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A single image.
No caption.
And the picture is zoomed in on a stomach.
A slightly pregnant stomach—well, almost eight months pregnant, if I had to guess on whose stomach it was—and written in red on the side is #metoo.
Before I can digest this, Charleigh texts me. She didn’t want the world to know. She didn’t want Grant to know. But you go over and suddenly she’s all middle fingers to the world?
My own fingers—well, my thumbs—hover over the screen; I have no idea what to say.
Everyone knows the #MeToo movement. It made national headlines and doesn’t seem to be going away; not that it should.
My eyes fix on Grant’s name.
Did he take advantage of Dylan?
Was that asshole responsible for what Dylan was going through, and then the fucker sat back and laughed while the world ripped her to pieces?
I start and stop a response five times before going back to the image.
Charleigh doesn’t need my response.
But maybe I can get one from @dilly.dilly.oh—and, as hot as I can feel my blood boiling in anger for this girl I don’t know but want to, I can’t help but laugh at the “Dilly dilly”. I’m sure she isn’t referencing the Super Bowl commercials from last year but still.
Makes me chuckle.
I close out of my messaging with Charleigh and open Instagram. Immediately, I search for Dylan with this newfound handle.
And, of course, her profile is private.
Shit.
No other choice left, I request to follow her.
I hit the blue button before I can think twice—not that I couldn’t unrequest—and am bombarded with three new messages from Charleigh.
Walk me through what you did with her?
What did you say when you saw she was pregnant?
WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING ME!?!
I debate turning off my phone and switching to my laptop, so I can keep an eye on this Instagram account, but Charleigh will just get ahold of the hotel and have her call sent to the room. If I take the room phone off the hook, I’ll likely find someone pounding down my door in an hour’s time.
Hoping to please her, I send her a quick message back.
I fed her pastries and coffee from that café you like
I said, ‘your pregnant’ and that was the end of that
I fed her pizza and wings I left
that was all
Charleigh appears to be writing back, the dots forming and going away, forming and going away.
Finally, she responds with, You’re*
