“I assume Kennedy’s told you about our court case?” I ask.
“The case where she’s wiping the floor with you? Yeah—heard all about it.” She smiles a little too broadly for my liking, but I let it go.
“She also told me about your chat last night. How you proclaimed your innocence.” There’s a bite to her words at the end.
“I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to her at the dance.”
“You had everything to do with it. Your girlfriend and her friends made life hell for Kennedy because of you—and you did nothing.”
“I didn’t know it was that bad.”
“You knew enough.”
And I’ve got no comeback. Because she’s right. It’s easy to look back, with the knowledge and confidence of an adult, and see everything that we should have done differently.
My words are strong and demanding. “That’s why I’m here. I need you to tell me what else I don’t know.”
She tosses back, “Why?”
My hand runs through my hair. “Because I don’t think she will—not all of it. Because I want to make it up to her. Because, I feel like a black-out drunk who just sobered up, and I need to hear about the chunks of time I’m missing. Because . . . she was always the one.”
Vicki rolls her eyes. “The one? Seriously? I’m a romance writer and even I’m about to gag.”
I shake my head, trying to be clearer. “Didn’t you ever have someone that you compare every other person against? This one’s nice, but not as nice . . . that one’s smart, but not as smart . . .
“She’s always been in my thoughts, even when I didn’t realize it. The one every other woman has gotten compared to, and fallen short. And I . . . I’ve missed her, Vicki. I want to know her again.”
She stares me down, biting the inside of her cheek. And then she nods.
“Okay.”
• • •
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.