Deeper

MARCH Caroline

We got five weeks.

I’d teased West for counting the days of our separation, even though I spent them dragging around, doubting myself, wrecked with missing him. But when we were together—the last two weeks of February, the first three weeks of March—it was so good that every day felt like an anniversary. Every day felt special, worth pressing into a scrapbook, sealing in amber, tucking away.

Nights at the bakery. Showers at the apartment, a snack in the quiet kitchen, trying not to wake Krishna, laughing behind my hand. Mornings in West’s bed, hands and mouths and the slow, beautiful rhythm of his body rocking into mine.

The way he moves has always made me crazy, but there is nothing like the way he moves inside me. Nothing.

I didn’t know it could be like that. So dirty and so good. So gorgeous and perfect.

For five weeks, we were always together. I went back to my vampire schedule, napping in the afternoons, waking up in the middle of the night and meeting him at the bakery for his shifts. I studied at the library when he was working there, set myself up in a carrel on the fourth floor and waited in the quiet for him to find a cart of journals that needed shelving. I pushed my fingers into his hair when he dropped to his knees beneath my chair, bit my thumb to keep from crying out, came against his fingers and his tongue, scandalous and forbidden and happy.

He kissed me in the dining hall. I took his hand when we walked across the quad. We raced each other down the train tracks, one on each rail, balancing with our arms out, pushing at each other’s hands to see who could stay on the longest, who would fall off, who would win.

Those were the best weeks. In the dead of February, the frozen cold, I had West, and we were beautiful and bright, friends and lovers, laughing all the time. Laughing until my cheeks ached and my stomach hurt and I had to ask him to stop, because it was so good, it hurt.

I loved him.

I didn’t tell him, but it was obvious. Obvious to me, obvious to West.

Obvious to anyone who was paying attention.

West is sitting on the edge of the mattress, bent over his phone. He’s got an eight o’clock. I don’t have to be up for another hour, but I’m up anyway. West had ideas.

Or, okay, West’s penis had ideas. I woke up to his mouth on my neck, his hand heavy and hot against my stomach, his erection pressing against my ass.

“Good morning?” I said. Because I wasn’t all that sure. That it was good, or that it was even morning.

“Mmm.”

That was pretty much all it took to convince me. He has this way of humming under his breath, this low, delicious sound that vibrates right up against my clit. It’s so sexy. It’s so West. One mmm, and I’m in.

I mean, what’s there to complain about when you’re with a guy who’s gorgeous and nice and who wakes you up with the slow, inexorable press of his fingers into your panties, parting your folds, sliding over your clit and inside you?

Nothing.

He got me breathing heavy, flipped me over, eased a pillow under my stomach, and moved into me from behind, his hand at my clit, kissing my neck, my shoulders, until I came so hard I saw stars.

After he was done collapsing on top of me like a giant slug-man, he took a shower, so now he smells like soap, wet hair, West. I’m still all snuggly and sex-relaxed, and he’s whistling, rubbing my bare leg, scrolling through a bunch of texts.

“Who wrote to you?”

“Franks.”

“What’s she up to?”

“She got on Mom’s phone and sent me a whole bunch of selfies.”

“Let me see.”

I crawl half onto his lap, and he shows me. “She’s so cute.”

She looks a lot like him—West with round cheeks and a sharp chin, eye makeup, and a sparkly shirt. She’s in love with taking selfies, too. I’ve seen probably thirty of them in the past three weeks, because West has been as open as he promised to be. He told me all about Frankie, about his mom and Bo, about his dad.

There are some things he’s holding back, I think. Something about sex, about that money I dropped in his lap. But I know enough. I don’t need to know absolutely everything to understand what makes West tick.

Sometimes I think about what life gave me compared to what it’s given him, how hard he works, and I get so angry. He doesn’t like to talk about fairness and unfairness, though, or to dwell on the gap between how we grew up.

“It is what it is,” he said last time I brought it up. “You hungry?”

He says now, “She’s got all that crap on her eyes.”

“It’s called eye makeup.” I peer at the phone. “Actually, that’s a good nighttime eye. I can never get my eyeliner to look that awesome.”

“You don’t wear that stuff.”

“Not for everyday, but sometimes if there’s a party or whatever.”

He frowns at the pictures. “She’s too young.”

“She’s just trying it out. I was the same at her age. In a big hurry for bras and lipstick, all that stuff.”

“Yeah, but I doubt you had anybody sniffing after you in Ankeny. It’s different with Franks. She’s got to be smart, or some useless jag-off will get her knocked up before she’s even old enough to know what she wants yet.”

I watch him type out a text. Wash that shit off your eyes. You’re pretty enough without it.

“Heartwarming.”

“I’m her brother, not her boyfriend.”

He’s more like her father, though, I think. The closest thing she has to one.

Standing up, West stretches and drops his phone on the desk. “Can you hand me mine?” I ask. “I need to see if Bridge is going to breakfast before class.”

He does, then pulls on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I watch his bare chest and stomach disappear from view, sad as always to see them go.

West is smiling when I glance at his face. “What?”

“You. You look like you’re ready to go another round.”

I swipe my finger over the screen of the phone. “I was barely awake for round one.”

“Oh, I don’t know. You woke up pretty good by the end. I thought I was gonna have to shove a pillow over your head, keep you from waking up Krish.”

“You’d probably accidentally suffocate me, you were so busy back there doing your business.”

“Doing my business?” He sounds offended. I love offending him.

“You know.” I stare at my phone, flapping a hand at him. “That man-business. Thrust thrust, pant pant. I swear, sometimes I’m not sure why I put up with it.”

I barely see him coming before he’s grabbing my ankle and yanking me down the bed. I’m all tangled up in the covers, thrashing and laughing, when he crawls on top of me and braces his arms on either side of my head. “Thrust thrust, pant pant? I should spank your ass for that.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

His eyes are blazing. “So would I. But I’m gonna be late for class.” He dips his head and kisses me. “You coming to the library later?”

“Yeah, but I have a group-project thing after lunch, so I’ll be downstairs.”

“Come up after.”

He means the fourth floor. Our floor.

I swear, we’re going to get caught, and then he’ll get fired.

He says it’ll be worth it.

“Sure.”

One more kiss, with tongue, a bump against my hip that’s a hint and a promise, and then he’s moving away. He shoulders his bag as I navigate from texts to missed calls.

I’ve got a bunch. I had the ringer off last night, my phone deep in my bag, and I didn’t realize.

They’re all from my dad.

“See you later, babe.”

One at nine o’clock last night. One at nine-thirty. One at ten. Ten-fifteen. Eleven-thirty. Six o’clock this morning.

My stomach sinks like a rock.

“What’s a guy have to do to get his woman to say goodbye around here?”

I look up. West is leaning in the doorway, hand braced against the jamb.

“My dad called six times last night.”

“That’s—that sounds excessive.”

“Yeah.”

Bad news, cunt, the Internet Asshats whisper.

I’d almost forgotten about them. I’d let myself forget. Let myself pretend.

Not ready to listen to Dad’s voice mail, I switch to email. Fifty new messages. I scroll through the list, seeing strange email addresses and threatening subject lines.

Seeing my dad’s name. Call Me. Urgent Matter.

An email from my sister Janelle. I NEED TO TALK TO YOU.

I don’t click on any of them.

I open the web browser and type in my name.

Caroline Piasecki. Advanced search. Limit to last twenty-four hours.

So many hits. All the worst sites. All the same pictures, all over again.

This isn’t supposed to be happening, but it is.

West is behind me, hands on my shoulders. The phone’s hidden from view by the fall of my hair, and I wish I had something better to hide behind. Some place, some world where I could take him, where everything wasn’t already being ruined.

“It’s bad,” he says.

It’s not a question. He can feel it. He knows.

“Yeah. It’s bad.”

But after that, it only gets worse.

I walk in to my dad’s office armed to the teeth.

West stays in the car, parked all the way down at the end of the driveway. I feel shitty about that, but he said I can only fight one battle at a time, and he’s got a point. Probably the day to reintroduce West to my dad and fess up to his being my boyfriend is not Sex-Picture Day.

Still. Just knowing West is out there, waiting. Knowing he’s on my side. It helps.

We both skipped class this morning. He called in sick to the library. I don’t think he’s skipped class all year, and he’s definitely never missed work, so I appreciate the gesture. Plus, I need him. He’s not much good with computers, but he’s good with me. He sat next to me for hours while I pulled up my spreadsheets, Google-searched until my eyes itched, ranted and raved as I uncovered layer after layer of Nate’s assault.

It’s worse this time. Way worse than before.

The pictures are everywhere, of course, freshly posted at all the meat-market sites along with my name, my school—yeah, yeah. I’ve long since lost the ability to find them shocking.

What’s shocking is all the other stuff.

Hateful posts on my Facebook wall. Personal notes to my school email from strangers who want to rape me, fuck me, punch me in the cunt. My Twitter account is sending out spam messages with links to my vulva. And somehow, God, my professors all must have been contacted, because I’ve gotten concerned-sounding email from three of them and a phone message from the Student Affairs office requesting that I set up an interview as soon as possible.

