“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 blamingmefor… 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 upsetwithme. 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
Ipop 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.