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I stalk into the bedroom and stuff a few things into my bag, then sneak out the sliding glass door. I parked my car three streets away to avoid facing the press last night, and it paid off. I throw my bag onto the passenger seat and slam my door closed, revving the car to life.
“Where am I going to go?” I mutter. Home is out of the question. My parents are furious with me. I hadn’t even considered that my uncle was an alumnus of Northwestern. I cringe at the thought of my family seeing that video. How could I have ever thought this was a good idea?
“Zara?”
Mel frowns at me from behind her
front door. The once friendly redhead is now suspicious and reserved—not that I can blame her. She’s probably wondering how much of our friendship was total bullshit.
“I didn’t have anyone else to turn to,” I mumble. I want to laugh. She barely knows me. Two coffees and a dinner and suddenly she’s my only ally? It’s ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. I’m a fucking messed-up loser who has spent the past year obsessed with ruining the wrong fucking man.
“Come in,” she finally says with a sigh, standing aside. I follow her into the living room and sit down, pulling my knees up to my chest. “What happened?” she asks.
“You saw the video?” I ask.
“Everyone saw it, Zara. I don’t understand why. Did he do something to you? Because if that was just to fuck up his life, then that was really low. I can’t even imagine showing the whole world something like that. But then again, I don’t exactly look like you.” She blushes and drops her gaze.
My heart pounds as shots from the video flash through my head. I’m so embarrassed. The idea had been to Photoshop some of the more graphic scenes, because believe it or not, I do have some dignity.
“I didn’t…It wasn’t me who sent the email,” I say quietly.
“Did you videotape yourself with him? Edit the video to make it look like that?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.
I nod. “He won’t let me explain things.”
“I’m not trying to be rude, Zara, but can you blame the guy?”
No. No, I can’t.
“You know about my cousin, right?”
Confusion clouds over Mel’s face. “What does she have to do with Mr. Bain?”
“She told me before she killed herself that he had gotten her pregnant. She said she’d had an affair with a professor, and after talking to your sister, I learned she told me the last part to keep me from knowing she was sleeping with my boyfriend, but I didn’t know that until it was too late.” I take a deep breath and force myself to continue. “I thought it was Noah and I wanted him to hurt. I wanted him to feel helpless like she did. It worked, but I got the wrong guy.”
“Holy shit,” she mumbles, her eyes widening. “So you think your cousin killed herself because she was sleeping with your boyfriend?” I nod. “And you thought it was Mr. Bain. You were trying to punish him….”
“Right. Heather’s the one who told me everything. It was Dillon. I went home and he’d found the video and sent it out,” I whispered. “Now Noah won’t talk to me. I’ve ruined his life for no fucking reason and he won’t let me apologize.”
“God, I’m so sorry. I don’t even know what to say. Where is Dillon now?”
“Frat house, I assume. He hasn’t been back in a couple days. But with all the reporters at home I couldn’t stay there. And I broke my phone.” My voice cracks as tears roll down my cheeks. I laugh. With everything that’s happened in the last few days, it’s my fucked cell that has me in tears.
“I’ve got a spare phone you can use. It’ll be okay, Zara. Let him calm down and then he’ll talk to you.” She hesitates. “Are you upset because you hurt him, or is there more to it?” she asks, her voice gentle.
There’s always more to it. My sobs are the only answer she needs. She stands up and crouches in front of me, wrapping her arms around me.
“Poor girl, you’ll be okay. Things feel fucked now, but this will all die down, okay?”
“He’ll never forgive me.”
I sit cross-legged on the bed in the spare room at Mel’s apartment. I’m sure she’s letting me stay only because she feels sorry for me, but I’ll take it. It’s not like I have anywhere else to turn right now.
Logging in to my personal email account, I begin writing to Ryan. I pour out the whole sorry story. I tell him everything, including how angry I am at him for being so far away. He’s the only person I know who won’t judge me.
I press send and sigh. Just getting all that out makes me feel a little bit better. Even though I know what I’m about to do is a bad, bad idea, I can’t stop myself. I click Google and type my name and Northwestern into the search engine.
Hits fill the screen. I click on the first one and see the video, followed with more than two hundred comments. Even though I know I’m not going to like it, I scroll down and read them.