In six hours, I’ve cycled through hurt and anger, disgust and fear, resignation and fury. I’m a hundred-pound bag of flailing feelings. I’m sad. I’m mad. I’m a wreck.

But West is with me.

More than West: After her eight o’clock, Bridget showed up with Quinn. They called Krishna, who pulled his laptop, mine, and Quinn’s into a temporary network on the living-room coffee table. Within an hour, he was directing a search-and-record-keeping operation with Quinn and Bridget. They’re doing screenshots of everything, calling in favors with a MathLab geek friend of Krishna’s who has crazy computer skills, combing through the student handbook to figure out what kind of rules Nate’s breaking and what can be done about it.

I’m a wreck, but they’re all on my side, and that helps. So much.

Krishna’s friend is the one who figured out what started it all. Tucked away on one of those unmoderated sites where bros like to hang out and be dickheads together, there’s a thread about me. A link to the pictures, a standard complaint about what a frigid, evil whore I am, and then a call to arms: What can we do to teach this bitch a lesson?

Dozens of them took up their weapons. While I was at the bakery with West, sleeping in his arms, having sex with him—all that time, I was being attacked. By strangers. For no reason at all.

If this had happened to me seven months ago, I think I would have crumpled under the weight. Knowing my professors have been sent those links, that my sister and my aunts and maybe even my grandparents have been Facebook-spammed with naked pictures of me—it sucks. It hurts. It makes me want to cry if I dwell on it, if I think too hard about what it means for my future, what it says about the shape of the rest of my life.

But it also makes me so, so mad.

I’m ready to fight. I have a stack of printouts in my arms, a bag with my laptop in it weighing down my shoulder. I have West at the end of the driveway.

In front of me, my father sits in the maroon leather recliner by the window, his own laptop open on his thigh, his glasses pushed up into his thick gray hair, ruffling his otherwise dignified appearance. I study his familiar face—thick eyebrows, that dumpling nose Janelle inherited but I didn’t, his jawline jowlier than I remembered. He’s putting on weight. Too many drive-through cheeseburgers.

He called me home, and I came.

My palms are sweaty when I sit down in the other chair in his corner. It’s deep and tall, and my feet just barely reach the floor. All of my memories of being punished as a girl begin here, with the helpless weight of my swinging feet. I know the number of brass studs anchoring the upholstery onto the end of his chair’s arms. Nine around the arch. Twelve more down each side. I’ve studied each pucker in the leather and memorized the geometrical arches and whorls in his abstract office carpet in order to avoid having to look him in the eye.

Today, I sit with my spine straight, damp palms clasped in my lap. I pulled up my hair into a ponytail and wore jeans and the sweater he paid for at Christmas, pale-blue-green cashmere the color of West’s eyes. My armor.

I sit quietly and wait, because Janelle is the one who sucks up to him, and Alison is the one who cries. I am the daughter who comes to him armed with counterarguments, clever defenses, tricky maneuvers.

I am the daughter who fights.

For months now, I’ve been too scared to fight. I’ve been trying to live in a bubble that Nate popped way back in August. I didn’t want to believe it. I told myself I could fix it. Throw some patches on there, paint over the cracks, avert my eyes, and pretend everything was fine.

Everything’s not fine.

The bubble is well and truly fucked.

But outside the bubble, I’ve found rugby parties and new friends who don’t care about my stupid sex pictures. Outside the bubble, there are nights at the bakery, phone sex, and long naps in the middle of the afternoon with my arms wrapped around a boy who smells like fresh bread and soap, and who makes me feel like I matter, no matter what I look like, what I’ve done, what’s been done to me.

The world hasn’t changed. It’s full of men who hate women. It’s stuffed to the gills with assholes who will mount an attack on a stranger just because she’s female and they’re small-minded monkey-boys with an inferiority complex.

The world hasn’t changed, but I have.

Outside the bubble is life. West.

I like it out here. I’m staying.

Dad clicks on something, closes the lid of his laptop, and looks at me. “Caroline,” he says.

Just my name, for a moment.

Just my name, because you begin by identifying the accused.

“I received a call last night from your aunt Margaret. She’d seen something distressing on your Facebook page, and she wanted to know if I was aware of it.”

His eyes are my eyes, dark brown and full of sympathy. His manner is reasonable. His diction is clear and measured. He doesn’t yell in the office. He judges. We come to him like criminals, and he passes sentence on us, calmly and rationally.

“When I told her I didn’t know what she was referring to, she sent me the link, and I checked it out for myself. The link took me to a website where …”

He clears his throat—the first sign that any of this is disturbing to him.

“… where I found several pictures of you unclothed. Some of them compromising. Sexually compromising. Although it wasn’t possible to positively identify each of the pictures as you, there were certain …”

He looks away from me for a second.

This is not your fault, I tell myself. You didn’t do this. Nate did.

Dad clears his throat again. “There’s no question that at least one, if not more, of the sexually explicit photographs is of you. I followed a second link to much the same thing, and I can only assume that the additional links were also to these photos.”

There’s a long pause, and I wonder if I’m supposed to say something. But what can I say?

Yes, that’s me.

That’s me, giving Nate a blow job.

That’s my vagina, my hand between my legs, stroking my clit.

Yes, that’s me riding Nate’s cock. My face with his semen on it.

Yes.

That’s your baby girl. Your pride and joy.

I sit silent. I knew this would be hard, but it’s harder than I expected. I’d thought about his judgment, feared his disgust, but I’d never thought about his grief.

The grief is in his face, in his eyes.

These pictures make him sad, sad because of me, sad for me, and it’s unbearable.

“So.” He folds his hands on his stomach, over the top of the ratty beige cardigan that he wears on top of his Oxford shirts at home. “Tell me how this happened.”

I take a deep breath and imagine a string tied to the crown of my head, pulling me up straight and tall. An exercise that our high school choir director gave us, but one that comes in handy anytime I need to be perfectly poised, perfectly careful.

“Nate took the pictures. When we were still going out. And he—they showed up online right after we broke up.”

The lines around his mouth deepen, twin parentheses framing his impatience. “Am I correct in remembering that you broke up with Nate soon before returning to school in August?”

“Yes. It was August when he first posted them.”

“You know that he posted them.”

“No. I assume it was him, but I can’t prove it. They were submitted anonymously to the sites. He denied it.”

“Caroline.” My father looks right at me, leaning in a bit. “It’s March.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me what happened between August and March.”

“I made a systematic effort to remove the photos from the Internet. I set up automatic searches, sent out cease-and-desist email—”

My dad makes an impatient sound. He doesn’t approve of homegrown lawyering.

“—and whatever else I could think of to get them off-line. And then, when that wasn’t working, I hired a service to help me scrub my reputation. On the Internet, I mean. They do the searching for you, get photos wiped, try to push the legit results up on the search pages …”

And I haven’t heard from them in weeks. The reports they did send me were late, sketchy, and incomplete. It’s possible they’re frauds or just crap at what they do.

It’s possible I threw away fifteen hundred dollars of West’s money on a pipe dream.

How many hours of his effort, his sweat, did I waste so I could cower in my dorm room, wishing life were fair?

On the list of my regrets, that loan is way up near the top.

“But this latest attack was launched from an online bulletin board,” I continue. “Presumably by Nate. A number of others participated in it with him. I don’t know their identities. What I do know is that the pictures have spread so far and wide, it’s probably a wasted effort trying to get them removed. I’d like to focus my energy at this point on—”

“A wasted effort? Do you have any idea what’s going to happen to you if you don’t remove the pictures?”

“I have a good idea, yes.”

“You’ll have trouble getting into law school. Recommendations will be difficult, but even assuming you can present a good application—admissions committees search the Internet. Internship applications, scholarships, job applications. There’s no chance at the Rhodes Scholarship, the Marshall. Getting the pictures off-line will have to be your top priority. You should have brought me in from the beginning, Caroline. So much damage has already been done.”

So much damage.

But to what? To whom?

“I’m not damaged.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“It is, though. You’re talking about this—about my future—as though it’s this white, pure thing that I’ve gotten dirty. Like you sent me out to play in a white dress, and why wasn’t I more careful with it?”

He frowns.

“I’m not a white dress, Dad. And I didn’t take those pictures. I didn’t share them. I didn’t say all that stuff about me. Nate did.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“Fine. Someone did. The important thing is, that someone wasn’t me.”

He grunts and looks out the window at our yard. Our house is in the nicest part of Ankeny, with a big shaded lot and an acre of lawn that I had to mow in high school if I expected to be allowed to go out on the weekends. Today it’s overcast, patchy snow still on the ground, spring weeks away.

It’s not my yard anymore.

This isn’t my house.

I’m not a child.

“Did you report this incident to the college?” he asks. “Or to the police?”

“No. But I intend to.”

“You say you suppose Nate posted these photos in the first place because he was upset. Does he have any reason to continue to be upset with you? Something that prompted this second attack?”

