“I heard about what the state attorney decided,” I say.
Hannah inhales a sharp breath. “Yeah.”
“Are you okay?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t want a big mess, you know? But . . . the fact that some stranger gets to decide whether or not he thinks anyone would believe me, whether or not it actually happened? It’s just . . . fuck.”
“Yeah.”
“They told me they found some pubic hairs during that god-awful examination, but you know what? The state attorney said they’re not even going to test them because Owen used a condom.”
“Oh.”
“I told you I said no pretty far into it.”
“No, I know.”
“The attorney also said that even though the hairs could prove he had sex with me, the condom is problematic. That’s what he said—?problematic—?like we’re talking about some political opinion or something.”
“That’s fucked-up.”
“Yeah. Everyone thinks that when someone gets ra—” She swallows hard and takes a deep breath. “That when someone gets raped, it’s this quick, spontaneous thing, always violent with bruises and black eyes. But I guess that’s not always the case, you know? Even my wrist? Problematic. Because we were outside on a stone bench and hey, you know, awkward teenage sex.”
“God.”
She shrugs, but the motion is stiff, exhausted. “The fact that he was my boyfriend and we’d slept together before is a huge issue. Of course no one would believe me.”
“I do.”
Her eyebrows bunch together. “Why? He’s your brother. You guys are close. He adores you, Mara. And you adore him, I know you do.”
I don’t answer right away. Instead, I sit down on an aisle step and lie back, eyes tracing the intricate patterns on the ceiling. Hannah joins me, linking her hands over her stomach.
“Sometimes, I don’t know why,” I say. “I even hate that I believe you. Like, he’s my brother, right? He’s my twin. I’ve felt sick since all of this happened and I can’t help but feel that it’s because he feels sick too. That any minute, he’s going to sit us all down and explain what happened. Confess. Do something to make this anything other than what it is.”
Silence fills the tiny space between us as tears clog up my throat, but then I just say it. I say it because I need to, because I have to, because it’s the truth.
“I don’t want to believe you.”
A beat of too-quiet. “I don’t want to believe me either.”
“But I can’t not. I tried, at first. Who wants to believe that about their own brother? But I . . . couldn’t. I hate either option.”
She takes my hand and squeezes. “Me too.”
We sit there for a while, letting that settle around us.
“I still love him,” I say, like a confession.
“Mara. God, of course you do.”
“But you shouldn’t have to say that.” My throat aches, the wellspring of tears pushing at every cell. “You should be able to hate him and let all your friends hate him with you.”
A million seconds go by before she speaks again. When she does, her voice is soft, almost a whisper. “Can I tell you something messed up?”
“Yeah.”
“I miss him. The guy I knew before that night. The guy I think I loved. He was always a little spoiled, a little arrogant, but that was just . . .”
