Monophobia

by Aquaman

Chapter 12: Maybe the Silence Is Dangerous

Author's Note:

By the time I wake up in the morning, the link Crescent sent me is dead, and Source has made it very clear to the rush chat that anyone who puts a new link up or shares the photos in there is gone for good, no questions and no second chances. But nobody in that chat really needs to talk about the photos in there, because the whole campus is buzzing over them — putting up post after post on social media about some account no one had seen before sharing the link to the porn site and tagging people seemingly at random for hours last night.

In the light of day, it’s obvious what actually happened: someone who wasn’t Sweetie Belle took those photos, maybe without her even knowing, and then spread them everywhere they could in some psychotic act of revenge for something that couldn’t possibly have justified this. And now all of her is out there on the Internet forever — maybe harder to find now, maybe blocked and banned and deleted, but there anyway. She might be forgotten next week, lost again in the endless sea of content, but right now she’s famous in the most awful way possible.

And if I was a good person, I’d understand that she’s completely blameless for every single part of this. I’d know, like any half-decent human being would, that what I should be doing right now — instead of lying in bed, scrolling past endless angry posts, watching the clock in the corner of my phone screen tick past the start time of my first Friday class — is stop acting like this has anything at all to do with me, and help her through this in any way I can. Because that’s what friends do for each other. And that’s what we are, right? That’s what I kept saying. That’s all I ever told her I wanted.

But I was lying, because what I was really doing was building a stupid, childish fantasy around her — a cutesy, cartoonish delusion of chaste first kisses and unblemished innocence, as if that ever even mattered in the first place. As if I had the first fucking clue how to “love” someone like an adult, or how to show interest or respond to it, or how to be anything other than a stupid fucking child who thought he might actually have a chance with a girl miles out of his league, because she might have one completely irrelevant thing in common in him.

And she doesn't. And it doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter, except it does, because it means Sweetie Belle’s not just a taller version of the kid I used to know. It means she grew up, and acted like it, and had something horrible happen to her that someone else who’s grown up would know how to handle. And instead of being the kind of person she deserves to have on her side, I've just followed her around like a lovesick puppy and gotten lost inside something I’d completely made up, and then lied in bed and felt sick about it when it all fell apart around me, as if I'm the fucking victim here.

I’m not the worst person in her life, especially not after last night. But not being bad isn’t the same as being good. And the fact that it took this to make me realize that probably tips me more towards one side of that binary than the other.

Eventually, hunger overrides self-loathing, and I swing myself out of bed so I can shrug on clothes and shamble over to the dining hall. Halfway through the process, I feel Bit staring at me from where he’s seated at his desk. He’s got one of the posts I just scrolled past pulled up on his laptop.

“So, um…” he mumbles.

“Yeah, I saw,” I mumble back. “It is the girl that was in here last weekend.”

“I didn’t see the pictures,” he quickly adds. “Were they… bad?”

Bad for who? For Sweetie Belle, absolutely. For me, it shouldn’t matter, except that I’m a self-centered little kid who believed his own lies to himself instead of seeing the stupidly obvious truth — who really, sincerely thought that in the worst moment of her life, my supposed friend was texting and calling because she felt sorry for me.

“Yeah, they were pretty bad,” I tell Bit.

He stays quiet as I finish getting dressed, then asks as I grab my wallet and keys, “Is she okay?”

It’s a simple question, and it freezes me in place. I don’t know, Bit. I don’t even fucking know if she’s okay, because I still haven’t replied to her texts or called her or done anything but feel pathetically sorry for myself.

“I don’t know,” I reply, resolve hardening into a spiky ball in my gut. “But I’m gonna go find out.”

Technically, I don’t go find out right away. When my stomach growls on my way down my dorm’s stairs, it occurs to me that Sweetie Belle might be starving too. I can’t imagine her braving a crowded dining hall today — or maybe that’s just how I would react if it was me this all had happened to. Either way, I figure it can’t hurt to make sure, so I jog down the street to the dining hall and fill a to-go box with scrambled eggs and biscuits. I get her a donut too, and one for me to wolf down on my way back to our dorm.

