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I love you, Harley Granger. You are the truth teller. Ignore the haters.
The comments went by him. The blur of humanity, the schizophrenia of modern life, all streaming past his eyes. It was madness if you tried to tune in, decipher, understand, find a common thread to unite the wildly different thoughts and opinions. Even worse if you tried to find validation and praise there.
“So, I’m officially announcing that I’ve already started writing, recording, and producing the podcast with my partner, former NPR producer Rog Wheeler. Expect to hear the first episodes by summer of 2025. In the meantime, stay tuned here for more.”
Was there anything better than that flood of hearts on your Instagram Live feed? Rog frequently accused Harley of being an attention whore. And who could blame him—abandoned by his mother, emotionally neglected by his hard-ass father. It didn’t take a panel of shrinks to figure it all out. He squints at the comments rolling in, notes that there are over a thousand people watching.
WTF?
Who is that?
Who is behind you?
Harley looooook oooout.
On the screen of his phone he sees a shadow coming up behind him fast. But when he spins to see who’s there, it’s just a rush of black. His phone flies, earbuds bouncing away, all of it landing in the muck of the river, and he is knocked down, the wind leaving him. A hard punch to the face and he sees stars, no pain yet. He can’t breathe. The river soaks his boots.
This is it, he thinks with a rush of terror,this is how she felt—alone, vulnerable, about to die on the bank of a winter river. He feels her pain, her fear, her surrender.
That’s what she said on the recording, that all her will left her, all her strength, and she was so cold. She knew she was going to die, and she just let go.
What just happened?
Omg?
Is that for real?
Another fucking Harley Granger stunt. Unfollow.
Someone should call the police.
That’s bullshit.
Somebody help him.
Please.
18
“Why didn’t you come that night?”
“Don’t ask me that. I came. Eventually,” he says, sitting cross legged on the floor, surrounded by paper. “Anyway, you know why.”
We fought that night, my first real fight with Badger. He came to the house after my dad had left for work, and I was up in my room getting ready. It was supposed to beour night, the night I gave my virginity to Evan. And I was ready. I had some blush pink silky new underwear from Victoria’s Secret. I’d shaved my legs. Our sexual encounters had consisted of making out, some heavy petting, always stopping short of the actual deed, leaving us both in a perpetual state of agitation.Not now. Not like this, he kept saying.Let me make your first time special.
That night, after the party was over, and with his mother gone, that was supposed to be our time. And I couldn’t wait. It was more than just desire. I had long envied Steph her sexual freedom, the power it seemed to give her. But, of course, she was every bit as powerless as I was, even more so. I was just too young and stupid to realize that sexuality is not power. It’s vulnerability.
Badger came in through the front door without knocking as I was on my way down the hall.
“Mad,” he called up the stairs. “Maddie.”
He stared when he saw me there. I was wearing a red dress under a black leather jacket, tall boots. I’d put makeup on, a thing I rarely did. Maybe once for homecoming and I felt like a clown. But that night I knew what I was doing. It felt right.Ifelt right.
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
Badger. We’d been friends too long. He’d been by my side since kindergarten—my playground bestie. I had stopped seeing him long ago. He just was. An eternal, sometimes annoying, but relied-upon presence like it must be with a sibling.
He looked different that night, too. Older somehow, an expression on his face I couldn’t read.
