Willow can’t even answer. She shakes her head and grabs her plate, stalking away. Should I have mentioned that? Maybe. Probably. I mean, it’s just a little, messy detail.
“I’ve got to go,” I mutter. I take my plate of food to the trash and scrape off what I didn’t eat. I’m nauseated.
How many people saw me blow Jack?
I touch my lips on my way out. A dirty feeling washes over me. I’ve never let myself feel this way before. Shameful almost. I guess I never had a reason to feel it.
On my way out, I catch sight of Jack.
“Hey!” I call.
He glances at me, then away.
The tips of his ears are red.
“Jack?”
He turns to me, and his lips press together. His brows draw down. I’ve never seen him angrier, and I almost take a step back. Something holds me firm, though. Whether that be my own stubbornness or fury at this situation, which we should be in together, I couldn’t say.
“What do you want, Violet?” There’s real venom in his voice.
“I—”
“You’re an embarrassment.” He steps closer, and he ducks his head so we’re practically eye to eye. “I don’t know what the fuck sort of game this is, but—”
“Game?” I choke. “Are you kidding me? You think I wanted everyone to see me—”
“That video painted you as a slut.” He lifts his shoulder and lets it fall. The anger is melting into indifference. “And how should I know? You were someone else over the summer. The girl I used to know. And now…” He shakes his head. “You’re doing to me what you did to Greyson.”
I rear back. He’s got to be fucking kidding me. “You’re blaming me for… ruining your football career? I drank too much and someone took advantage of us in a vulnerable spot. That’s not my fault.”
It’s violating. That’s it.
I let myself feel it for a moment. Simmer in the raw vulnerability of it.
And then I shut it off.
“Well, you know what, Jack? Fuck you, and fuck all your buddies who have been whispering about me behind my back.” I shake my head. “I’m done.”
Ridiculous to think he might’ve been upset with me. With me, not at me.
I’m tired.
The video is down.
Jack is an asshole.
Greyson is a monster.
It’s fine. Everything is fine.
But… it is until it isn’t.
Until I get home, and the front door is ajar.
I push the door open carefully, and it swings inward on silent hinges. I bite my tongue to keep from calling out to Willow. I just left her in the dining hall—there’s no way she’d have beaten me back. I creep inside, my phone clenched in my fist. I dial a nine and a one, ready to hit the last one and call for help. The living room and kitchen are untouched. Same with Willow’s room. Her door is open, the bed neatly made.
It’s my room that’s been affected.
Demolished.
The mattress has been stripped and yanked from the frame. Slices cut into it, rendering it useless. Pieces of foam and fluff litter the floor. The frame is cracked. All my clothes have been ripped out of my closet, the dresser, and spread around. Even the dresser is broken.
I step farther inside and rotate slowly.
The picture wall has been slapped with paint. Just one word. And not one that should even hurt that much, given the discussion my class just had. But it does hurt. It pricks my eyes like little needles. The red paint has dripped down, dotting the pieces of foam and carpet against the wall. None of the photos seem salvageable.
I force myself to read it again. To actually look at the word, the way the letters were formed. I let out a sigh and shake my head. I’m not what they think I am. I’m not anything, at the moment. I’m free-floating.
But to them? I’m a…
Whore.
5
GREYSON
I pop the puck into the air with the blade of my stick, passing it to Knox. He catches it on his, letting it sit for a moment, before sending it flying across the room to Steele.
Erik sits in the corner, his head bent as he works on… something.
Fuck if I know.
We’re all two beers in and getting restless.
It’s been a hell of a week. Practice every night has been kicking my ass more than usual, and Coach has repeatedly yelled at us to get our heads in the game. He blew his whistle tonight until he was purple, then finally ordered us to run two miles in the gym and get the fuck out of his sight.
Besides that, I’ve been watching Violet.
She walks to school with Willow Reed. Sometimes they drive if the weather is particularly poor. On occasion, Violet takes her time and pauses often to rub down her thigh or massage her calf. If it’s cold enough, she walks with a limp. Just slight enough for me to notice.
I hate that I want to watch her.
I’ve mapped out her schedule. The psychotic Monday and Wednesday classes. I switched into two of her classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She seems to not have anything on Friday. Not that I can suss out. But it doesn’t stop her from going to campus with Willow and taking a seat in the library.
Her friends didn’t abandon her after the video.
It was taken down too soon, I think. I didn’t admit to anyone that I was the one who posted it. As far as Knox knows, I shared it with someone who took it too far. And for his sake, I pretend to feel guilty about it.
There was a little argument between Jack and her. Jack didn’t bear the brunt of it—far from it. As these things go, he got accolades from his teammates. His anger isn’t justified, but it satiates the desire to grind Violet further into the mud. For a moment.
The school has moved on to the next big thing. A freshman caught kissing one of the residence hall directors, I guess. Erik briefly mentioned it yesterday. The director was fired, and the girl withdrew from school.
Fine.
I need to take it a step further. Or five steps further.
Violet cares about Willow. She cares about school… barely. Enough to graduate. She cared about dance, but that’s gone.
I could press on that wound. Make it bleed.
The puck comes sailing back at my face, and I snatch it before it can give me a black eye. Miles laughs at my glower.
“What’s up with Paris?” Erik suddenly asks. “She’s been blowing up your phone, Devereux.”
I already know what’s up with Paris. Small-minded girl with big dreams of marrying rich.
Miles scoffs. “She’s already talking about marrying the senator’s son.”
I raise my eyebrow. “Yeah?”
That’s me, obviously, although she hasn’t mentioned anything about marriage. I hope she goes down on one knee… or maybe two. Although when I think of a blonde on her knees in front of me, it isn’t Paris who I picture.
That’s how I know I’m in trouble.
“Didn’t take you for a guy to settle down, Devereux,” Erik says from his corner.
I glance at him. “I’ll tell them exactly how it is. It’s not my fault girls don’t believe me when I say I only fuck.”
Knox snickers. “Good luck shaking Paris. She’s a leech.”
I shrug and lean back. “That’s what makes her good at head.”
“Like Violet?”
I crane around and glare at Erik. “What?”