Finding Sweetie Belle’s dorm room is easy today. There’s only one door in her hall that’s covered in taped-up notes and dry-erase-board messages, all in different handwriting and all saying similar things: they love her, they’re so sorry she’s going through this, they’re here for her if she needs anything. Yet another low bar to clear that I managed to eat shit over instead.

I grit my teeth, shift the food box into one hand, and knock softly on her door with the other. The sound echoes down the cinderblock hallway — and so does my voice, thin and reedy and teeth-grindingly small.

“Sweetie Belle? It’s, uh… it’s me. It’s Button. I’m really sorry I didn’t text you or call you last night. I had my phone turned off, and by the time I saw everything, it… I-I wasn’t sure if…”

Great start, Button. Stop making excuses for yourself and get to the fucking point.

“I bought you breakfast,” I go on. “I don’t know if you ate already, I just figured you, uh… you might not have. So… you don’t have to do anything, I’ll just leave it out here, and if you want it…”

There’s no answer from inside. She might not even be in there. I take a bracing breath and keep talking anyway — say what I should’ve said hours ago.

“I’m sorry. I’m… I’m so sorry this happened to you. I don’t know if that helps, or… I guess it probably doesn’t. But if you wanna talk about it, I can listen, or if you just want to be alone, I totally get it. Just… wanted to say I’m sorry. I should’ve been there for you last night, and I wasn’t, and I’m sorry about that too.”

Still nothing. Exactly what I should’ve expected. The silence hits me like a bullet in the chest anyway.

“Anyway, um…” I manage to squeak out. “The food’s out here, if you want it. I’ll just…”

I bend down to place the to-go box in front of the door — and suddenly it swings open. I look up. Sweetie Belle is looking down at me, wearing baggy plaid pajama pants and a thick sweatshirt with sleeves so long they hang over her knuckles.

She doesn’t look like a wreck. She looks like smoldering wreckage, like she’s been a wreck for hours and now she’s all burned down to exhausted embers. Her eyes are red and baggy and sunken into her flushed face, and her hair is frizzy and stringy and messed up in every other way it’s possible for hair to be, and she’s staring at me silently with a gaze so blank it’s almost scary — like her body’s on autopilot, and her mind’s somewhere else entirely with notifications for the world around her turned off.

I straighten up, take a deep breath, and offer the to-go box to her, burning through every ounce of willpower I have just to keep looking her in the eyes. “I got a bunch of different stuff. I wasn’t sure what you might want. You don’t have to eat it. I won’t be… offended or anything.”

Her lips twitch, and her eyes crinkle as she blinks a few times in quick succession. I realize too late that she’s a couple seconds from crying, and before I can even try doing anything about it, she shuts her eyes — composes herself — takes a step back and jerks her head back towards her room. I nod, grip the box tighter, and follow her inside.

Compared to the one Bit and I share, Sweetie Belle’s room looks like people actually live in it rather than just sleep and eat there. There are posters and portraits on the wall of places like Paris and fields full of peach trees, and the two desks and beds are each decorated in distinct styles: muted reds and oranges on one side of the room, and pastel purple and pink on the other.

Sweetie Belle moves towards the purple-and-pink side and sits delicately on the mattress, hands braced beside her hips with her sweatshirt sleeves fully covering them. For the first time in forever, it occurs to me we’re the same age: eighteen and change. Teenagers. Kids. Maybe it’s because for the first time in forever, I’m seeing who she really is instead of who I imagined her to be. She looks her age. I feel like I’m half of my own.

Before I can think better of it, I drop the to-go box on what I figure is her desk and sit next to her on her bed. She doesn’t seem to mind, or at least doesn’t really react. Instead, she just stares straight ahead at the opposite wall. I feel like I should say something, but I can’t think of anything to say, so I just sit with her — wait for her to tell me what to do. Just like always.

“I should’ve known better.”

Her voice is dull and quiet — either emotionless, or packed with so much emotion that no single feeling can squeeze ahead of the crowd. I shift awkwardly in place, open my mouth to comfort her or say that’s not true or something, and she cuts me off with a plaintive glance — a silent plea to just listen while she talks, like I said I would outside her door.