It’s West, of course. West and me, together. Out in public, around campus, so obviously a couple, so obviously into each other.

What did Nate tell me that night at the party, when he blocked me from leaving the room? That he was worried about me. That we were friends, we’d always be friends.

What did he want that night when he came to West’s apartment with Josh and offered to buy weed? To stake some kind of claim over me? To prove he was better than the guy I ended up with?

“I think he might still have feelings for me.”

“I see.”

Then my dad is silent, and I have to endure the ticking of the grandfather clock and await his judgment.

“I’m going to have to speak with Dick,” he says. “He might have some insight into the best course of action on matters like this.”

Dick Shaffer is my dad’s friend, a prosecutor.

“I’ve looked into that,” I say. “And I have a meeting with the Student Affairs office this afternoon, where I’m going to ask about possible approaches. It’s not illegal to share sex pictures online, provided they’re pictures of an adult and they’re the possession of the person who shares them—that they’re not stolen and they weren’t coerced. Which means, I think, there isn’t much of anything the police can do. But if we go after Nate for violating the technology policy—”

My dad’s gaze sharpens. “Go after him?”

“Yes, because the post he made last night, if he was using the campus network, that was a violation of the campus tech policy, and I think if it goes to a hearing—”

My dad stands up abruptly and carries his laptop over to his desk, where he leaves it, silver and shining. He tucks his hands behind his back and begins to pace, deep in his own thoughts.

I’ve lost the thread of my argument. I don’t think he was listening, anyway.

I don’t know what to say to get him to listen.

“Do you remember,” he asks, “what I told you when you turned fifteen and I allowed you to have your own Facebook account?”

“Yes.”

He twirls a finger at me. Repeat it.

“You told me to be careful, because the Internet is a public forum and nothing I do or say online will ever go away.”

“And I told you it was especially important for you to be careful, didn’t I? More than your sisters. Because you want to be a lawyer. You want to be a leader of men.”

I did.

I do.

“Is this the behavior of a leader of men, Caroline?”

That question—it makes me dizzy for a second. It sends a wash of fire through me, a hot rush of some feeling that I can’t immediately identify.

Before my sophomore year at Putnam, I’d never understood that your whole world can pivot on a few words.

A text message that says OMG.

One question from my father: Is this the behavior of a leader of men?

The answer comes up from deep inside me. From that place beneath my lungs, that ripped-open wound that’s been cut and kicked and battered. The part of me that has refused, still refuses, to give up.

Yes is what it tells me. Yes, it fucking is.

If there’s anything I learned from a childhood spent poring over the biographies of world leaders, it’s that people who make a difference in the world succeed not despite what’s happened to them but because of it. Being a leader—it’s not about only doing things your father will approve of. It’s not about being good and smart and pretty and lucky. You can’t lead from inside a bubble.

You have to live to lead, and the past few months I’ve been alive. I’ve been falling in love with a boy my father forbade me to talk to. Hell, not a boy, a man. A smart man who works hard and never skips class except when he has to because I’m in the middle of a crisis.

A drug dealer. A brawler. West is both of those things.

But he’s also a son, an older brother, a generous lover, and a kind, amazing guy.

This year I’ve been figuring out who I am. I’ve been learning what I want, and it’s the same as what I’ve always wanted, only I’m different.

Leaders live and grow and learn. They run into dragons, get burned by them, temper their swords in the fire, and take them on.

That’s what I want to do. That’s who I want to be. Not this girl cowering in her father’s office.

I want to be fierce.

So I stand up, too. I plant myself in the middle of his rug, cross my arms to match his. I let my eyebrows draw in, the corners of my mouth fall, and I ask him, “What do you mean by this?”

“Sorry?”

“You said, ‘Is this the behavior of a leader of men?’ What do you mean? Are you asking me if leaders have consensual sex with their long-term monogamous partners? Yes. They do. Are you asking, are leaders ever betrayed? Yes. All the time. The question is—”

“The question is one of judgment,” he interrupts. “There’s a reason you’ve never seen a sex-photograph scandal involving the president of the United States, Caroline, and it’s because—”

“It’s because Monica Lewinsky didn’t have an iPhone, Dad. Are you kidding me with this? Do you know how many senators have been caught sending pictures of their penises to staffers?”

“Enough that you should have known better.”

That catches me up short. Catches my breath in my lungs.

I should have known better.

Of course I should have. Things with Nate were never quite right, and I should have known that I liked him for the wrong reasons, that I had to work too hard for his regard, that he didn’t care about me the right way. I think that was always part of his mystique—the sense that I might never be quite enough for him, that he’d picked me out but I was a little too brainy, a little too naïve, and I needed to prove myself in order to make his deigning to go out with me worth his while.

I figured it all out eventually. I broke up with him because it wasn’t working, because at Putnam I had more confidence that I might find someone better. Someone like West.

I just didn’t figure it out soon enough.

Be careful what you put on the Internet. I’ve heard it a hundred times. Be careful what you do in this digital age. Don’t let yourself be made a victim, because if you do, it’s your fault. Your mistake.

I knew the pictures were a bad idea. I had my mouth on Nate’s dick when he lifted the phone in the air and took the first one, and it didn’t feel sexy. It didn’t feel risky or clever, a secret shared between us. It felt wrong.

I decided to give him what he wanted so he would be nice to me. So he would approve of me, act like he loved me, like he was proud of me.

He took that picture. He came in my mouth.

Afterward, he wanted to do body shots. One, two, three, four. My cleavage sticky, my senses dulled, my jaw sore, I did what he asked me to.

I was eighteen years old, and I thought I loved him. I should have known, but I didn’t.

And I don’t deserve to be abused for it. Judged for it. Called names.

I don’t deserve to have my life ruined.

“I trusted him.”

“You shouldn’t have. Do you think Professor Donaldson will be able to write you a recommendation letter for law school now, with these photographs on his mind? Do you think he’ll be able to attest to your intelligence, your drive, when he’s seen this?”

“Probably not.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to get an internship this summer, next year? That you’ll be able to apply for scholarships with this on your record?”

“I know it’s an embarrassment, Dad, but—”

“It’s not an embarrassment. Embarrassment fades. This is a black mark. You might as well have committed a felony, Caroline, and all because you didn’t use your head.”

“Nate is the one who posted the pictures.”

“And you’re the one who let him take them.”

“I trusted him.”

He makes a disgusted sound. Looks away from me. Wipes his hand over his mouth.

“You shouldn’t have,” he says, for the second time. And he looks at me, more sad than angry. “I thought you had better judgment than this. I’m disappointed in you. I’m … I’m disgusted with those pictures, and I’m disappointed.”

It breaks something inside me to hear him say that.

It hurts.

But I think the thing it breaks—it’s not my heart. It’s some last delicate fragment of the bubble. It’s the part of me that was still my daddy’s girl, living in hope that if I were perfect, he would love me best. Love me most. Love me always. And his love would make me powerful.

It hurts to hear that I’ve disgusted him. It hurts to know that from here on out, he’ll never love me in quite the same way, if he finds a way to love me at all.

But I don’t need his love to be powerful.

I’m already powerful.

And there’s enough work for me in the world, just trying to fix this one thing, that I could spend the rest of my life doing it.

“I’m sorry you’re disappointed,” I tell him. “But I’m human. I’m nineteen. I make mistakes sometimes. And I think … you know, maybe I should have told you right away. Maybe that makes this harder for you, because I’ve had seven months to think about what these pictures mean and you’ve had, like, seven hours.”

I step closer to him and put my hand on his arm.

If he flinches slightly—if my heart contracts—I ignore it.

I’m not disgusting. I’m his daughter.

“But, Daddy? Here’s what they mean to me. They’re an act of hate. They’re vengeance against me, from someone I never treated badly. They’re undeserved. And even if they were deserved, what does that mean, exactly? That if someone takes naked pictures of me, I’m a bad person, so they get the right to call me a slut on the Internet? Are you trying to tell me that just because I didn’t stop Nate from aiming his camera, I deserve whatever happens to me, forever? I deserve this attack because I asked for it? Do you hear how ugly that is?”

“I never said you asked for it.” He sounds different, his voice choked and unsettled.

“Yeah. You did.”

My father has always told me that the first step toward getting what I want in life is to know what I want. You figure it out, and then you go after it.

So I make him look at me. I make him hear me.

“You did.”

This is my power now, and he doesn’t have to like it.

I’m going to use it whether he likes it or not.

I’m going to keep using it until people start listening.

West stands up as soon as he spots me.

He’s been waiting in the Student Affairs reception area, sprawled opposite the office assistant in a high-backed pink chair that is too small and entirely too fussy for him.

I was in the meeting for over an hour, but he’s in exactly the same spot where I left him. The only thing different is that his hair has arranged itself into grooves—plowed-through furrows that I stare at blankly for a moment until I figure out they’re from his fingers.

How many times did he have to run his hand through his hair to leave it looking like a springtime field?

“How’d that go?”

