“H—him?”
“Yeah, withAce.”
The phone slips from my fingers, and I fumble to catch it.
Opening Twitter again is like landing back on Earth headfirst. It’s been so long since I played on the app that the colors and words overwhelm my eyes. They cross at all the notifications waiting on me.
@Jessskeepthefaith
@babyphat04 ain’t no way you heard what @AceWilliamsJr did and said let me hop in the group chat.
@Dinero88
Y’all can’t tell me @AceWilliamsJr not using @babyphat04 for clout. Just two years ago he was fucking straight kardashians. Sistas, please love yourselves and stop letting these lost brothers use you for media makeovers.
@MarcieMounds
Black women, can we please stop normalizing being black men’s saviors? We’re supposed to be soft life queens. @phattykoo Drop the rapist.
Fuck deep, heart-pounding, gasping for breath, fucked up panic attacks. I’m having a hand trembling, stomach bubbling, dizzying, dry mouth reaction to the world finding out about Planet Ace’s existence.
“Lourdes?” Chelsea rasps whileOne of Onecovers my phone’s screen.
I swallow the cotton in my mouth.
The texts come next. Ding after ding from Bryson, old friends I hadn’t heard from since Mama got sick, and lastly, Ace.
I swipe down on his.
One of One: Get off of twitter
One of One: Now
He doesn’t understand that I can’t though. There’s a type of torturous soul stabbing satisfaction that comes with settling my curiosity as I read tweet after tweet with Chelsea breathing in the background.
“Lourdes, are you okay?” she whispers.
I don’t have time to think about how okay I don’t feel. On a random ass Saturday morning, the world broke into my home and I never felt so exposed in my life.
“How?” I choke out, scrolling past pictures of Ace’s lips against my ear at the Shooting Stars Gala. “Who did this?”
And why’d they do it? He told me the world wouldn’t care. They hated him.
@Soufcentralbaddie
Y’all’s insecurity and colorism is showing real bad. I’ve never seen so many miserable people projecting so hard on this app. You’re gorgeous @babyphat04! Secure the bag and the fine ass man, sis. the kid’s real fans know what type of time he be on. That girl at UCLA is a known bopper. Real LA bitches know what’s up.
He calls this time.
“Lourdes?” Chelsea says louder, while I stare at his name. “Why didn’t you say anything? I—I would’ve—”
“Did what? Call me a drooling dog like Brandy? Shit, a rape apologist like the rest of Twitter?”
“No! I’d never do that.”
“They’re calling him a rapist, Chelsea. Arapist.”
“Well... that’s what he did,” she whispers.