“You remember that show I told you about?” she goes on, tone just as colorless as before. “When I threw up, my sister made me keep singing, all that? There was this… guy afterwards. Somebody’s dad, a girl in my class. Everyone was saying how good I was, how good I looked… and so was he. Just… leering at me, like…”

She blinks. Her face tightens. “I was thirteen. I was thirteen years old. And it didn’t get better.”

The urge to talk over her is bulging in my throat — so I can say what? Tell her that’s horrible and fucked up, like she doesn’t already know? Like I can’t see every part of her stiffening, locking up, trembling with how deeply and irreversibly she knows anything I could possibly blurt out?

I bite my lip hard, squeeze my hands together in my lap, and keep my mouth shut. She keeps going.

“I thought I could… own it. Control it, make the most of it. Because it was gonna happen anyway, right?” She shakes her head, face pulled tight again. “Should’ve known better. I always knew better, and I just… probably deserve this. All things considered.”

I can’t help myself. I can’t just let her say something like that about herself. “No you don’t. Sweetie, no one deserves –”

“Does it fucking matter what I deserve?”

There’s acid in her voice now, a sour and almost vicious edge that shrivels me back into myself. No less than I deserve. I’m supposed to be listening, not making myself feel better about how bad she feels right now.

“Sorry,” she whispers. Rather than hardening, her face crumples and twists, flushing with fury that she seems determined to keep from seeping into her voice. “I’m sorry, it’s just… it’s a stupid thing to complain about. Like being pretty is such a burden, like…”

She pauses, like she’s waiting for me to interrupt again — and when I don’t, she sighs with something I could mistake for relief if I couldn’t see the hollowness in her eyes.

“You know what the…”

Those words rushed out of her quicker than any before them. She almost shouted, and caught herself at the last moment.

“You know what the thing is?” she says again, much more measured this time. “I know exactly who it was.”

“You do?” I ask. I can’t help it again. “Are you gonna… I mean, do you want to, uh…”

She lets out a choked chuckle. “Wouldn’t matter if I did. I don’t have any proof, I just… I remember all of it. I remember seeing him on his phone, thinking I wasn’t doing enough, feeling like it was my fault it wasn’t any good. And then feeling so gross afterwards, I just wanted to go home, go anywhere, find something to… balance myself out?”

She looks at me — sadly, regretfully. “And then you were…”

She doesn’t finish that sentence. She doesn’t need to. All the pieces of the world’s shittiest puzzle have clicked together in my head, forming a crystal-clear picture of what I should’ve always known.

Last Saturday night, at a quarter to one, I was playing old video games alone in our dorm lounge, and Sweetie Belle stumbled in drunk and started talking to me and almost threw up all over me — because she’d just slept with a guy who turned out to be a psycho, and she wanted something familiar to balance herself against. Someone completely non-threatening, completely innocent, completely fucking useless.

It wasn’t me. It was never me. I just happened to be there. I’ve just happened to still be here. And everything else, everything I thought was happening to me — with her — with us was just another lie I was telling myself.

I realize I’m staring down at my hands shaking in my lap, and then I realize Sweetie Belle’s staring at me — waiting for me to talk over her again, or start crying again, or sprint out of the room and never see her again.

And I don’t do anything. I’m a good listener. It’s about the only thing I’m good for.

“I shouldn’t have dragged you into this,” she murmurs through a grimace. “Into… me. My bullshit. But you’re too nice. You gotta stand up for yourself more, tell people like me to –”

“I didn’t want to –”

We both clam up at once. I’m the first to force myself to keep talking.

“I wanted to help,” I mumble. “I wanted to be friends again.”

I can’t begin to figure out what Sweetie Belle’s expression means. She kind of looks like she did right before she was about to throw up, but in reverse, like her stomach’s about to implode on itself and take the rest of her with it. Or maybe that’s just how I’m feeling right now. Maybe I’m just projecting my own bullshit onto her again.

“Button, I…” Sweetie Belle tries to say. “You’ve been… I-I don’t want you to think…”

“It’s fine,” I tell her — I lie. “I’m… sorry I couldn’t help.”