He touches my elbow when I get close, slides his hand to my waist. With light pressure, he steers me through the door and into the hallway.

Student Affairs takes up part of the basement level of the student center, along with a gallery and some other offices. It’s a bright white labyrinth down here, and I’m always getting lost in it, but I’m pretty sure we came in on the other end from where West is leading me.

“Okay, I think. I told them a bunch of stuff, and they asked some questions. Then I gave them all my log printouts. They’re supposed to talk to Nate next, and then we’ll see.”

West’s expression darkens. “That’s it? ‘We’ll see’?”

He’s been like this since we left my dad’s. Keyed up, bitter, a little sarcastic. I think he must have been under the illusion that just because I’m right, everyone will take my side. As if that’s the way the world works.

For my part, I’ve moved beyond thinking anything is going to be handed to me without a fight.

“Well, yeah. What did you think, they’d tie him to the back of a horse and drag him around campus?”

He doesn’t find the joke funny. I reach up and feel the deep worry line between his eyebrows. “Hey. What’s this for?”

“Nothing. You hungry? You should eat something. Get some rest. I want you to sleep while I’m on at the bakery tonight.”

I stop walking. “West.”

“What?”

“What’s the matter?”

Because there’s something more going on with him than can be explained by disappointment with how my interview went. There’s this energy coming off him, a gathering storm cloud, dark and dangerous. I can feel it when I stand close, and it reminds me of that day when I found him at the library after he’d punched Nate—a physical violence, vibrating atoms, primitive chemicals.

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

I take his upper arms in a firm grip, pull him closer, go up on my tiptoes to kiss him. He just stands there like a block of wood, and when I come down he tries on a smile that’s so pathetically not a smile, I want to wipe it off his face.

“Yeah, you totally feel fine,” I say. “That was such a great kiss, I’m about to rip off my panties and do you in the hallway.”

No smile. No humor in him at all. He tugs at my hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

“Not here.”

“Why not? There’s no one around.”

His eyes dart past my shoulder to the other end of the hall.

“Fuck,” he mutters.

I figure out why he’s swearing—the only likely reason for him to be so tense—as I’m turning around. The sight of Nate standing where there was no one a few seconds ago is more confirmation than surprise.

“You knew he was coming?”

West doesn’t answer. Maybe he overheard something, maybe the secretary told him, but somehow he knew.

“It’s fine, West. I mean, it’s sweet that you’re so worried, but I was going to have to see him sooner or later, I just—”

One glance tells me he isn’t listening to me.

One look at his eyes informs me that West’s attempt to railroad me out of the building wasn’t for my protection. At least, not in the way I assume.

He’s flushed. Focused.

Homicidal.

“Don’t you dare,” I tell him. “Don’t even think about it.”

“You should go,” he says.

Nate has spotted us. He’s about thirty feet away—close enough that I see him go still.

I think if I were closer, I’d see fear in his eyes.

“You’ll get expelled.”

My hand is over West’s galloping heart. I’m not sure he can even hear me, and I’ve already had enough of not being heard today. My dad, the dean of students, the residence-life supervisor who sat in on the meeting—none of them really listened. And now West.

“Get out of here, Caroline.”

He’s pushing past me, moving steadily down the hall toward his prey, and I’m certain— certain that West isn’t going to hit Nate. No, he’s going to beat him until someone pulls him off. He’s going to put Nate in the hospital. Maybe even kill him.

I guess I should be worried for West, or for Nate even, but I’m not. Figuring out what’s about to happen doesn’t scare me. It ticks me off.

West has peed on this particular tree already. Twice.

I grab a fistful of the back of his T-shirt and yank on it. Fabric rips. West whirls around.

“This is my fight,” I tell him. “Mine. Not yours.”

“Get out of here if you don’t want to see this.”

“Do you hear yourself? This isn’t an action movie. Knock it off.”

“Let go of my shirt.”

“It won’t help anything, West. You’ll just get in trouble, maybe go to jail, and then I won’t have you and I’ll still have to deal with this. It won’t help.”

He tries to get my hand off his shirt, but I’ve got a good grip. So he just takes his shirt off. Right there in the basement of the student center, he whips off his shirt and stalks down the hallway toward Nate.

I drop my bag and run.

I never got very good at rugby, but I learned a few things about tackling before the season ended. None of them has anything to do with this graceless tumble into West. I collide with the backs of his thighs, get my hands around his knees, slide down to his ankles.

I’m tenacious, though. I don’t let go. If he wants to fight Nate, he’ll have to drag me along behind him. I’ll cling to his back like a baby monkey. It won’t be dignified, but I don’t care.

“Caroline, for Christ’s sake.”

“I’m not letting go.”

Hands on his hips, he glares at Nate, who’s smirking now. He really does deserve to get punched in the nose.

But that’s neither here nor there. I made my feelings about violence clear when I puked in West’s toilet. I don’t like it. I don’t want it. I didn’t ask for it.

“Get off me,” West says. “This is between me and him.”

“No, it’s not.”

“He called the cops on me.”

“And that was one move in a longer war, and the war is about me, and I say no. No fighting. I hate it. It doesn’t fix anything. It just gives you an excuse to let off steam, which isn’t fair, anyway. I mean, I’ve got steam, too, and I don’t get to punch people.” I look up at West, arms around his ankles, pleading with him. “I get that you’re frustrated, okay? I get it. You’re mad. You want to fix this for me. But you can’t fix this for me. All you can do is make it worse.”

I can see the moment when it sinks in. Maybe not what I’m saying so much as the fact that I’m practically laid out on the floor, tangled up in his legs. He’s not going to accomplish anything this way.

Nate sees it, too. He walks in to Student Affairs without another glance.

The breath explodes out of West in a loud, frustrated sigh.

After a few seconds, when I’ve started to feel silly—I mean, how is it, exactly, that I ended up wrapped around the legs of a shirtless man in such a short span of time?—he gives me his hand. “Come here.”

His palm is hot and damp, his grip strong. When I’m on my feet, he frames my face between his hands. “You’re mine. He hurt you. I want to hurt him.”

“I know.”

“It’s the only thing I can do for you.”

“It’s not, though. It’s not what I need from you. You have to trust that I can do this. It’s my fight.”

“Feels like my fight, too.”

I turn my face into his palm. Kiss him there, where I can feel his pulse in his hand. “That’s because we’re a team.” I smile against his skin. “But I’m the leader.”

He snorts. “You’re not the leader.”

“I am, too. You should’ve seen me in that meeting. I kicked ass.”

“I bet you did.”

“West?” I look up at him. There’s more ease in his expression now, softness in his eyes that I put there. “I need you to believe in me. Even if there are times nobody else does, I need you to be the one person in my life who trusts that I can kick all the ass that needs to be kicked.”

“Of course you can. But it’s not—”

“And then,” I interrupt, because this is important. “And then, even though I know it’s harder and it’s not what you want, I need you to let me do it.”

He gazes past me at the doorway where Nate isn’t anymore.

“West, look at me.”

He does.

“There’s going to be some other chance like this. Sometime when I’m not around and you get a shot at Nate. I’m asking you to promise me you’re not going to take it.”

“Caro.”

“Please.” I touch his cheekbone. Pet his neck. He feels so dangerous, right on the edge, and I need to pull him back, because I know that this decision—right now—is one of those pivot points. A make-or-break moment.

I can’t be with him if he won’t let me fight my own battles.

He covers my hand with his and holds it against the bend between neck and shoulder.

I love his eyes. I love the way he looks at me, what he sees in me, who we are together.

“I hate not being able to do anything for you,” he says.

“You’re doing everything for me. Just by being you.” I kiss him. “Promise me.”

His breath against my mouth is a sigh and a capitulation. “I promise.”

“Thank you.” I stroke his neck and kiss him again. He’s so warm, wired, animal.

Also, shirtless.

When his tongue parts my lips, I go weak against him. The kiss gets serious, fast. My back bumps into the wall, his hand catches behind my knee.

“Let’s go home,” I say.

We don’t even make it to the parking lot before he’s pushing me up against a tree, the bark rough at the back of my head until his hand is there, protecting me.

Then, scorching heat and roving hands. I’m wet, was already wet in the hall, wetter still as I pushed through the door and he gave it a shove from behind me, groped my ass with his free hand in the deepest, dirtiest way.

“Home,” I say on a gasp.

“Yeah.”

“You drive.”

“Keys.”

I fish them out of my purse, although I’m not sure how. West is no help. His hands are all over me. “Here.”

I have to dangle them in front of his face to get his attention.

Back at the apartment, Krishna and Bridget are waiting.

“How’d it go?”

“Did you nail his ass?”

West doesn’t even let me talk. He pushes me in front of him, says, “Give us a minute,” and slams the door to his bedroom in their surprised faces.

“That was rude.”

He’s too busy unbuttoning my pants to answer.

A few quick jerks, a shove onto the bed, a condom retrieved from the desk, and he’s on me, pushing my knees open, testing me with his fingers. When he feels how wet I am, he makes that mmm sound that drives me crazy. “Hurry,” I tell him.

