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“Don’t work ahead. Let me tell this story,” I say.
I draw in more air through my nose, my pulse oddly even. It’s strange how I haven’t had a panic attack since my accident. It’s as if that trauma rewired the damage from all the ones before.
“My dad invited me to join him for a business dinner out on the boat, asked me to invite some of my girlfriends from the city. Not Brooklyn or Lily, but old family acquaintances. People I grew up with and often ran into at society events. The ones you see on my social media pages.”
I shrug because my digital life looks nothing like my real one. There’s nothing wrong with those girls. They played the same kind of part I did in our world—rich girl, daddy’s girl, brat, influencer, the list of titles goes on. None of us were ever close. We were pleasant to one another. Every now and then one of us would start some drama about the other on Twitter, but even that was more about the attention than the relationships within. Meanwhile, my real friendships—Brooklyn, Anika, Theo, and now Lily—those were off the page. Protected.Not salacious.
“I knew what my dad was up to. He wanted to make this dinner party seem hip. He was courting Silicon Valley guys and their startups, which he would eventually buy for cheap and fold into his empire. Having me and my friends hanging around meant buzz, and buzz made young business types make poor decisions and sell themselves short. The deal was done by the time dinner ended, but we were in an ocean and drinks were flowing. Everyone was having a good time.”
I shrug, pursing my lips in admission.
“Nobody was running off and hooking up, but there was plenty of flirting. Mostly innocent stuff like dirty talk in a corner while the guys watched me and my friends dance and simply be young, reckless teenagers.”
I smile at the good stuff, the fun of being in such a privileged position. It lasts for a second before it fades into a soured line.
“I never liked Edwin. Something about him has always given me the creeps, even when I was a little kid. He was that guy who always handed out money when he came over, like he was buying me. When I was five, he’d slip me twenty bucks and tell me to buy a bunch of junk food. When I turned sixteen, he gave me a grand and told me to party hard. My parents laughed and said he’s like an uncle.”
I stare ahead into James’s eyes, my mouth watering with sickness.
“I was catching my breath, drinking water to sober up and hydrate from all the dancing. I’d only stepped off to the side for a minute when Edwin placed his hand on my bare back. I stiffened under his touch, and when he tried to slide his hand lower inside my dress, I tore away from him. Almost nobody noticed. One or two of the girls I invited saw me jerk away, and without asking, they knew. Things like that had happened to them—they happen a lot. My dad saw it, too. And the worst part was I thought he would get mad at me for running off, for making a scene and ruining his party. For offending his best lawyer, his faithful friend.”
“He blamed you?” The first words James has uttered come out coarse, angry. His jaw is rigid, his molars pressed together as his nostrils flare.
I spit out a breathy laugh and shake my head.
“He said it didn’t matter because it all turned out fine in the end.” I swallow down the bile that comes up when I quote him. I can still picture the movement of my father’s lips as he says those words to me.
“It was the next morning, and I was trembling as I stepped up to join him on the patio over a late breakfast. I wasn’t hungry. I wanted to throw up. And all I could do was force myself to apologize for ruining his party, knowing I wasn’t to blame at all. That his lawyer was a piece of shit for a human, and that a real dad would do something on his daughter’s behalf. But he closed a deal, and Edwin got a bonus.It all turned out fine in the end.”
My tongue presses behind my front teeth as my mouth hangs open in a hostile, faint smile. I haven’t talked to my mother since she conned me into helping my dad again, and honestly, maybe life will be better if I cut both of them out of it. I’ll keep Braden, the half-relative the universe must have thought I needed. The universe was right. But I needed Coach Wallace too.
“Morgan. That’s . . .”
He swallows, and I laugh softly then shrug.
“Awful? Yeah, it is. Common? Yep, that too. Sexist? Assault? Probably.” I have many labels for the shit I’ve worked through. I’m still learning how to assign blame to others, and I’m getting better at it.
“It is. It’s all of those things,” he answers.
The quiet takes over for nearly a minute. We endure long stares, and he begins to speak a dozen times or more. He wants to apologize on behalf of everyone, but that’s not for him to do. He can, however, apologize for himself.
“My depression hit a pretty serious low last November. And I remembered Coach Wallace’s talk about mental health during one of our workshops the year before. The school hosts those things to tick off boxes and brag about being proactive. But Coach Wallace’s talk was really good. It was enough to help me recognize when I needed to talk to someone. And he’s the one I talked to.”
James blinks, his face a clean slate, expressionless. I know he has heard the rumors around campus. For a while I braced myself for him to bring it up, but when he didn’t, I simply figured he didn’t buy into them. Maybe he hasn’t. But his dad has heard those rumors, too, and for him, rumors are everything. He fits in here better than James thinks.
“I confided in Coach because I had nobody else, and he kept everything in confidence. But he worried. And he worried enough that he finally made a phone call to my dad. So, my dad had him fired.”
By the time I finish my tale, James’s eyes are closed. His lids tremble, and his mouth swells into a deep frown. I know that look. I’ve worn it myself many times. I’ve left him with my burdens, with the weight of them. I feel lighter. I’m sad. I’m still hurt. The edge of anger remains too. But I know who I am, and I know who I am not. And I’m worth more than the consideration I’ve been given.
I get up from my chair and walk over to James, lifting his chin with my fingertips. He keeps his palms flat on his thighs. They twitch, and I think he wants to reach for me, but he feels it in the air. He can’t. Not right now. Maybe . . . one day. But not right now. Not when his father can’t stand me.
“You should have asked me. I would have told you,” I say.
His eyes become glassy, and he sucks in his lips along with his guilt.
“Morgan.” My name floats from his lips and the sound dissipates into the quiet. The room is cold, and my arms are covered in goose bumps and flecks of glitter from the bright way the day began.
“You were good today. On the field? Quarterbacking?” I let out a tiny laugh that he matches, and I let my thumb rub across his chin that’s still in my hand. He’s terribly pretty. And I think inside, he’s also a good man.
