Page 117 of The Dare

Fortunately, this is exclusively a college student-infestedstreet. For at least five blocks in every direction from campus, no townies dare to tread. Families long ago escaped the midweek parties and drunks passed out in the bushes, so that means no traumatized children, either.

Doors start opening up and down the street. Window blinds are separating. He’s got an audience now. Shouts and whistles ring out, an eruption of horny banter.

“Stop encouraging him,” I yell back at the spectators. I refocus my attention on Conor and his amazing, swinging penis and groan in frustration. “Will you please stop!”

“Never. I’ve gone completely mad for you, Taylor Antonia Marsh.”

“That’s not even my middle name!”

“It’samiddle name and I don’t care, if this is what I have to do to take away your embarrassment, I’ll do it. I’ll do anything.”

“You need to be hospitalized,” I declare, all the while smothering the laughter threatening to spill over.

This man is…ridiculous. I’ve never met anyone like Conor Edwards, this sexy crazy handful who’s flashing the entire neighborhood just to prove a point and make me feel not as alone.

“Edwards!” someone thunders.

A car rolls up, and from the driver’s side window Chad Jensen pokes his head out. “What the hell are you doing running around with no pants on? Put your damn cock away!”

Conor glances over at the car, completely unfazed. “Hey Coach,” he drawls. “What’s up?” When he realizes my mother is in the passenger side, he offers a sheepish smile. “Doctor Mom, good to see you again.”

Unbelievable. I shove Conor’s clothes at him. As he covers his junk, I glance over at my mother and see that her lips are shaking with the effort not to laugh and her eyes are watering. Brenna, on the other hand, is hysterical in the back seat, so loud her laughter is echoing off the buildings.

“Are you quite finished?” I ask this big dumb idiot with a heart of gold.

“Only if you’re ready to go to the police.”

“The police?” My mother leans toward the window, visibly alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

I shoot Conor a glare.

I could lie. Make up some innocuous story my mom wouldn’t buy but might accept as an alternative to the clear indication that I don’t want to discuss it. I could say Conor was just chasing away a creeper who had been hanging around. Fight dick with dick, or whatever. Mom understands boundaries—she trusts my judgment and doesn’t push me to make uncomfortable decisions.

And maybe that’s why I don’t, and never have. Nobody has ever encouraged me to make the hard choices, and I never pushed myself to do it. My whole life I simply retreated into myself, allowed an ever-growing chasm to build between me and anything that could cause me pain. Anything that could reject me.

I created my own safe space and avoided drawing attention to myself. No one can point fingers if they can’t see me. There’s nothing for them to laugh at if I’m not there. I stayed inside my bubble, safe and alone.

No, I don’t especially like my friends and enemies and lovers joining forces to press my hand. It’s not how I operate.And yet…maybe it was exactly what I needed. A good kick in the ass. Not because they’re right or I’m wrong, but because I wasn’t serving myself. I was serving my fears. I’ve been feeding them and allowing them to take up more space inside me until I’m no longer myself and can’t remember a time I was anything else.

This is how people grow up to be old and bitter. Jaded and spiteful. When they let the world and the bad actors in it strip them of joy and replace it with doubt and insecurities.

I’m too young to be this unhappy, and too loved to be this alone. I owe myself better.

My gaze drifts to Conor, whose earnest gray eyes tell me he won’t leave my side if I allow him to stand beside me. Then I turn toward my mom, whose concern is visible and whose support is mine for the taking. There are people who want to fight for me. I should want to fight for myself.

I meet Mom’s gaze and give her a reassuring smile. “I’ll tell you on the way to the police station.”

43

TAYLOR

IT’S LATE WHENCONOR ANDIGET BACK TO MY APARTMENT. I leave him on the couch watching TV while I take a long, hot bath. I put on my relaxation playlist and turn off the lights except for a couple of candles on the bathroom counter, and for the first time in a week, I feel some of the tension leaving my body.

It was mortifying explaining the situation to my mom while Conor drove the three of us in his Jeep tonight. I was sorry I was the reason she called off dinner with Chad and Brenna, but when I tried to apologize for spoiling her plans she wouldn’t have it.

“My daughter comesfirst,” she’d said firmly, and it was as if all the times she’d neglected me in the past had just disappeared. Today I was her first priority, her only concern. Everything had ceased to exist for her but me, and for that I was grateful.

After a chain of text messages, Abigail, Sasha, and Rebecca met us at the police station. I had a good conversation with Rebecca before we made the decision to go throughwith filing a report. Both of us were hesitant. Her because of what her parents might think; me because of the added exposure. Eventually, we came around to the idea that we could turn this into an opportunity for something positive. We didn’t ask for this, but rather than hiding, ashamed, we could take our power back. So with the beginnings of a plan in mind, we walked in there together. Stronger.

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