For the next hour, Vicki Russo recounts two years of psychological and emotional torture. Some of it was schoolyard stuff—dirty looks and shoulder bumps. Some of it was more sinister—notes slipped under dorm doors telling her to kill herself, calling her ugly, freak show, worthless. It was calculated, organized, and relentless.
“Why the hell didn’t she complain? Report Cashmere to the headmaster?” I ask, frustration in every word.
Vicki shrugs. “Lots of reasons. Call it the Pretty in Pink Syndrome—Kennedy didn’t want Cashmere to think she’d won, that she’d broken her. Plus the bitch had her pack of mean girls behind her—if it came down to their word against mine and Kennedy’s, who do you think the headmaster would’ve believed? And if she had reported it and the school sided with Cashmere, it would’ve gotten so much worse. Things like that always do.”
Jesus fucking Christ
Somebody needs to burn Saint Arthur’s to the ground. Scorch the earth and never rebuild.
My fists clench on the table. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“Because your head was so far up your girlfriend’s snatch, Kennedy didn’t know if you would’ve cared.”
I pin her with my eyes. “I would have.”
“She was embarrassed. You have to understand . . . you were everything to her, Brent. When you started to drift away . . . even if she couldn’t have your friendship anymore, she never wanted your pity.
“It messed with her head for a long time,” Vicki says. “I mean, Kennedy knows who she is, but it knocked down her self-confidence. How could it not? And her ability to trust—after what happened to her in college—that was obliterated.”
I look at Vicki warily. “What happened in college?”
She flinches, not meaning to have said it.
Every statistic I know flickers through my head, and I go taut with preemptive rage. “Was she . . . was she raped?”
“I shouldn’t—”
My voice rises. “If she was raped, Vicki, I swear to God I’m gonna fucking kill someone.”
“She wasn’t raped,” Vicki assures me quickly. “She had a boyfriend in college—her first ‘real’ boyfriend if you know what I mean. A frat guy. They dated for a few months, and she thought they were in love. And then one day he told her that he’d started dating her because of a bet.”
“A bet?”
She nods. “A competition at the frat. Who could bag the most girls—extra points if she was a virgin.”
I rub my eyes. I don’t know how women do it. I don’t know how they even like any of us—a significant portion of the male population deserves to have their dicks cut off. And don’t think I say that lightly.
“The sad thing is,” Vicki continues, “the bastard genuinely ended up having feelings for her. That’s why he told her—he didn’t want to base their relationship on a lie. But after Kennedy knew, she broke up with him. And now, no one gets in. Me, Brian, and her sister—we’re the only ones she trusts.”
• • •
Later, at her front door, I thank Vicki for filling in the gaps of information. She’s still unsure about me, reserving judgment, but I can live with that.
I say, “You’re going to tell her I was here, aren’t you?”
Vicki smiles. “In the spirit of full disclosure—I’m going to be on the phone with her before you get to your car.”
• • •
On the drive back to DC, one thought sticks in my head like the blade of a knife: I never said I was sorry. All the shit Kennedy and I talked about last night, all the things we got straightened out . . . but I never said I was sorry. And I should have.
Because I am. And she deserves to hear it.
I didn’t defend her when it mattered. I didn’t stick my neck out for her. I didn’t shield her. I didn’t even try.
And it’s the biggest regret of my life.
I think about the things Vicki told me. The shit Kennedy dealt with and, on some level, still has to live with. Kind of like my leg: it is what it is, and it doesn’t stand in my way. But it’s something I have to deal with every day. Part of what makes me who I am. A part I’ll never get back.
And I think there’s a part of Kennedy—a piece of her childhood, her self-confidence—that’s forever altered because of Saint Arthur’s.
I need to tell her I’m sorry. It can’t wait another day.
That’s how I end up in the ballroom of one of DC’s poshest, most look-how-much-money-I-have-because-I-can-stay-here hotels. It’s a fund-raiser for David Prince, ten thousand bucks a plate. I had to call a few cousins who know a few people to get the last-minute ticket, but I got one.
Wearing my tuxedo—and looking pretty fucking James Bond, if I do say so myself—I weave through the tables, scanning the crowd, looking, looking. Prince stands at the front of the room, giving a speech. And I spot Kennedy in the back, near the bar. She’s wearing a snug, strapless white gown that ends at her calves, accentuating sexy, strappy silver high heels. Her hair is down, a shiny curtain of gold.
She’s talking to someone, smiling, just on the verge of laughing. And she literally takes my breath away.
As I walk toward her, she sees me approach. And she doesn’t look anywhere else. When I reach her, the other person has stepped away, so it’s just her and me, standing a few inches apart.
“What are you doing here?”
“I had to see you.”
“I don’t think—”
“I’m sorry, Kennedy.”
Whatever she was going to say is lost in a breath. And there’s a softening in her features, the slight curve of her mouth, the relaxing of her jaw that tells me she’s relieved. That even if she didn’t realize it, she’s been waiting for this. Wanting the words.
“I should have stuck up for you. And I
will always be sorry that I didn’t. I was selfish and stupid, and you deserved better.”
She looks away, like it’s all too much. But when her eyes turn back to me, there’s a peace in them that I haven’t seen for a very long time.
“Thank you.”
And it’s only then that I notice what’s different about her. Why every cell in my body is content to just stand here and watch her.
It’s her eyes.
The turquoise contact lenses are gone—her gaze washes over me in pure, breath-stealing brandy-colored beauty.
And even though she didn’t know I’d be here tonight—I want to believe it’s for me. Some kind of sign. Because those eyes are mine—the girl behind them, once, was mine.
And maybe she’s willing to be mine again.
While I happily drown in the eyes I haven’t glimpsed in so long, all the other eyes in the audience are focused on Prince. Microphone in hand, he works the room, his white teeth gleaming beneath the lights.
“And I can think of no other announcement more precious to me than to proclaim that the beautiful Kennedy Randolph is going to be my wife.”
My head snaps up. “What did he just say?”
Kennedy’s head snapped even faster. “What did he just say?”
The room explodes into thunderous applause.
I lean in so she can hear me above the noise. “You’re engaged?”
Her head tilts. “No?”
“Sure about that?”
She doesn’t sound very sure, and it seems like the kind of thing she should have the inside track on.
“David flew out to speak with my father last week. He said they had to discuss something important,” Kennedy explains, her eyes squinting like she’s trying to decode ancient hieroglyphics in her head.
“But he didn’t actually ask you?”
“No. I guess he skipped that part.”
The crowd comes at us like a tsunami, and Kennedy’s swallowed up in a sea of well-wishers and carried away toward the front of the room.
I scowl so hard my face hurts.
The ever-elegant Mrs. Randolph appears beside me, in the spot her daughter just vacated, watching the hubbub with a smile.
“It seems congratulations are in order,” I tell her.
“It appears so.”