“No, you did help,” she insists — weakly, breathlessly, like she wants to believe it’s true but can’t help knowing better. “I mean, no one else… my hallmates wouldn’t even look at me in the bathroom this morning, just fucking left without saying anything, and you…”

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. It doesn’t matter what I did. This isn’t about me. I’m just a stupid little kid who got his feelings hurt and can’t help making it everyone else’s problem, and I have to get over myself. I have to help her.

“Well, um… I’m glad I could help, then,” I say, forcing myself to look her in the eyes, swallowing back everything but a thin smile that she doesn’t return. “All things considered.”

“You’ve done more than help, you’ve…”

Sweetie Belle sighs, and presses her lips together, and looks like she wants to cry again. Then she shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “I’m sorry, can we… can we talk about something else? Anything else?”

“S-Sure, um…” I say, searching the room for inspiration and landing on the cloudy sky outside the window. It’s started to rain since I got back from the dining hall. Thin little droplets tap against the window glass, echoing on the metal roofing and gutters outside. “Nice weather we’re having?”

Sweetie Belle looks out the window, stares for a moment, then lets out a gravelly chuckle. “Yep,” she says. “Yeah. Kinda fitting.” She composes herself with another sigh and looks back at me. “Did you get rained on last night? During rush stuff?”

“No, it was… it was kinda weird, actually.”

“Weird how? Is it still going well?”

“I don’t know, honestly,” I tell her. “It sucked at first, and then Source… uh, the rush chair, his name’s Source, I have an English class with him. Anyway, he took me out and showed me this spot on the roof of the theater building, and we hung out up there and talked for a while and… I don’t know whether I’ll get a bid or not. Tonight’s the last night of rush, and I have to… deal with Alkaline, I guess.”

Even though we’re sitting a full foot apart on her bed, I can feel Sweetie Belle stiffen through the mattress. “Deal with him how?” she asks.

“I have no idea. Source said I should butter him up, try to make him less pissed at me over that poker game, or whatever the reason he fucking hates me is. But I don’t know if I want to. I don’t know if I want –”

“Do you like the frat?”

“I…”

I realize I haven’t actually asked myself that question once this whole week — and I barely have to think about it for a moment before I have an answer I’m absolutely sure about.

“Yeah,” I tell her. “I really like it. Almost all of it, almost everybody I’ve met this week. And I think they like me, but…”

“But Alkaline’s gonna fuck it up.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I hope not. But I don’t really know what to do about it if he does.”

Sweetie Belle doesn’t say anything for a bit. She stares at the floor, brow knit, seeming like she’s fighting the urge to say something she can’t take back. Then her face twitches — contorts with something painful and dark.

“Don’t let him win,” she mutters.

I blink and look over at her. She’s still staring at the floor — glaring at something she can see, but I can’t. “What do you mean?” I ask.

Now she points her fiery gaze my way. “He’s a fucking bully,” she snaps. “He thinks he’s hot shit, and he can’t handle losing, and he takes it out on people he thinks won’t fight back. But you will. You already have.”

That was the opposite of an answer to my question. In fact, it just makes me want to ask the same question again. “What…”

Sweetie grabs both my hands, squeezing like she’s trying to break every bone in them. “If you want this, if you really want a bid, then don’t you dare let that asshole take it from you,” she orders me. “You deserve it. You hear me?”

“I… yeah?” I stammer. “But… well…”

“Promise me, Button. Promise me you’re gonna stand up for yourself tonight. No matter what it takes.”

How can I say no to that? How the hell can I say yes? Who does she think I am? Who the fuck am I supposed to be?

“Okay,” I mumble. “I… I promise. It’s just… tonight, there’s a…”

“Tonight there’s what?”

I don’t want to say it, but it comes out before I can stop it. “I’m supposed to bring a date. Or bring a girl, at least. And you’re… I mean, there’s not really anyone else I’d…”

Her grip on my hands loosens. Every word I just said hit her like the jet from a fire hose, dousing the flames inside her and sinking her back into her mattress. I bite my lip and shut up several seconds too late. I shouldn’t have told her that. She feels bad enough already.