It doesn’t last long, but oh, God, it’s amazing. One confident thrust and he’s filling me, our tongues dancing, his belt buckle jingling as he moves into me hard and deep. We don’t talk. I’m not sure we breathe. He needs to claim me, and I need to claim him, too, his flaws and his anger and his stupid macho protective bullshit, his promise and his body and the way he is, frustrating and imperfect, gorgeous and hot, violent and intelligent and real.

He sucks my nipple into his mouth, laps it with his tongue the way he knows drives me crazy, gets his hand up under me and tilts to put friction where I need it. It doesn’t take much. I’m close. So close already, and he feels bigger and harder and deeper than ever, driving fast, breathing ragged against my neck. “Come on, baby,” he says, and I make this sound like a sob, but I’ve never felt this good.

Tighter and harder, I dig into his shoulders when I start to come, needing to hold on to him, to keep him here, right here, this close. He groans, pushes his forehead into mine, kisses my temple when I turn my head, comes inside me holding my hands, our fingers interlaced, his grip so tight that the ache in my joints is the first thing I feel when I’m capable of feeling anything but bliss.

I wiggle my fingers, and he lets go.

“Holy crap.”

He grins.

“That was—holy crap.”

He kisses my nose, still smiling, and shakes his head.

“Seriously. That’s all I’ve got. I’m sure there are other words, but …”

West starts laughing, his belly moving against mine. “Never let it be said the caveman thing doesn’t turn you on.”

“It doesn’t!”

He keeps laughing, so I pinch him. “Last time you hit Nate, I puked!”

“You just came in, like, fifteen seconds. And that time at the library—”

“Don’t even bring that up.”

“After I decked him. You were hot for me.”

“I was not!”

“You would’ve let me do anything to you that day.”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“You so would have. I should’ve kissed you. Skipped all those months we spent kidding ourselves. Don’t tell me you weren’t thinking about it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“Right, because you’re such a good girl.”

I get my hands around his head, pull him close, kiss him. “Okay, maybe I was thinking about it. But only because you so clearly needed an outlet for all that rampant testosterone.”

“You would’ve volunteered to be my outlet?”

“Your receptacle. Because I’m a giver.”

“I just gave you an orgasm that made your eyes cross.”

“Well, sure. Giving has its benefits.”

He starts laughing again, and I hug him tight, loving the way his body feels against mine.

Loving him.

When we come out, we bump through the bedroom doorway, West’s hand at my hip, a shit-eating grin on his face that I can’t see but can feel with my whole body.

Happy.

It’s amazing, I think, that we can find so much happiness at a time like this. I mean, yes, sex. But it’s not really the sex. It’s what’s underneath the sex. It’s how he makes me feel, how I make him feel, how we are together. This golden ribbon of something beautiful we’ve always had between us, there even when I was peering into his car and trying not to look too hard at the bare slice of flat stomach reflected in the car window. Even when we were arguing at the library, not-touching at the bakery, kissing on the train tracks.

Even when I told him to make up his mind and walked out on him, that ribbon was there—a shining possibility underneath.

I do feel a little awkward, though, about Krishna and Bridget. Who are sitting on the couch, watching TV kind of … tensely.

I think the tension must be in their bodies. Bridget sits ramrod straight, the back of her neck pink. Krishna’s got his arm braced along the top of the cushions, his whole body turned toward her, one knee up on the couch, even, and I get this impression of haste, like maybe he just moved away from her, even though I would have seen it if he had.

If he’d been two feet closer to Bridget, his arm right behind her, leaning over her, leaning into her, and then hastily moved away to where he is now when I pulled open the bedroom door—I never could have missed it.

Except I think maybe I did, because when Krishna turns around, this kind of hard, glistening something in his eyes reminds me of a horse about to buck.

I’ve never even seen a horse about to buck, but that’s what I think of. A terrible impulse, barely contained.

“What are you watching?” West asks.

It’s a fair question. Because they’re watching My Little Pony. With the volume weirdly low. Like, barely audible low.

Bridget is picking at her track bottoms, pinching little tents at the spot where her knee bends and the material wrinkles up.

Krishna is looking everywhere, at nothing.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen the two of them in the same room together but not talking. They are both Olympic-medal talkers. Talking is practically their religion.

I’ve definitely never seen them look so awkward.

Nor have I known Bridget to fail to answer a direct question.

That’s the point at which I would like to crawl into a cave for a while so I can sit with my humiliation, because of course this is our fault, West and me with our door-slamming and our probably loud loud loud sex noises through the thin walls, and Bridget and Krishna out here listening for God knows how long.

How awful are we?

Totally awful. I’m not a good friend. They’re here to support me after my meeting with the administration, and I let them be sexiled to the living room to marinate in the discomfort of West’s and my grunting horrible coitus sounds.

If that’s even what they were doing. Marinating in discomfort.

I don’t know. I’m just thinking about the best way to sweep the whole thing under the rug—apologize? But how can you apologize for sex noises? I would die—when West takes the conversation in completely the other direction.

“Is this one of those things where you mute the TV and replace it with another soundtrack? Like watching The Wizard of Oz while listening to Dark Side of the Moon, except with My Little Pony and Caroline and me fucking?”

I punch him in the arm. “West!”

Krishna starts to laugh.

Bridget covers her face with her hands and buries her head in the couch cushion. I think she says something about Twilight Sparkle, but it’s hard to hear her with her mouth against the leather.

“Dude,” Krishna says. “That was epic.”

“Right?” West is smiling in this way only a guy could—70 percent ego, 30 percent swinging dick. “I should get a medal.”

“Do you guys want a ruler?” I ask. “You know, for measuring your penises?”

Krishna makes a dismissive noise. “He’d win.”

From the depths of the couch cushions, Bridget makes this noise that’s like a scream crossed with a squeak.

“Do you want some ice cream?” I ask. Because that’s all I’ve got to offer. I don’t have one of those laser-gun things that can erase memories with one bright white pulse of light.

“Yes,” she says. “But only if you have the kind with the pretzels with peanut butter in the middle and chocolate on the outside, in the vanilla ice cream with peanut butter stripes.”

“Chubby Hubby.”

“Yes. Or I guess I’d take mint chocolate chip. But not that terrible stuff you had before with the fruit in it, because you know how I feel about fruit in my ice cream.”

“Why don’t you come with me and see?”

She gets up. I expect her to climb over Krishna, whose leg is partially blocking the path between the coffee table and the kitchen, but instead she goes the long way around and doesn’t look at him.

“Twilight Sparkle, huh?” West says to Krishna. “Is that what’s got you two all hot and bothered?”

“No, it’s that picture your mom sent me of her in her panties.”

“Oh, yeah? Was it as good as the video I got from your grandma last week?”

“Dude. Leave off my grandma.”

“That’s what your sister said when she wanted her turn.”

“Oh my God,” Bridget says. “Make it stop.”

My head’s already in the freezer. I take it out to call, “Settle down, boys! You’re both pretty.”

I try to sound scornful, but it’s hard to pull off when you’re smiling so hard that your cheeks hurt.

The week after Sex-Picture Day is crazy.

Spring break is coming up. West and I both have mid-semester papers and projects due. I endure another meeting with Student Affairs because my dad has decided he wants to be part of everything, except once he’s in the meeting he doesn’t say a word. It’s this weird repeat of the first meeting but with more people in the room.

The Internet-Asshat emails keep flooding into my in-box. I guess they’ve found my phone number, because now I’m getting all these hang-up mouth-breather voice mails and ranting, insane threats. I have to screen all my calls, delete three-quarters of my texts. I decide to suspend my Facebook account and shut down my Twitter altogether.

All of it has to be documented, too. Everything needs to be tracked. I’m already tired of it. I wish I could just switch off the phone, turn off the computer, and ignore the whole river of garbage that my life has become.

And, as if that’s not bad enough, West can’t get his mom on the phone. Frankie hasn’t sent him any texts for a few days. He’s worrying.

There’s nothing I can do.

I’m overwhelmed, weary of being hated, worn out from so much hard work.

There’s nothing he can do.

We stick together like we’ve been glued to each other.

We’re at the bakery when his phone finally rings. I’m mixing up the dill, and he’s slitting open a bag of flour to dump into the bin. Since I’m closer to his phone, I look at the screen. “It’s Bo.”

He drops the blade on the floor. I meet him halfway with the phone. I know he’s been hoping Bo, his mom, someone, will call him back.

“Hey. What’s up?”

I turn my back to adjust the volume on the music, and the ten seconds the job requires is all the time it takes for the color to drain from West’s face.

“How long ago?”

He paces the length of the table as he listens.

“Did you try to talk her out of it? Or … No, I know.… No. All right. And what about Frankie, is she—”

His shoulders sag.

His fingers are white where they curl around the phone.

“All right. Thanks. It was decent of you to call. I’ll … I’ll take it from here.”

When he hangs up, he just stands there.

He stands there for so long, I’m afraid to touch him.

“West?”

