Page 91 of Filthy Little Secret

This can’t be happening. This is a fucking nightmare. It has to be.

Tim told me he always deleted the videos, and we recorded this weeks ago. He’d never let something like this get out on purpose, but all I can think is,Who did he show it to who ended up throwing it online for everyone in the world to fucking see?

But I can hardly complete that thought before another one takes over.

Mom’s gonna be pissed. Dad’s gonna be pissed. Everyone at school is going to see this. Everyone in the press is going to talk about this.

My thoughts race as pressure steadily builds in my chest.

I’m nauseous.

I want to sit down and break out into a fit of tears.

So many emotions move through me, and the way chills rush across my skin, it’s like I suddenly have a fever.

I keep thinking,It was on his phone. The video was on his fucking phone.

Why the fuck didn’t he delete it? And how the fuck did it end up leaking out to the whole fucking world?

Tim showed it to the wrong person. I just know it. Maybe that’s even why he likes to record them. Because he likes to share them with some of his buddies.

Tears stir in my eyes as the familiar feeling of being duped fills me. Not just because it got out, but at the thought of him sending it to someone. Sharing it withanyone. He said he deleted them. And it wasn’t even a video from when we first started seeing each other. It was one after he told me he wanted to be my boyfriend. After that night when he told me that he loved me.

I wrap my arms around my body and make my way into the men’s restroom down the hall. As I head in, I see the stairwell at the end of the hall. The one we fucked in. I don’t make it to a stall before I throw up, vomit spraying across the tile floor.

Shit!

I race into a stall and gag over the toilet, nothing coming out. Apparently, I already got rid of breakfast.

I spit out the rest and take shaky breaths, a wave of heat rushing to my face. Am I going to vomit again?

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Images from my imagination—of my parents’ reactions—play through my mind. Over and over and over again. What am I going to do when I’m passing through these same halls and others have seen this? There’s no telling how many people know about it already. If Greg found it, who the fuck knows who else has seen it?

Everyone’s gonna laugh at me. Just see me as this greedy bottom who took the school drug dealer in the ass.

I pull up Tim’s number on my phone.

I need answers.

What the fuck am I supposed to say?

Who the fuck did you show that video to? And why would you fucking do that to me? Put me at risk like that?

Shaking, I drop the phone, and it slides into the toilet.

I curse repeatedly, hating myself. Hating the world. Hating Tim.

I slam my back against the wall and bash my fists against it in rage. Sliding to the door, I curl into a ball. I need to lie here for a minute. I need to lie here until it all goes away.

It reminds me of the day I lost Becky—when the reality slammed into me. It was like being buried in a mound of bricks. Being crushed beneath them, feeling trapped as I suffocated in my grief.

The tears come fast, and I don’t plan on stopping them. Not today.

Mom will never forgive me for this. And neither will Dad.

How could Tim let this happen? I thought he wanted to keep me safe.

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