Unfortunately, there wasn’t a manual on how to react when your ex-girlfriend, whom you were crazy in love with, loses her stepfather to suicide abruptly. But if there was, suffice it to say texting would be low on the to-do list.

So here I was, showering, shaving, and making an effort to not look like a floating piece of shit. Again. I knew Jesse was still at Gail’s, because Gail had been acting like I molested fire extinguishers for a living and treating me like an untrustworthy prick, avoiding my calls and telling me she was busy every time I asked her if I could drop by for coffee (which I never drank, especially not with random bald emo chicks).

So that’s where I went, bearing a banana-strawberry-cantaloupe smoothie.

Gail opened the door and crossed her arms over her chest. I wanted to head-butt her just for sporting a smile that said that she knew something I didn’t. But, of course, she did—she fucking lived with my girl.

Devil on my shoulder: you mean, your ex-girl. Forget that part where you betrayed her? Because she didn’t.

Angel on my shoulder: don’t mind the asshole in black. You guys are on a break.

“Where is she?” I leaned a forearm over her doorframe.

“At work.” Gail applied dark purple lipstick, her eyes still dead on mine.

“Work? What work?” I dropped the smoothie between us. Purposely. Fuck.

“The new job she got.” She looked down, smirking. “You better clean that up.”

“Do it yourself and I’ll pay you extra.”

“I hate you. No wonder she is dating someone else.”

“What?” It came out as a snarl.

Gail waved her arm dismissively and laughed. “She’s not, but God, you should have seen your face. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. And to think that you used to consider pool-banging multiple chicks as a water sport. Do you have a shrine for Jesse and everything?”

“Shut up, Gail.”

There was more standing and looking at each other like idiots for a while, as I tried to think of my next step.

“You sure she’s not here?” I asked again. Genius stuff, asshole. I could feel her at my fingertips.

“Positive. God, you’re rabid. It’s kind of sweet, but also kind of creepy.”

“How is she handling the Darren thing?”

Gail shrugged. “You know. She’s fine. It was traumatic to see, but after what he did to her, she is hardly heartbroken over it.”

“What do you mean?” I asked absentmindedly, my eyes searching for stuff that belonged to Jesse behind Gail’s shoulder, in the apartment. Because, apparently, creepy outweighed the sweet by a few tons.

“You know, how he took her virgin—” She stopped there and stared at me like I’d slapped her. I looked down, something moving between us. Realization was a black fog through which I saw everything clearly. The pieces fell together.

What.

The.

Fuck.

“Repeat that,” I ordered quietly. My blood simmered under my skin, bubbling with heat I was genuinely concerned could burn me to death.

Gail took a step back and covered her mouth with her hand. “I thought she told you.”

“Why would she? She dumped my ass.” This was new information, because there was no way Jesse would keep it from me. She was always honest. The opposite of me.

“Yeah.” Gail took a deep breath, rubbing her face, smearing the purple lipstick she forgot she’d just applied. “Yeah. Sorry. She is dealing with it, Roman. She is.”

I looked at her expectantly, waiting for more, but she just turned around and rushed into the apartment. I followed her, kicking the door with my foot.

“What am I supposed to do, Gail? Tell me. Because I can’t let her go, but I can’t force her into being with me, either.” She’s had enough of men forcing shit on her.

Gail looked up, munching on the edges of her fingernail, and I thought, so much deep purple.

“Time.”

“What?”

“You’ve given her everything. A job, love, passion, your dick. The only thing you haven’t given her is time.”

“What if she decides she doesn’t want me at the end of it?” I rubbed my face with my palm.

Gail smiled. “Then be happy for her, Roman. That’s the essence of love.”

The Letter

My Dearest Jesse,

This is the hardest and easiest thing I ever had to do in my life. Hardest, because I know what I will be doing after writing this letter, and dread the moment, even though I want it to be over and done with. Easiest, because I’ve been keeping these feelings to myself for far too long, and there’s nothing more liberating than the truth.

I wish I could tell you I regret what I did. But if we are being honest—and honesty is the only thing I owe you, really—I have given you and your mom everything that I have and will leave it to you, Jesse, after I die—the only thing I regret is you remembering. I thought you were too drunk. Completely out of it.

I wanted you.

So I took you.

Because it’s always been you.