“She took him back,” he says.

“Your dad?”

“She fucking took him back.”

This is the possibility he’s been afraid to name for the past few days.

The worst thing.

“How did it happen?”

“I don’t know. Bo didn’t even—he didn’t kick her out. He came home and all her stuff was gone, with a note saying she was sorry but she had to follow her heart.” He pounds his fist on the table. “Her heart.”

“Did they leave town, or … ?”

“They’re at the trailer park. Her and Frankie. They moved in with my dad.”

“Oh.”

I’m not sure what to say. There aren’t any words that will fix the defeat in his posture. The heavy dead sound of his voice, like someone has ripped all the fight out of him.

I know it’s bad because, when I stand in front of him and try to put my arms around him, he slumps against me hard enough that I have to lock my knees to hold him up.

Not for long. He gives himself ten seconds—surely no longer than that—and then pulls away.

He doesn’t look at me when he says, “I’m going to have to go home.”

“Sure.” He’ll have to make sure they’re safe. Talk to his mom. Check on his sister. “Tell me what I can do to help.”

“I have to fly. Pack up my stuff. Right after this shift’s over.”

“Will you stay for your exam?” He has a midterm at ten tomorrow morning.

“No, there’s no point. Listen, can you look up flights for me? See what’s the earliest I can get out of Des Moines.”

“I will, but maybe you should take the exam, at least. So when you come back—”

It’s how he glances away that stops me.

It’s the pain I see before he turns his face so I can’t see it at all.

“West?”

He grips the tabletop with both hands. I’m looking at him in profile, his braced arms, lowered head, the straight line of his spine.

I know before he tells me.

He’s not coming back.

“It was never going to work out, anyway,” he says quietly. “I never had any business thinking it would.”

“What wasn’t?”

“It’s not something I should have let myself think I could do.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters a lot. West?”

When he looks up at me, he’s so far away. He’s in a state I’ve never been to, a place I’ve seen pictures of but can’t imagine, can’t smell. A town by an ocean I’ve never seen.

Oregon. I can’t even pronounce it right. He had to teach me how to say it like a native.

“Come on. Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “But she’s my sister, and I have to watch out for her. Nobody else is going to do it, nobody ever has. It’s my fault for thinking … It’s my fault.”

The way he looks at me, it feels like goodbye, but it can’t be. We’re mixing up the bread. We’re going to be here for hours—firing the ovens, slicing into the loaves, venting the steam. After we get through tomorrow, it’s spring break, and I probably won’t see him much for the week, but then we have the rest of the semester. Junior year. Senior year.

We have all this time still.

This can’t possibly be happening.

“You can’t just leave. You have to at least go talk to your adviser, take a leave of absence, or—”

I’m just getting warmed up when there’s a sharp rap from the other side of the room. The alley door is open, like always, because the kitchen gets so hot. Standing there, framed in it, are two uniformed policemen.

“Mr. Leavitt,” the one in front says. He’s blond, middle-aged, nice-looking. “Officer Jason Morrow. We met in December.”

“I remember,” West says. “What do you want?”

“We have reason to believe you’ve been engaged in the illegal sale of marijuana from these premises. We’d like to have a look around.”

I move closer to West. He puts his arm around me and kisses the top of my head. Mumbles, “Keep quiet.”

To the policeman, he says, “This isn’t my property. I can’t consent to a search.”

“Is this young woman an employee?”

“No. She’s with me.”

“So you’re the only employee here, is that right?”

West steps away from me, toward the door, and blocks my view of the officers.

I’ve been here before, so many times, staring at his back as he puts himself between me and trouble. But this time the trouble’s come for him.

“Yes.”

“As the person in charge of the premises, you can consent.”

“You’re going to have to call Bob. He’s the owner. It’s up to him.”

“Mr. Leavitt, we have a team at your apartment right now with a trained dog. It’s in your best interest at this point to cooperate with our investigation.”

West takes the door in his hand and uses his boot to nudge away the wedge of wood Bob uses as a doorstop. “Until you come back with Bob or a warrant, I’m not opening this door.”

And then he shuts it and flips the lock.

“Call Bridget,” he says. “I’m calling Krish.”

“West, do you think—”

But he’s not even listening. He’s crouched down, rooting around in my bag. He finds my phone, puts it in my hand. “We have a god-awful mess and not much time to sort it out. If they’re in the apartment, I need to know what’s going on. Call her.”

My fingers do the work.

I feel as though I’m watching all of this happen from a few feet outside my body, like I can’t do anything but the task in front of me, and I don’t understand enough. It’s all swirling around in my head. West is leaving. The police are outside. He closed the door on them. They’re searching the apartment. He’s got to take care of Frankie. West is leaving. He could be arrested. So could I. I’m an accessory. I can’t do this.

It’s all so thoroughly, confusingly screwed.

The phone rings and rings, but no one picks up. West’s got his own phone by his ear, and he’s staring into the middle distance. “No answer?” he asks.

“No.”

Then my phone chimes with an incoming text. What’s going on???!!!

“It’s from Bridget.”

“Ask her where she is.”

I do, and she replies, At W & K’s. On fire escape. Police r here w/ drug dog!!!

West is right behind me, reading over my shoulder. “Shit. I was hoping they were lying about that. Find out where Krish is.”

The minute we have to wait feels like a lifetime.

In West’s room w/ cops & dog.

“Did you have anything there for them to find?” I ask West in a whisper.

“No. I haven’t sold all semester, you know that.”

“So there’s nothing to worry about.”

The look he gives me is almost pitying. “I wish that was how it worked. Ask if she can call you. We shouldn’t be texting this shit.”

Bridget says, There’s a cop watching me. Didn’t want me 2 answer phone.

A pause.

She tried 2 take it, but I asked if I was arrested, she said no, so I kept it. But text is better.

“Surprised she thought of that,” West says.

“She watches a lot of crime TV.”

After a few seconds, another text. They’re in Krish’s room.

West has his hand at my waist. He’s right behind me, right with me.

I don’t think I could stand it if he left.

They found something.

“Fucking hell,” he says. “That little wanker. I told him. I told him.”

“Told him what?”

“Not to keep weed in the apartment. Ever. Under any circumstances. But he’s a lazy little fuck, and he doesn’t think. God damn it.”

He takes the phone from my hand and starts typing with his thumbs.

“What are you saying?”

“Shh. I’m going to call her. I’m just telling her to listen to what I say when she picks up. She doesn’t have to talk.”

He must get Bridget’s okay, because after a second he taps a few times, puts my phone to his ear, and waits.

“Bridge, listen, I need you to do something for me. I need you to just do it, if you want to help Krish, and I know you do. In a few minutes it’s going to be too late, so this is the deal. I need you to barge in that bedroom and get right up in the middle of everything and tell the police the weed belongs to me. Act like you’re Krish’s girlfriend, like he’s being noble trying to take the blame and you hate me, you want me to go down for trying to pin it on him. Say whatever you have to. You might have to go to the station for questioning, but just keep acting like you don’t know shit—which you don’t—and keep saying that weed belongs to me. You’ll be fine, and so will Krish. They don’t want him. They want me. And if he gives you a hard time about it, you find a way to tell him, ‘West says to do this. He insists.’ You hear me?”

West glances at me, then looks up at the ceiling. “And after it’s all done and you get released, I want you to find Caroline and take care of her for me. Take good care of her. I know you can’t talk right now, but you promise me just the same. She’s gonna need you.”

A booming knock at the bakery door makes me jump. “Mr. Leavitt!”

They’re pronouncing his name wrong. Leave-it rather than lev-it.

For no reason at all, that’s the thing that makes me cry.

“Thanks, Bridge,” West says, and disconnects the call.

He taps open the address book on my phone.

Bang bang bang. “Mr. Leavitt!”

Bo, he types. And then a phone number with a 541 area code.

He hands me the phone. “I’m going to open that door,” he says. “I’m going to let them in here, because there’s nothing to find, and they’ll get a warrant and be back tomorrow bothering Bob, anyway. So they’re going to search, and we’re going to make bread, okay? It might take them ten minutes, it might take them three hours, but at some point they’re going to decide to take me to the station. You stay here and finish the shift. I don’t want Bob to get screwed over any worse than he has to. Then just lay low, Caro. They couldn’t have found more than half an ounce in Krishna’s room. Maybe a quarter. It’s a misdemeanor. It’s nothing.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“In the morning, you call Bo and tell him what happened. He’ll take care of whatever needs taken care of. Tell him I said if he’s got one more favor in him, I need him to keep an eye on Frankie until I get this all sorted out.”

“West—”

Bang bang bang. “Mr. Leavitt!”

They have his name wrong.

I can’t stand it. I can’t.

“I need you to do what I said,” West says. “I need it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

When he kisses me, his mouth is warm and alive, his arms tight around me, but something is over, something is dead already, I want to scream. I ball up his shirt in my fists.

“I love you,” I tell him, without planning to. It’s not the right time. It’s not the right thing. It’s only what happens when I open my mouth, when I try to say what has to be said, now, before it’s too late.

