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My face was on the Miami Beach Sentinel two weeks ago; it is now splattered across the trashy Celeb Secrets, and who knows where else it will land next? TMZ? National Enquirer?
In this moment of introspection, I grasp the weight of being in the public eye, where every mistake and every heartache becomes fodder for public consumption. It's a lesson in empathy, a stark realization that behind every sensational headline lies a person navigating the complexities of life as best they can . . . or know-how. The world may gawk at the details of my existence, but only I know the pain I suffer.
The door to my room opens, and Sarah walks in.
“You missed class today. Are you ill or just hiding?”
“Hiding.”
"Is it true what they're saying?" Sarah probes, her phone screen lighting up her face with whispers of gossip.
"Please, not now," I plead.
"Sorry, Tony. It's just . . . everyone's talking about it—it’s everywhere." She flicks her phone off.
"Everyone" includes the strangers who whisper as I walk through the halls, their eyes hungry for more scandal. They don't know me, yet they think they do, thanks to Jeebz.
Nursing Student's Love Affair with Her Father’s Accused Murderer— the headline chases me wherever I go.
“My life is very complicated right now, Sarah. I don’t know what to do. I thought I left all this crap in Florida. I completely forgot to factor in the Internet. I feel hounded, with nowhere to run. It’s the fucking Internet . . . it is worldwide.”
"But that’s just it. It is the Internet. It means wherever you go, as long as you have an Internet connection, it will be there, and the same goes for everybody else. There’s nowhere to go, so you might as well buckle up and finish what brought you here. I say, ignore them all," Sarah says, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. "You're here to learn, not be their entertainment."
"Thanks, Sarah," I say, trying to smile, but there's a hollowness in my chest that won't fill.
"Let's just focus on the next exam, okay?" Sarah suggests, but her words are a distant hum against the storm in my heart.
I was just about to answer Sarah, but my phone was vibrating violently against the wooden surface of the desk. Liam's namelights up the screen, and my heart makes a treacherous leap before sinking like a stone.
“Sorry, Sarah. I need to take this. I’m about to be yelled at by my big brother.”
“You want me to handle him for you?” Sarah asks sweetly.
“Oh, No. You are kind. I got this.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
“Will do,” I say, but she is gone. To make sure I have total privacy, I get up and go to my study desk and write a note that says, “I AM SLEEPING GO AWAY.” I sticky-tape the note on my door, then lock it. Anyone who wants a piece of me will have to come back tomorrow.
After a quick loo stop, I call Liam back, and all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I get emotional, just knowing I will be spending this time with him. Liam brings out every nuance of me: the woman in me, the child in me, the protector in me, the lover in me.
In his presence, I feel strong; I feel weak, I feel vulnerable; I feel resilient, I feel hopeful; I feel hopeless . . . In Liam’s presence, I am me. I don’t have to act or pretend or put on a façade. He has known me since I was in diapers. (Ohhh, Jesus, take the wheel. I hope he never ever sees me that way. Liam brings out the very essence of me . . . me, in my raw form.
“Hey, Honey!” I start the minute he picks up.
"Hey, babe. How are you? You sound sad . . . What's wrong."
"Everything," I choke out, the dam of my composure cracking. "Everything is bearing down on me . . . my mom, my siblings, school . . . and this scandal, it's everywhere, Liam."
"Shhh, baby, it's going to be alright," he soothes, but his words feel like they belong to another world. How can he say it’s going to be alright without knowing the extent of what is wrong or how deep it goes? Things like these don’t just resolve themselves. Someone must put an end to them, but who . . . how?
"Scandals like these tend to have a very short shelf-life. It is shocking the first time you hear it, maybe scandalous the next three times, then boring. The blogs and “press” will move on to their next victim soon enough, and same time next month, nobody will even mention it if they see you back at my place . . . nobody will care."
"Easy for you to say," I shoot back, tears spiking my eyes. "They're not painting you as some—"
"Hey, hey, don't do that to yourself. This will pass. I promise."
"Promises don't make the whispers stop. They don't clear my head when I need to study. You should have heard the things Dick called me. I feel so alone . . . I’ve even lost Lola. That’s what hurts the most. "