I remember the first time I saw you. You. Not Pam. Your mother was working the cash register at a diner in my accountant’s building. It was by mistake that I’d gone into this branch. Rather than noticing the blonde bombshell my age, I noticed the girl sitting next to her, with the inky ponytails and huge blue eyes. You were reading a book, your hair like feathers, your eyes like crystals. You were forbidden and luscious. From the shape of your eyes to your pillowy narrow lips, your beauty held so much power, and you didn’t even know it yet.

The worst part was that you were easy.

A man of my position could lure a woman in your mom’s situation into just about anything. Especially marriage.

I knew I didn’t need much. One night, maybe two. I was going to be patient and good. I fell in love with you, Jesse. It was difficult not to. Your passion for books, for life, for love. And it was so easy to get near you, too. Your mother was recovering from losing Art. Both to another woman and to death.

I was quiet.

I was nice.

I was different.

I was evil.

No one knew.

No one suspected.

Still waters run deep.

My only regret is that you drowned in my sins.

I want you to know that it was never malicious. I had hopes. I did. Maybe you felt the same. Maybe I wasn’t so crazy. Maybe for the first time in my life, someone didn’t see me for the lisp-y loser that I was (or that I wanted people to think I am. Oh, Jesse, it is so easy to manipulate people once they think you’re weak). Maybe that person was you.

I will say this—I did feel sorry for what Emery and the boys did to you. When they hurt you, they hurt me. I never thought it would go this far. I didn’t even think Wallace would notice. I definitely did not anticipate the rape, and for that, I apologize profoundly, although I have to sustain that any levelheaded person wouldn’t have acted the way he did.

I understand how hypocritical that sounds. I never thought that I was a levelheaded person. I’m saying Emery wasn’t, either, and you were unfortunate enough to be a victim. Twice.

Jesse, I love you. I also hate you, in a sense. You made me put up with your mother, and I think we all know how difficult she can be.

It didn’t surprise me one bit when they began to call you Snow White at school. I wondered—and more than once—whether your friends knew the whole truth. That you, too, had a wicked mother that was jealous of your beauty. That you, too, hid away from the world. Just with books instead of dwarfs. That you, too, took a bite of the poisonous apple.

That apple was Bane Protsenko.

He was supposed to wake you up.

Not to steal you.

We had a deal. I knew he would pull you out of your misery, with his beautiful face and ugly reputation. I didn’t know he would take it that far. I didn’t know he would fall just like the rest of us.

Jesse, I am going to ask you for something very important now.

Don’t forgive me.

Don’t forgive them.

Break the cycle, because there are too many bad men out there who need to be stopped, and the only way to stop them is to be a strong woman. So be one.

The truth is, Art was right to leave your mother.

The truth is, Bane was right to defy me and fall in love.

The truth is, this is the last thing I will ever say or write to anyone, and I will be remembered as the scoundrel.

But that won’t matter to me in a few minutes. Nothing will.

A bullet to the head is my choice of suicide. It’s messy, and expensive, just like me.

Go to the police, Jesse. Tell them about Emery, Nolan, and Henry. Don’t allow them to get away with what they did. God knows I got away with it for eight years, and I did not deserve one day.

With love, respect, and regret,

Darren Floyd Morgansen

THE CRACKLING SOUND OF THUNDER filled my ears and brought me up to Gail’s rooftop in the middle of the night.

It was late September. Rain had no business running down the hot roofs and dusty windows of my South Californian desert town. Maybe it was all a part of something bigger. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was my dad. Or Darren. Or Bane. Or just the bag of evidence lying in my duffel bag, a ticking time bomb.

Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.

I let the drops lash against my face as I blinked at the sky. Darren’s letter fell from my backpack not long after I came back to Gail’s house. She’d asked if I wanted her to be there when I read it. I’d thanked her, but said that the words were meant for me. I needed to face them alone.

The letter was a shock, but the simple, transparent plastic bag accompanying it was what shook every bone in my body. It was the evidence from the night of The Incident. My torn bra and panties. The semen and blood-covered shirt. My old phone they’d stomped on, with their fingerprints on it. It was all there. A Post-It note was stapled to the bag.

Kept it in my safe. Good luck.

My chest rattled as rain slipped between my lips. I let the last eight years sink in. I told myself that none of it was my fault. And for the first time in years, I actually believed that. I wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn’t come. Replacing them was anger, rage, and a profound sense of injustice. Darren had been sick. Pam was sick. Emery, Nolan, and Henry were all sick. Bane wasn’t sick, but he was a jerk, and the price of his mistake was divided equally between us.