Page 110 of The Dare

“What am I going to do, have Jules arrested?”

“Yes,” her voice bursts out of the speaker. “And Abigail’s shithead boyfriend. Or, ex, I guess, based on the screaming coming from her room last night. What those two did is a crime, Taylor. It would make them sex offenders in some places.”

“I don’t know.”

Cops mean statements. Sitting in a room with a dude staring at my tits while I recount my humiliation for him.

Or worse, a morally righteous woman who tells me this wouldn’t have happened if there wasn’t a video, if I hadn’t put myself in that situation.

Screw that.

“If it were me, I’d be slitting throats.”

“It’s not you.” I appreciate Sasha’s venom. It’s what I love about her. She’s everything I’m not, vengeful and confident. I’m not built that way. “I know you’re trying. Thank you. But I still need time to think. I’m not there yet.”

Truth is, I’ve barely wrapped my head around the idea that this is happening, much less the larger implications. When my alarm went off yesterday morning for class, a fierce and immediate sense of panic erupted through my muscles. I felt sick at the thought of walking across campus to the lingering eyes and hushed conversations. Heads turning when I entered the room. Classmates with their phones in their laps, the video playing. Giggles and stares. I couldn’t do it.

So I stayed home. On one of my TV breaks, I even texted Rebecca. I don’t know why, I guess to share in the misery together. She didn’t respond, which is probably for the best. Maybe if we just ignore this and each other, it’ll just go away.

“Have you heard from Conor?” Her voice isapprehensive, as if she’s concerned I might hang up on her for daring to ask.

I almost do. Because just the sound of his name sends a knife of pain to my heart. “He’s texted a few times, but I’m ignoring the messages.”

“Taylor.”

“What? It’s over,” I mutter. “You were there when I dumped him.”

“Yes, I was, and it was obvious you weren’t thinking clearly,” she says in aggravation. “You did everything you could to push him away. I get it, okay? When we’re in that level of crisis, we fall back on our worst insecurities. You were worried he’d judge you or feel embarrassed on your behalf—”

“I don’t need a psychology lesson right now,” I interrupt. “Please. Just leave it alone.”

There’s a short beat of silence.

“All right, I’ll leave it.” Another beat, and then she somberly says, “I’m here for you. Anything you need. I’ll drop everything.”

“I know. You’re a good friend.”

With a smile in her voice, she replies, “Yes, I am.”

After I hang up with Sasha, I go back to my shows and stress-eating. A few episodes later, there’s a knock at the door. I’m confused for a minute, wondering if I’d forgotten I ordered something else, until I hear another knock and Abigail’s voice asking me to let her in.

Fuck.

“Before you tell me to piss off,” she says when I reluctantly open the door, “I come in peace. And to apologize.”

“It’s fine,” I reply, just to get rid of her. “You apologized. Bye.”

I try to close the door, but she pushes it open and slips her skinny ass in before I can slam her foot in the doorjamb.

“Abigail,” I huff, “I just want to be left alone.”

“Yeah…” Scrunching her face at my never-to-be-seen-by-another-human-person sweat ensemble, she says, “I can see that.”

“Why are you here, dammit?”

Being Abigail, she waltzes over to one of the stools at the tiny kitchen island and takes a seat. “I heard you broke up with Conor.”

“Seriously? You want to start with that?” Fucking unbelievable.

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