I try another tactic. “Where did you go after you left the bar?”
She swallows thickly. “Greek row.”
“To your house?”
She shakes her head.
“To mine?” We often hang out at each other’s houses after the bars close and the parties end.
She stares at me for a beat before she nods slowly.
I frown. “Why?”
Her voice trembles. “That guy at the bar—Brody—he rejected me. I felt shitty. Steven always hit on me and gave me compliments.” She shrugs, but it doesn’t come easy—like her shoulders weren’t built for the weight they now hold. “I thought it’d make me feel better.”
“What?” What is she saying?
Liz’s eyes suddenly fire with indignation. “I know my reputation, you know. What you guys say about me. And you know what? I didn’t fucking care. I don’t care. I was having fun. I’m young, and single, and you guys can all sleep around and use whoever the hell you want, and you’re all so fucking awesome. But me? I’m a girl. So I’m not awesome—I’m a slut. But I was better than you assholes who were supposed to be my friends and your stupid double standards. Until…until he thought he could take what he wanted even though I didn’t want to give it. Not that night, not to him.” Each word brings more tears, until they finally spill over, rushing down her cheeks in dark, mascara-stained streams.
“But I knew. I knew my reputation, and what you guys say about me,” she repeats. “And I knew none of you would believe me. No one would believe me. Especially not over one of you.”
One of us?
A devastating whimper rips from her throat as she chokes back a sob. “You guys are our brother frat,” she cries. “You were supposed to look out for us. For me. And, yeah, we had our fun but…” She deflates into a pitiful pile of betrayal and ruin. “You were supposed to be my friends…Steven was supposed to be my friend.”
Bogart? The color drains from my face as the blood pumps too slowly from my chest.
“I wasn’t even going to tell anyone. Especially since we’d hooked up before, and I knew he’d just deny it even happened. But Kari saw me come home, and it was obvious something had gone down.” She shakes her head in self-reproach. “But I couldn’t make myself say Steven’s name. I just couldn’t. I just blurted out the first name that came to mind—the guy that rejected me at the bar—Brody.”
Fuck.
I take a determined step forward and Liz flinches before I remind myself to stop being a fucking idiot, and splay my palms yet again. I meet her eyes, making sure my words resonate. “I believe you.”
Liz blinks at me for a beat, not quite processing—or believing.
“I. Believe. You.” I repeat myself with utter clarity. “If you say it was Steven, I believe you. If you say he tried to force you, I believe you. If you say he did force you, I believe you. We will believe you.”
Liz stares, stunned. “Do you really mean that?” she asks hesitantly, tears still falling, but slowing.
I lean down, bending at my knees so our gazes are locked and level. “If Steven fucking Bogart hurt a girl—one of our fucking sisters—then he’s no brother of mine. Of ours.”
“He did,” she breathes so low I barely make it out. “Force me.”
I swallow down my rage.
Liz bursts into a new kind of weeping, hugging her arms around herself as I watch her burden lift just marginally at admitting the shitty fucking truth. But I meant it. The BEG guys may have a rep for being a bunch of goofballs and players, but we have our lines, and Bogart has leapt so far over all of them I can’t even fucking recognize him anymore.
“I will take care of this, Liz. I promise you. I will get the guys to back you up. But you have to call the police. You have to agree to give them a statement—to testify, whatever. Right fucking now. Please,” I beg her.
“He’s going to deny it.” Her voice is tiny.
“Most rapists fucking deny it,” I remind her, and I’m almost sure it’s that—her hearing me refer to Bogart as exactly what he fucking is a rapist—that convinces her. She takes out her phone.
“I’m sorry, Liz. I really am. But I have to go deal with this, right now.” I start to dig in my wallet for Detective Blunt’s business card, but Liz waves me off, and I see his name already displayed on the screen of her phone.
“You’re going to be okay?’ I ask her, even though I know it’s a stupid question. I know it’s a dick move—that I just forced Liz to open up and I’m leaving her alone outside the Stu-U in barely dried tears, but I have no other choice right now.
But Liz smiles with untold gratitude I’m not sure I deserve, and nods.
