my creative impulse died with Peppermint.

Eden appears in the doorway, tapping lightly on the frame. “Hey. You okay?”

I shoot her a smile. “I think I’m about to find out.”

My phone buzzes and I sit up immediately, grabbing it eagerly. Is it too soon for Pippa or Maura or Cat to have read my article? Maybe they’ve at least considered forgiving me?

It’s not the girl chat. I hold up my phone for Eden. “I got the weekly check-in text from your brother.”

She groans and leans against the door frame. “Oh god, tell me he’s not still sending those.”