Page 19 of Filthy Little Secret

He eyes where the pile of clothes were on the floor before I bagged them up and moved them outside.

“Oh, fuck,” he says.

“Don’t sweat it.”

“I’ll take care of that. I’ll clean them up.”

“That would be helpful,” I admit.

“I just can’t believe I let it get that bad.”

“You had a lot to deal with last night.”

“God, I can only imagine what Greg thinks is going on between you and me. Not that there is anything. Just that he’s going to think…”

“That you’re suddenly making terrible life choices because you went home with the school drug dealer?”

“You said it, not me.”

“Well, better than dating some lying, cheating scumbag, isn’t it?”

“Right? Oh, God. How bad is it? Be honest with me. Nobody is fucking honest with me. What does everyone think? Do they think I’m just this idiot who fell for his looks and personality and that I’m such a fucking idiot for not knowing what he and Morgan were up to?”

“Pretty much,” I say, my words filled with sarcasm.

He glares at me.

“God.”

“That was a shitty way to find out, too,” I add. “Finding your buddy’s phone in the bed when you were trying to text him. That’s some fucked up shit.”

“Sounds like more of the rumor’s gotten around than I thought. I bet Greg’s bragging about it because he’s impressed with how long he got away with it. The messages went back three months. Three months out of the fucking year we were together. Now everyone thinks I’m an idiot.”

“It doesn’t fucking matter what all those snot-nosed rich kids think about you.”

“Tell my mom that. When this all went down, she didn’t counsel me about how I would be fine and how I’d get through it. She gave me strategies to look like I’m unaffected by it. Said I need to do the walk of shame and put on a good performance so that no one will notice how bad it is. Also got my dad to prescribe me some Lexapro. To make it not hurt…so much. To make it easier to put on the act.”

“I forgot your dad’s a psychiatrist. So you pretty much have total access to all sorts of awesome drugs, don’t you?”

He gazes at me uneasily.

“That was a joke. Not like I need any considering what I do.”

He forces a smile. “Oh, sorry. Yeah. He’s been supplying me with antidepressants since the breakup.”

“They help?” I ask.

“Ask the garbage can. I took them for a while when I was in high school, for some things that were going on at the time—”

“What kinds of things?”

Me and my big mouth. Judging by the look he’s giving me now, he doesn’t want to discuss it, but I had to press when he was being so ambiguous.

“My sister,” he says.

Four years ago, his younger sister was diagnosed with stage four leukemia. Though she was in treatment for several months, she passed away. It’s a legendary story that has helped his mother win the hearts of plenty of voters. But I can only imagine how affected Mark is by it.

“Anyway,” he continues. “I took them for a while, but one day I realized I wasn’t feeling as terrible as I did right after. Decided I didn’t want to take them anymore. Sorry. Not gonna unload all that on you right now.”

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