As he talks, my hand never leaves his. My thumb rubbing circles over his knuckles while my other hand fists at my jeans. Just as he stops talking, the worker brings over our food, but I don’t seem to have an appetite anymore.
“Did you tell anyone?” My voice is tight as I try to hide the anger inside of me.
“I told my best friend at the time. He told me that no one would believe me because girls don’t rape.”
I feel like a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.
“Who was she?”
“It doesn’t matter anymore, Max. It’s fine.”
“Who?” I bark. Heads by us turning to look in our direction. “Sorry. Who?” I ask softer this time.
“Her name is Amberlyn,” he whispers. My leg starts shaking up and down. I compel it to stop, but it keeps going and going and going.
Grabbing my wallet from my pocket, I threw down a one-hundred dollar bill. Rising to my feet, I grab Clayton’s hand tighter and drag him out of the restaurant behind me.
“What about the food?” He tries to ask.
“I’ll get you something else.”
“I don’t need you to keep paying for my things.”
Shoving my way through the restaurant, I slam the door open; it hits against the building with a loud bang. Wood threatens to splinter, but doesn't. The fresh air outside hits me, but it cools nothing off. My body is warm and heated with the rage thrumming through me.
Amberlyn raped Clayton.
Amberlyn. The one I have been in bed with over and over since sophomore year. The casual hook-ups. The giggly smile. The long waves of hair. Everything that I thought was good and pure was everything wrong and evil.
I pace around the parking lot, hands running through my hair, feet stomping beneath me. Pulling a cigarette pack from my pocket, I take one out with my teeth and light it, sucking in the poison. Still pacing, I stare at Clayton.
He grips onto my shoulders, stopping me in place.
“Hey. What’s up?”
“I didn’t know.”
“No one does. I never told anyone else. You are only the second person I’ve told,” he explains but it isn’t what I mean.
“No. I didn’t know she was like that. I didn’t know she was a shit person. She was always so nice and we always got along.”
God, I need to scrub my dick for four years.
“It’s okay.”
“No. I’ve fucking slept with the slut,” I say. Just the other night. I slept with the girl who raped Clayton after kissing him.
What a fucking joke.
“Oh.”
“If I had known, I never would have touched her. Never would have been with her. Okay? Do you know that? I want you to know that.”
“Max. Calm down,” Clayton says, his hands rubbing over my shoulders. Soft, caressing.
“I’m going to change the rules at my parties. No cups. Closed cans only. You’re going to be able to have fun again. Okay? This isn’t ruined for you. I’m going to fix that, okay?”
“Okay,” he says. “Yeah. Sure.”
