Page 38 of Dirty Damage

“This ‘bad thing’ only happened because you forced me to do that photoshoot,” I say. “None of this would’ve happened if it wasn’t for you!”

“You got off that plane looking like hell. You needed a laugh, Sut.”

“Then tell me a freaking knock-knock joke, Syd.”

“I needed it, too,” she barks. The camera shifts and I catch the glint of diamonds at her throat. Blood money from Paul. “Giving those pictures to Paul made me feel better.”

“Why does feeling better always depend on a man’s approval?”

“It’s not about his approval; it’s about mine.” She leans forward, earnest now. “What harm would it do to send a few nudes to some guy who’s willing to pay you five hundred dollars for them? That’s half your rent for the month.”

“Is that the going price for a woman’s dignity these days? Or just yours?”

The moment the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve gone too far.

Sydney’s face crumples.

“D-don’t you dare j-judge me,” she stammers. “I did what I had to do to survive.”

“And I’m trying to do the same! I just happen to think there are other ways of doing it.”

“Well, bully for you,” Sydney fights back. “Not all of us can survive on self-righteousness alone.”

“Sorry, I don’t want to end up like Mom.”

“And I’m like her, is that what you’re saying?”

We’re in the danger zone now. Territory marked with emotional landmines and childhood trauma.

“I’m not—” I pause, trying to backtrack. “She didn’t think things through. She took risks and then we suffered.”

Memories hit me like bullets.

My tenth birthday, spent hiding in a grimy bathroom while Mom’s latest “boyfriend” tried to break down the door.

Running from apartment to apartment, always one step ahead of some creep who thought he owned her—that he could take what he wanted.

“They have my name, my number—my body.” My voice breaks. “How much longer before they have my address, too?”

I’m shaking now, and Sydney reaches for something off-camera. A tissue. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Maybe I’m more like Mom than?—”

“I’m sorry about blaming all this on you,” I cut her off. Her tears are my kryptonite. Always have been. “It’s not your fault. I was the idiot who sent the damn boudoir shoot to the whole frigging office. That’s on me.”

“I’m still sorry about the photoshoot.” She sniffs. “You were just so beat up after the whole ordeal with Drew. And you looked so lost… and sad. I wanted to give you back some confidence.”

“I know.”

“I shouldn’t have pushed you.”

She blows her nose into the tissue and tosses it aside. Her mascara is starting to run.

Suddenly, I see what’s hiding under the makeup.

My chest tightens. “Is that a bruise on your cheek?”

“No.” The denial comes way too fast.

And now, I see the whole picture.

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