Page 67 of Best Man on Campus

“Broken spirit more like,” he says in a raspy voice. “I’m sorry—good luck to you with your gig. Where is it? I know New York City.”

Of course he does.

“The Shallow Pool. Brooklyn.” I’ve connected with some musicians online who saw my TikTok vid. They talk about the place. I’m pretty sure I can get a night there, or fifteen minutes.

He nods, his eyes so sad I have to grit my teeth to prevent my tears, but nothing stops my heart from twisting in my chest, from the painful revolt. It feels like my soul is turning to cement as I stand here, looking at him, feeling the pull and repulsion at the same time, the taste of his lips feeling like ecstasy and poison, like an addictive drug I need to escape, to quit before I’m doomed.

Doomed to break apart permanently, unable to limp along with my life, not even the pathetic existence I have now. He could destroy me so easily if I don’t get away from him now. Panic seizes up and I feel the shakiness coming over me.

“I have to go. Now.” I turn and he reaches out a hand stopping me as if he’s given me an electric shock.

“Don’t you want to know the truth, Jazzy?”

“I know all the truth I need to know. My life is hell. I don’t want to make yours—”

“Too late,” he says and I feel his words like a punch to my gut. Tears threaten. “I’m going to talk to Sarah and find out what was in the letter she sent you. I’m going to make sure you find out the whole truth, I promise you.”

His words assault me like a thousand knives through my heart and I strike out at him but he catches my hands and I fight him, pulling from his hold. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.

Then I run. It’s easy to run away.

Chapter 15

Ben

All that I’ve known

buildings of stone

Fall to the ground

Without a sound

--from Smoke and Mirrors by Imagine Dragons

Practice couldn’t get over quick enough for me as I trot to my car, the first to leave the locker room, for the first time since I can remember. Kace doesn’t question me or follow me, thank fuck, because I don’t know what to tell him. Not now. I need to find out what was in the letter Sarah sent Jazzy, ask her if she’ll talk to her, tell her the truth face-to-face.

Kace’s dad gave me a phone number for Sarah Galiskar, but he wasn’t sure if it was a good one. We never bothered to call. but now I race back to BMOC House because I need to make the call in the privacy of my room. Not sure what I’m going to say to her except that the churning in my veins has a lot of anger. And a lot of fear. Not a good mix. Fuck.

* * *

When Sarah answers my call, I’m standing in the middle of my room holding my phone too tight and I let up. She sounds more rational than she did when Kace and I visited her. She’s going into hospice soon and apologizes for her whacked behavior when we were there.

“What about the letter you sent to Jazzy? What did it say?”

“I felt bad about Jazzy, but needed to share the truth with the girl. I told her in the letter that Killian was a creep, liked young girls, that I knew he was going to rape her and that I’m sorry I got there too late.”

“Are you sure he… raped her?”

“I… yes. He was naked, standing there with half a boner when I barged into the room. Clearly taking him by surprise. I was sick and outraged. Poor Jazzy was terrified, holding the blanket up to her neck. But I ripped it off her and discovered the truth. She was half naked. Her panties gone and blood…” Sarah’s voice chokes. I’m holding my breath, wishing I could cover my ears and unhear everything, will it all into unreality. I understand how and why Jazzy relegated the memory to a nightmare, chose not to face it all this time. Sarah collects herself and goes on.

“There was blood all over the sheets. Fresh blood. And in the moonlight shining in through the window, I could see the glisten of her blood on his cock. I don’t wait for explanation or thought or reason or prevarication or anything to stop me. I go with my first instinct, the one that told me to take a shotgun with me.

“You shot him and ran.” My voice sounds mechanical, void of emotion because I’m numb.

“I had to run.”

“I know. I don’t blame you. Not for anything.” I don’t know why I bother, but I ask, “You know Jazzy’s mother?”