Page 18 of When the Smoke Clears

“No.” I shake my head. “You don’t get to do that. That’s the shit I’m talking about. You can’t act like the law is everything when it suits you, but nothing when you want to dismiss it. If Lola were seventeen and a twenty-nine-year-old man had sex with her, Ozzy would end that guy’s fucking life and still insist they throw his dead body in prison for a decade. But what if Lola dresses up to look twenty-five, has a fake ID, and doesn’t disclose to the poor guy that she’s seventeen before she willingly has sex with him? Whose fault is that? I’ll tell you. It’s still his fault.”

Maren doesn’t blink, and her lips part, but nothing comes out.

I lace my hands behind my head and look at the ceiling. “Just let it go.”

“Jesus, Will,” she says. “I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing. You don’t have to say anything.”

Her expression tenses. “I do have to say something because I had no idea you were that traumatized by it.” She deflates. “I’m an asshole,” she whispers.

I sigh. “You’re not.”

“I always thought it was just an embarrassing experience, not something that gave you PTSD for three years. That’s awful.”

“Now you make me sound like a pussy.”

She winces. “No. That’s not what I mean.”

“Well, it’s how I feel.”

“Will.” She grabs my arms, and we stare at each other. “I didn’t know.” She closes her eyes for a few seconds and shakes her head. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “I . . . we didn’t see the pain she caused you. I’m a terrible friend.”

“Mare—”

“I’m going to do whatever I can to make this right. If Everleigh has to live with us until she finds a new place, we’ll make it work. I’ll talk to Jamie, and we’ll make this right. Okay?” Maren wraps her arms around my waist and rests her cheek on my chest.

Why do I feel so uneasy? This is all I’ve wanted—for my friends to understand that what happened between Everleigh and me was a bad thing, borderline tragic. But I feel like a baby who blew everything out of proportion.

Did I?

“She was clearly a troubled teenager,” Maren says, releasing me. “I can’t imagine what being forced to grow up so quickly does to someone. But it doesn’t make what she did to you okay. I’m going to have a heart-to-heart with her. And not only will we get her moved out ASAP, I’m going to insist she not contact you. She’s a psychiatrist, for crying out loud. She should know exactly what all of this has done to you. Even if Jamie, Fitz, and I didn’t realize the depths of your trauma, Everleigh certainly should have. I’m starting to question why everyone says she’s such a good psychiatrist.”

I nod slowly.

“What?” she says. “What’s that look?”

“Nothing. Just, god, now I feel like a whiny baby. I don’t want to downplay it like it was no big deal. At the time, it was. But when you treat me like a victim, eleven years later, it feels like overkill.”

“Don’t, Will. You’re sounding exactly how someone who’s been emotionally abused would sound. You’re second-guessing and blaming yourself for overreacting, but you’re not overreacting. We, your friends, underreacted. Jamie and Fitz will feel terrible when I tell them, but they need to feel bad just like I needed to really feel it to understand what you’ve gone through.”

I hate being a victim. Why the hell did I say anything?

“We’re going to make this right. And I hope you’ll forgive us for ever making light of it.” Maren rests a flat hand on my chest. “When Ozzy gets home, I’ll have him and Lola take you out to dinner while I have a long talk with Everleigh. We’ll have the spare room ready for her by tomorrow.”

This feels so wrong. But it’s not wrong. It’s necessary. Right? I’m a victim, and I need to sit back and let my friends gather around me to lick my wounds.

Fuuuck . . .

Chapter Seven

Ozzy and Lola take me to dinner and try to distract me in the crowded bar and grill with random stories of Lola’s friends and funny things the cat does. Ozzy has trouble looking me in the eye. When Maren called him on his way home, she must have painted me as the abused victim. I feel emasculated.

“You didn’t have to take me to dinner,” I say, hoping to ease the awkward tension when Lola decides to eat more and talk less.

Ozzy is my friend, but Maren is using him as an accomplice in her intervention.

“It’s no problem. Glad to do it. So how are things going?”