“You should see the video, man,” says the boy who I thought was his friend, but now realise is just a shit-stirrer in proximity at a bad time.
The menace in Joseph’s face turns a thousand watts brighter.
“What video?”
“It’s online, man. Not great value but you can certainly tell it’s your girlfriend.”
“I’m not his girlfriend,” I snap, like that’s the important part of this business. “It’s not what you think, Joseph. We’d already broken up.”
“We were on a break,” he says in hostile mockery. “How’d your diseased cunt pass something on to me if you only fucked him after you fucked me? Want to explain how that works, huh?”
And I bite my lip because what am I going to say? That it was someone else. That no matter my choices, there are always someone elses.
“Esme?” Bekka calls out from across the room, nervousness evident in her voice. “Do you need a hand?”
And I’m too embarrassed to accept her help because the shame is there, right where it always is. Shame that I took the worst part of my life and hurt Seb and Joseph with it, even though neither deserved it; not even this class-A prick backing me against the wall.
“I’m fine,” I say instead of yelling yes. Yes. Please help me. Instead of saying, this boy has a look in his eye which I know means trouble and he’s so much bigger he could crush me in one fist.
And maybe a last piece of self-preservation exists because I add, “I’m fine, aren’t I, Joseph?” Turning the responsibility back over to him.
But Joseph has never been in a listening mood, not from the first second we started dating. It didn’t improve over the dragged-out months of our relationship. He isn’t about to listen now.
“I’ll fetch Seb,” Bekka says, sounding more confident of her new offer.
She turns to leave, and Joseph’s face contorts into outrage. “Is he the one?”
And maybe that’s the moment I should agree, let him target someone who can beat the shit out of him. Someone who offered to be here to deal with precisely this scenario, but whose help I declined because I’m so embarrassed to be the guilty party.
But aiming them at each other will just make everything worse.
Already, this is the kind of ruckus that will get noticed by the head. She might raise it with my parents and if they find out they’re paying through the nose for this expensive school and my bullystilltargeted me, I’ll be back home in a second.
Back home, away from the freedoms I’ve been carving out for myself. Away from the first friend I’ve made in years, the only friend who’s stuck around.
Away from the boy I enjoy more with each passing day.
Slinking back to my room in the household where the only person who ever cared for me was a maid, a woman whose livelihood they forced me to ruin. The maid whose son could be on his way here right now, filled with concern for me which is somehow harder to deal with than his hatred.
“There’s no one,” I blurt. “The video’s a fake. It’s probablyyouwho gave it tome!”
For one long shocked moment, I think the misdirection might work. Joseph’s face slowly churns through the accusation, his frown growing deeper.
Then he tightens his hold on my hoodie with his left hand, hauls back his right and punches me straight in the stomach.
The pain is everywhere.
My ears fill with sound, muffled like cotton, rushing like water. Overwhelming and nothing at the same time. Stuffing my sensory pathways with useless filler. Bright dots explode in my eyes.
I double over while my body heaves for air. While I struggle to think.
Then he hits me again.
The world greys out and I tumble backward, falling into oblivion.
CHAPTERNINETEEN
SEB
