“I don’t want to hear this.”
“Shush. Yes, you do.” She sits back, crossing one leg over the other. “Let me tell you exactly why you reacted the way you did.”
“I didn’t react?—”
“Oh my God, shut up. Youreactedso hard you nearly blacked out,” she says. “Literallyandfiguratively.”
I bury my face in the pillow again. She rips it away. I never could hide from her.
“Listen,” she says, all fake-serious. “You’ve been under pressure your entire life. You’re the golden son of a demanding man, captain of a team that worships you, a straight-A student. You’re the worst kind of perfectionist and judge yourself for every perceived slip, even things beyond your control. You can neverfalter, never have a single crease or crack in your perfect little façade.”
“Caty.”
“This is relevant,” she insists. “Because of what that kind of pressure does to a person. Especially someone wired like you. All that self-control? All that rigidity? All that need to be in charge of every little thing around you?”
She taps her fist lightly against my forehead. I reflexively run my fingers through my hair to smooth it down.
“You’re a rubber band stretched so tight you squeak when you breathe.”
“That’s not?—”
“And when someone finally out-muscles you,” she continues, her voice softening just a fraction, “when someonetakesthe control out of your hands, even for a second? Your brain interprets that as relief. A release valve. A break from the constant strain you put on yourself.”
I go very still. Because as much as I don’t appreciate being read, what she says definitely checks with how I felt in that moment.
She nudges me with her foot. “It’s not the degrading that gets you hot, babe. It’s the surrender. The letting go. The feeling of not being the one responsible for once.”
My cheeks burn, and Caty looks entirely too pleased with herself.
“It’s why you’ve always had issues getting it up during finals week or whenever your dad breathes too close to you. I’ve told you for years that you need therapy, a weighted blanket, and better lube.”
I glare harder. “Shut up.”
“And it’s why this thing with Brody hit you so hard,” she finishes, voice turning gentle in the exact way that makes it worse. “Because in that moment, even though you were mortified, overwhelmed, and terrified he’d see too much… your body interpreted the loss of control as the first actual breath of relief it’s been given in who knows how long.”
My chest feels tight. I feel embarrassed and exposed. Not so much because Caty recognizes all of this. But because Brody obviously did, too. Who else can see through me well enough to tell that I’m really just a tightly wound freak?
“And that,” she says, grabbing her Diet Coke, “is why you came like a porn star on fast-forward.”
“Caty.”
She pats my knee. “Congratulations, sweetheart. You’re not a freak. You’re just emotionally constipated.”
“Fuck you.”
“Um, no thanks. Ew. Not my thing. Although I am a top, and you are clearly a bottom.”
“The fuck I am!” My cheeks flame with indignant anger. I love the girl, but how dare she?
“And who said that’s a bad thing, honey? Do I need to delve into all the reasons you consider bottoming negative? Because they’re almost all the same reasons why you’re going toloooovegetting fucked.”
“No one is fucking me. And I hate you.”
“No you don’t. Because I will always tell you the truth.” She smiles sweetly, the same smile that fools my dad and all the other socialite parents. “And because I always tell you the truth, I’m going to be honest about one more thing. You fucked up, Beck. Messing with his car was a low blow, and you’re lucky he didn’t actually beat the shit out of you.”
“First of all,Ididn’t mess with his car?—”
“You knew it was happening and didn’t stop it. Same thing.”