His eyes are so full of caring and regret. Such a beautiful color, such a beautiful face. I tell him again. “I love you.”

He kisses me one more time, but all he says is “I’m sorry.”

Then he opens the door.

I have to throw out the French. The yeast proofed before West finished the mixing, and the dough looks strange. But the rest of the bread is okay, and I carry on with the work, checking the clipboard, manning the mixers alone in the shrieking silence.

West is gone.

West got arrested.

West is lost, and I’m here, surrounded by a hundred jobs, objects, scents, tastes, that remind me of him.

I cry. A lot.

I stay, and I do the work.

At five-thirty, Bob comes in. He’s bewildered to meet me.

“West told me about you,” he says after he works out who I am. “Is he sick?”

“He got arrested.”

I don’t know—maybe I wasn’t supposed to tell him. But he’s going to find out, and I figure West would rather he find out from me.

The conversation takes thirty minutes. It’s unpleasant. I wish, after it’s over, that I’d handled it better. By the time we’re done, Bob looks sad and defeated, and I feel as though I’ve done a bad job of defending West.

Maybe when I go to law school, I’ll learn the right way to defend the man you love when he’s turned himself in for possession of drugs that weren’t his but may as well have been.

I think, though, it’s possible there is no right way.

When I leave the bakery, I call Bo, who is monosyllabic and a little bit scary. I think I woke him up. It’s not important.

Then I’m not sure where to go. I could walk to the police station, but what would I do there? West said to stay away. I want to do what I said I would, but I can’t stand this. I don’t know what it looks like where he is. I’ve seen a lot of cop shows, just like Bridget. I’ve read detective stories. All I can imagine is West in an impersonal room being interrogated by the blond cop. West being urged to name names.

West with that smart-ass mouth of his, saying the wrong thing. Getting himself in deeper trouble.

But then I think of Frankie, and I know I’ve got it wrong. There’s only so far he would go for Krishna, only so much he’ll give up.

He’ll be on a plane. This afternoon, tomorrow, the day after—nothing will stop him from going.

I wish I didn’t know that about him. I wish I weren’t so sure of him, so unshakable in my conviction that he’ll do exactly what he thinks is right, always.

I wish the right thing could be the thing that I want, but it’s not, and that leaves me here. Worried about West. Stuck with myself, alone, on the verge of tears because he’s going to go and I’m going to stay and I love him.

It’s not fair.

It’s just not.

I walk a few blocks to the police station and sit on the steps outside. No one’s around this early. Only the occasional car putters through the cold morning. It’s spring break as of tomorrow, but Iowa is stuck in winter, freezing and thawing only to freeze again.

I hate this place today. I hate Oregon, too—the ocean, the buttes I’ve never seen. I hate trailer parks. I hate West’s mom for being such a failure, for loving a man who doesn’t deserve to be loved and taking the man I love away from me.

So much hatred. But my hate doesn’t feel poisonous or toxic. It feels true, inevitable. I have to hate these things, because here they are, parked in the middle of my life. A giant metal box of Impossible, seams sealed, and when I kick it, it echoes. When I knock, no one answers.

Hating it is the only option I have.

I’m still sitting there on the steps an hour later when Nate’s friend Josh walks out of the station and pauses to light a cigarette.

“Caroline,” he says when he sees me. He’s inhaled, and he chokes on the smoke and takes a while to recover his voice. “Jeez.”

He doesn’t ask, What are you doing here?

He knows why I’m here.

Long-haired, loose-limbed, floppy Josh. I thought he was my friend. I thought he liked me.

He ratted out West.

“Is Nate in there?” I ask.

“What? No.”

“So it was just you snitching on him.”

He looks like I’ve smacked him in the forehead with a mallet. Totally unprepared for this conversation.

I stand up for the sole purpose of taking advantage of his surprise. Thinking of my dad in his office—the way he rises to pace when he wants to take a position of power over me—I even put myself a step above Josh. Why shouldn’t I use whatever advantages I have?

Why shouldn’t I prosecute? Haven’t I earned the right by now?

“What did he ever do to you?” I ask. “What did I ever do, for that matter, to make you hate me so much? I don’t get it. I need you to explain it.”

“Nothing. I mean, I don’t hate you.”

“You turned him in.”

“No, I didn’t, I swear. I—”

“What happened? Did you call in a tip, or did they pick you up?”

I watch his face with narrowed eyes, waiting for a sign. But I don’t need to be sharp to see it—it’s obvious. “They picked you up. What did you do?”

“I was smoking a blunt in my car.”

“Where, on campus?”

“In the Hy-Vee parking lot.”

“You’re kidding me.”

He shakes his head.

“You got picked up for smoking dope in your car at a grocery store? How stupid are you?”

Now he won’t look at me.

“So they asked you who sold you the pot, and you gave them West’s name. Even though it was a lie.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“You had a choice. You just chose what was easy. Why not pin it on West? Nate hates him, anyway. It’s not like West is your friend. He’s just a dealer. He’s expendable. He’s nobody. It’s not like anybody loves him or anyone will care when he’s kicked out of school, right? He’s not as important as you. No one is as important as you.”

And the longer I’m talking, the angrier I’m getting. Not even at Josh. At Nate.

I was never really human to him. Never fully a person. If I had been, he wouldn’t have treated me the way he did—not while we were going out, not in August, not now.

He’s behind this. I don’t care if it’s Josh who turned West in—it’s Nate who made it possible. Nate who convinced all our friends, Josh among them, that I was a psycho bitch. Nate who treated me like shit, hurt me, and assaulted me, and Nate who got away with it.

I’ve spent so many months not being angry with him.

Why the fuck have I not been angry?

“Where’s Nate?”

“I don’t know. Sleeping?”

“Is he home?”

“Huh?”

“Did he go home to Ankeny for break yet? Or is he still here?”

“He went home.”

“Thank you.”

I jog down the steps, leaving Josh there for … whatever. For the crows to pick at. For April’s rains to wash away.

I don’t give a shit. I’ve finally got force and velocity, a direction to point in, and as soon as I hit the sidewalk, I start to fly.

By the time I get to Ankeny, it’s nearly eight, and the highway is clogged with people on their way to work. The traffic in Nate’s neighborhood is all headed in the opposite direction from me, so I already feel like I’m breaking rules when I park in his driveway. Even more so when his mom comes to the door.

His mom is so nice. She was always great to me. She seems not to know what to do with the fact that I’m standing on her doorstep, which I can understand. I used to be allowed to come in without knocking. I practically lived here senior year.

Now I’m dangerous—to her son, to her peace. She knows it. I can tell.

“Is Nate here?”

“He’s not up yet.”

“I’d like you to wake him up.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I am here.”

“You ought to let the college handle this, Caroline.”

I’m tired of the word this. I’ve heard it a lot since I first heard it from my dad—a word employed as a refuge, a little piece of slippery language that can be pulled over the head and hidden behind. This situation. This trouble. This disagreement.

I’m a prosecutor. I won’t allow her to hide behind words.

“Did you see the pictures?”

She can’t look at me. “Caroline, I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Did you see them or not?”

“Yes.”

“Did you recognize Nate’s comforter in the background?”

She crosses her arms. Stares at a spot on the ground by her foot.

“It’s me in those pictures,” I say. “But it’s your son, too, whether he likes it or not, whether he wants to admit that he’s the one in them with me. And I didn’t tell a single person they existed, so the fact that the whole world knows now? That’s on him. Nate has things to answer for. I’d like you to wake him up.”

For half a minute we stand there. I think she must hope that I’ll go, change my mind, but that’s not happening.

Eventually she turns and ascends the carpeted staircase. She leaves the door open. I stand on the threshold in the gray light of morning. An unwanted gift on the doorstep.

I can hear the radio on in the kitchen. From upstairs, a murmur of voices, a verbal dance between Nate and his mother too muffled to make out the specifics of.

A complaint. A sharp reply. Then the conversation gets louder—a door has opened.

“Why are you taking her side?”

“I’m not. But if I find out you did this, don’t expect me to support you just because you’re my son. It’s despicable, what happened to her.”

“What she did is despicable.”

“What she did, she did with you. Now, get dressed and get down there.”

Footfalls. Water running in the upstairs bathroom.

Nate comes down barefoot in a red T-shirt and jeans, smelling like toothpaste.

He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

“Who says, the dean of students? Please.”

“I could get expelled.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you tried to ruin my life.”

His eyes narrow. “Melodramatic much?”

“You think I’m exaggerating?”

“Nobody tried to ruin your life, Caroline. Your life is fine. It’ll always be fine.”

“What’s that even supposed to mean?”

His lips tighten. He doesn’t answer.

“You have no idea.”

It’s just dawned on me that he doesn’t. I mean, he really doesn’t.

When he said we’d always be friends, in some twisted way, he meant it.

“You think it’s … like a prank. Like the time you and the guys soaped all the windows at the high school or rolled the football coach’s car to the park and left it on top of the teeter-totter. What did you do, stay up late with a six-pack of beer, jerking off to porn, and then think, I should put Caroline up here?”