“S-Seriously, don’t worry about it,” I tell her. “It’s nothing, not a big deal. I’ll just… I’ll figure it out. It’s fine.”

She doesn’t believe me. She doesn’t even try pretending she does — and she doesn’t say anything either. She shouldn’t have to. My problem barely even counts as one compared to hers. But saying that doesn’t get me any closer to figuring out a way to solve it, or help her, or be useful to anyone anywhere.

“So, um…” I mumble. “Yeah. I’ll let you, uh…”

I gently pull my hands away from hers. She doesn’t stop me.

“I’ll see you later,” I say towards my shoes. And then I get up from her bed and leave her behind, feeling her eyes on me as I open her dorm’s door, catching a glimpse of them — shining with tears — as I pull it closed. I should’ve just stayed in bed. I probably just made everything worse for both of us.

I’ve already missed my morning class, and my next one isn’t until the afternoon, so for lack of any other place to go, I shuffle back down the stairs and into my room. Bit’s still sitting at his desk. He shuts his laptop as I come in, and watches me as I slouch down onto my bed.

“You okay?” he asks — just as gormless as ever. But you know what, at least he did ask. Points for that, I guess.

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly. And then I’m honest again: “I think I’m fucking everything up.” And then before I can stop myself, I’m honest all over the place, barely stopping to breathe as I spew onto Bit everything that’s happened this week and everything I’ve felt about it and all the things I know I’m not supposed to feel.

The whole time, he just sits stock-still and gapes at me — not interrupting, not trying to make me feel better, just… listening. Like I tried to do for Sweetie Belle, and couldn’t. Like the type of person I’ve been trying to be, and I’m not.

And finally I run out of words, and slump back on my bed panting for air, heart jackhammering in my chest and face probably redder than a whole beet farm. Bit stares at me in silence for a couple more seconds, then says his first words in close to fifteen minutes.

“That all happened this week?”

“Yup,” I groan as I rub my palms against my aching eyes. “And now I don’t know what to do about tonight, what to do about Sweetie Belle. I’ve never known. Just made it up as I went along.”

Once my vision unblurs after I drop my hands onto my thighs, I look up at Bit. He’s still staring at me, squinting with what looks like total confusion.

“Really?” he asks.

“Yeah, really,” I say. “Come on, you saw it. It was obvious.”

His eyes narrow even more. He looks even more confused. “No it wasn’t.”

“Yes it was. You don’t have to make me feel better about it, it’s –”

“I’m not,” Bit insists — and then he says the most confusing, nonsensical, fucking baffling thing I’ve ever heard:

“You’re, like… the coolest guy I’ve ever met.”

It’s very nice of him to say that. Nicer than I really knew he could be! But it’s also obviously not true, because if I were really anyone’s idea of a cool guy, I’d be ready to answer a nice thing someone else said to me with sincere gratitude or a snappy deflection, or literally anything other than what actually comes out of my mouth, which is: “Huh?”

“You always seem so confident,” Bit goes on, staring down at his folded hands. “And you’re just, like… smart, and you always know what to say and how to say it, and you decide to do stuff and then you just do it. You go to parties and… I don’t know. You’re not scared of stuff.”

Who is my roommate talking about right now? Because obviously it’s not me. He can’t possibly be talking about me right now.

“I… am scared,” I tell him. “Bit, I am fucking terrified, like, a thousand percent of the time. Did you… did you not know that?”

“Why would I have known that?” he says plainly. “You never told me.”

“Because it was obvious! I’m a bad liar!”

Bit shrugs. “I guess you’re a good actor, then. Those are different things, I think.”

“B-But…” I sputter. I still want to argue with him. There’s something in my gut compelling me to argue with him — the same not-quite-my-voice that told me Source was lying to me last night, that keeps trying to talk me into being the opposite of the person Bit’s describing. “Okay, well… I’m not cool, all right? I’ve just been faking it. Pretending to be confident.”

Bit looks up at me. “Well, um…” he mumbles. “If you’re really good at pretending to be confident, isn’t that just… actual confidence?”