“Someone stole my phone,” he mumbles.

“Oh, bullshit. That is such a giant, steaming pile of shit, I’m not even going to—God. You did, didn’t you? You thought you could do this and it would just be funny or awesome or what I deserved. You didn’t think it was going to mess up my chance of getting into law school. Ruin my relationship with my only living parent. You didn’t know it would make it so I couldn’t sleep for months, couldn’t look at a guy without flinching, couldn’t pull on a shirt in the morning without thinking, Does this make me look like a slut? I thought about changing my name, Nate. I get phone calls from strangers telling me they want to stick a razor blade in my cunt. That’s what you unleashed. That, and a million other awful things. I want to know why.”

“I didn’t do it.”

His voice is small, compressed. This is a lie, a bald and ridiculous lie that he’s abandoned here in the space between us. Too pathetic even to back up with volume, body language, anything.

“You did it.”

He shrugs.

“You’re pathetic,” I say. Because he is. He’s so pathetic. Hiding behind his hate, looking down on me, looking down on West. “I feel sorry for you.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a bitch.”

“Why? Why am I a bitch? Is it because I broke up with you? Because I’m standing here? Because I wouldn’t let you put your penis in my butthole? I was good to you, Nate! I loved you! For three fucking years, I did every nice thing I could think of for you, and then you paid me back with this. I want to hear, from you, what you think I did to deserve it.”

“I’m not telling you shit.”

His expression is so mulish—I wish his mom could see him right now. I honestly do. He looks like a four-year-old.

He’s a boy, too stubborn to tell me the truth, too childish to comprehend the consequences of his actions.

He hates me because he can.

Because he’s been allowed to.

Because he’s male, he’s well off, he’s privileged, and the world lets him get away with it.

Not anymore. The life those pictures ruin? It’s not going to be mine.

“Enjoy your break,” I tell him. “Enjoy the rest of your semester. It’ll be your last one.”

And I can see it in his eyes—the fear.

For the first time. Nate is afraid of me.

I like it.

When I get into my car, the slamming door seals me into silence.

I’m in the metal box now, but it’s fine. I can come and go as I please. I can find a way to get comfortable with all the impossibilities in my life.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about Nate, whether the administration will back me up in a fight against him, if there’s any way I can go after him legally—a criminal trial, a civil trial. I’ve poked around a little bit online, but until this month I didn’t want to think about fighting, so I haven’t really considered what this fight is going to look like. How long it might take. What I even want from Nate, now that I’m allowing myself to want things again.

Today’s not the day I’m going to worry about it. Today there are other impossibilities to think about.

West is leaving, and I love him.

I can’t change that. I can only find a way to cope.

I have work here. I have things I need to do, power to exercise, wrongs to right.

I back out of the driveway, headed to my father’s house.

There’s a favor I need to ask, and he’s the only one who can grant it.

“I need you to get my boyfriend out of jail.”

It’s a sentence I never expected to have to say to anyone, much less to my dad, but it comes right out, fluid and easy.

All the fluster, the confusion, is on his side.

“You need me to—your what? Out of jail?”

Maybe I should have worked my way up to it.

I wish I could have picked another time, some morning when I walked into the kitchen and he actually looked happy to see me. As opposed to this morning, when I found him reading the paper with his coffee, the circles under his eyes too dark, his mouth too sad when he caught sight of me at the French doors.

There’s no other time, though. Only this time, this pain twisting in my guts as I think about how my future with my dad could be like this forever—this disappointment perpetual, our old relationship impossible to recover.

“His name is West Leavitt, and he’s being held in Putnam by the police. At least, I think he is. It would be good if you could find that out for me, actually. He was planning to confess to misdemeanor possession of marijuana.”

“You have a boyfriend. Who smokes marijuana.”

“Sort of. I mean, yes, he’s my boyfriend. And he occasionally smokes it. But mostly he just …” Sells it.

Gah. I need to pay more attention to what I’m saying, because my dad is sharp. He’s been talking to accused people for a long time. I guess he’s pretty good at hearing what they don’t say.

When it dawns on him, I can see it in his eyes. The lines deepen in his face, and his jowls look saggier.

I always used to think he was the handsomest dad. I’ve never seen him as old before, or weak, and it hurts so much to be what’s weakening him.

“This is that kid,” he says. “That kid from across the hall. Last year.”

“Yeah.”

“You promised me you’d stay away from him.”

“I did stay away. For a long time.”

Then there’s silence and snow tapping at the windows, because the weather has turned foul.

He takes a sip of his coffee.

I grip the back of a kitchen chair and wonder about my mother. If she would have taken my side, if she hadn’t died.

I think of my sister Alison in the Peace Corps. She’s got email where she is, and the Internet. I wonder if she knows yet.

I wonder about my sister Janelle, too, who does know. She wrote me this email—this long, long email that I had to close and not look at, because the first paragraph contained the words I forgive you, and I don’t want anyone’s forgiveness.

I’m not the one who has to be forgiven.

“Tell me what happened,” my dad says.

“With the drugs?”

“The whole thing.”

So I try.

I try in a way that I didn’t try the other day because I was too angry.

I try even though I feel like there’s no time for this and I wish I were with West right now, and I’m not sure how much of what I tell my dad can even reach him through the filter of his pain and disappointment.

I try because I know him, and I know that he’s fair, and I know that he loves me.

I start at the beginning. I work through to this moment, this kitchen. I tell him everything I think he really needs to know. What Nate did to me. What West has given me. Everything that’s happened, everything that’s pertinent, and more.

I use the word love. I tell him I love West. Because that, too, is pertinent.

And because, now that I’ve said it to West, I could say it to anyone.

I love West. I love him, I love him, I love him.

When I’m done, my father walks out of the room, but I don’t go after him. I take his coffee cup to the sink and rinse it out. I take the beans from the freezer and grind them and make another pot, and I collect some dishes from the countertop and the table to load the dishwasher.

I give him some time.

I think, if I were him, I would need time.

I’m his youngest daughter, his girl who lost her mother earliest, when I was still too little to remember her. He was the one who rocked me to sleep against his chest when I had bad dreams. He was the one who came to every awards ceremony, every debate tournament, every graduation.

He has a picture of me in his chambers with a gap-toothed smile, my hair in pigtails.

I think maybe when your last baby, your motherless daughter with her hair in pigtails, grows up and leaves, you console yourself with the knowledge that she’s smart, and she’ll be safe, and she knows how to make good choices.

It must be so difficult for him now, to deal with the fallout of the choices I’ve made.

I’m not a white dress. My future is not a thing I can dirty, tear holes in, or ruin. Not in any way that’s real. But for him, I guess that dress … it’s a dress that he laundered, a hope that he cherished, and he’s got to find a way to adjust to what I’ve done to it.

His daughter is naked on the Internet.

His baby girl is in love with a drug dealer.

I give him time.

It only takes him ten minutes to come back to the kitchen.

He accepts the cup of coffee I offer him. He stares down into the black brew. He meets my eyes and says, “I’ll make a few calls.”

“Thank you.”

He sighs.

He puts the coffee mug down.

“Don’t thank me yet. There’s probably not a lot I can do. And I have to tell you, Caroline, I’m not certain I’d do even this much if this boy—”

“West.”

“If this … West didn’t have one foot out the door.”

“Okay. Thank you.” It’s a big concession on his part. If he’s going to make some calls, it means he’s putting his own reputation on the line for West—and that means he does trust me. At least a little.

I put my arms around him. His neck smells like aftershave. Like my dad.

“I love you,” I tell him. Because I do. I always have. He’s the world I was born into, and he gave me so much. Safety and strength, intelligence and courage, the knowledge I arm myself with.

He’s a great dad, and I love him.

When I squeeze, his arms come up, and he squeezes back.

“After this, can we be done for a while with the bombshells?” he asks. “You’re going to give me a heart attack.”

“I hope so. Although maybe now is when I should tell you I’m not going to be around for break. Once you get West out, I’m staying with him until he flies home.”

Another sigh.

A long minute, with the snow hitting the glass, and my dad not letting go, and me not letting go, either. His shirt collar is stiff, his body warm, the size of him surprisingly wrong since I’ve spent so much time snuggled up to West.

My dad isn’t very tall. I’ve always thought of him as taller than me, but he’s not, after all.

He’s just ordinary.

We’re both doing the best we can.

“I talked to Dick,” he says. “We have some strategies to consider.”

“Okay. Why don’t you set up a meeting for the three of us, and I’ll take anything he has to share under consideration.”

My dad backs up a step and looks down at me with his eyebrows steepled. “You’ll take it under consideration?”

“Right.” I touch his arm. “This is my fight, Dad. I’ll take your help, if it’s help I think I need. But don’t get confused about who’s in charge.”

And it’s funny—he laughs. Not a big laugh. Kind of a snort with half a smile attached to it, and a slight shake of his head. “You always were a ballbuster,” he says.

But he says it like he’s proud.