And I open my mouth to tell him it isn’t, that I’m not, that he’s totally wrong about everything he thinks of me — and nothing comes out. Because I can’t argue with that. Because I don’t want to argue with that. Because when I sit there and think about it, the screamingly obvious truth slaps me right in the slack-jawed face:

He’s kind of right.

What have I done this past week? Not “what did I think I was doing” or “what did I think about it” — what did I actually, literally do? I helped a sick girl I had no reason to still be friendly towards in a way she assured me most other people wouldn’t have. I went up to a guy I’d never met before, asked him if I could come to a party his fraternity was throwing, and he said yes.

I made new friends at that party, and at more events after that, and made such a good impression that the coolest guy I’ve ever met showed me a place he goes to be comfortable with himself and told me I could be a fraternity president one day. And I got so close with that girl, who I’ve always liked and always wanted to be closer to, that I was the only one she called during the worst moment imaginable, and then the only one who talked to her afterwards and tried to make her feel better.

That didn’t all just happen randomly. It happened because I made it happen — because even though I was fucking terrified, I decided to do a hundred different things I thought I could never do, and then I did them. And they didn’t all work out perfectly. In fact, some of them might be about to blow up in my face, and spray shrapnel all over some people I really care about. But more of them did work out, better than I ever would’ve let myself believe before.

I should already know all of this. I don’t have enough overdramatic words for how obvious it seems in retrospect — especially since Source told me all of it not even twelve hours ago. But coming from him, it seemed like a nice guy trying to be nice about a bad situation, and coming from Bit… it feels real. He’s known me for months, seen me loaf around on weekends and play old video games and forget to eat dinner sometimes because nobody’s reminding me to do it, and he still thinks I’m cool.

Why should I argue with him? Why shouldn’t I believe him, and Source, and everybody else except the rare jackass who I know has other reasons to be a dick to me?

“Yeah,” I say to Bit. “I guess you’re right. Thanks, man.”

He blinks at me. “For what?”

“For saying all that. I think I needed to hear it.”

“Oh. Well… you’re welcome, then.” And then he clams up, and his gaze flicks down to his shoes, and I realize for the first time why I’ve avoided talking to him so much this year: because he reminded me of myself. Because I saw him struggle to start conversations and look viciously uncomfortable in his own skin, and all I could ever think about was how much it felt like I was fucking those things up too — how much he looked like the parts of myself I hated the most.

I’ve been way too harsh on him, in way too many ways. Maybe I can start making up for that a bit now.

“Hey, random question,” I blurt out. “You wanna go to a party tonight?”

Bit’s mouth drops open as his eyes widen. He looks a bit like I just asked to borrow his parachute right before we jump out of a plane together. “Uh…”

“It’s a frat thing. Kappa Nu Zeta. They’re… okay, they’re almost entirely cool except for one guy, but don’t worry about him. I’m supposed to bring a ‘date’ tonight, but I don’t think they’re gonna be that strict about it. I’ll just tell them you’re my roommate and you’re cool, and it’ll be fine.”

“U-Um…”

The more I think about it, the more I’m into this idea: it’ll help get Bit out of his shell, and I’ll have someone to focus on helping so I won’t get nervous about what else I should be doing. Hell, maybe the KNZ guys will even be impressed by me bucking the usual trend and showing some depth of character or something.

“You wanna do it?” I ask Bit, excitement pitching my voice up. “It’ll be fun. Trust me, it’s not as scary once you get there and start talking to people.”

Bit blinks, swallows hard, and takes a deep breath, then blows all his air quickly out in the shape of a single word: “No.”

I blink back at him. All the air leaves my lungs too — slowly, like the sad wheezing of a punctured balloon.

“I… no, thank you,” Bit says. “I don’t… think I would like it. I’m not really a party person. I’m… sorry.”

Okay, so that plan’s a bust. It’s fine. Like I just said, sometimes things don’t work out. I know how to handle that. I’ve been handling it this whole week.

“Nah, don’t worry about it,” I say through a grin. “No pressure. Just throwing it out there.”

Bit sighs again, this time with relief so thick I can feel it across the room. “Yeah, no, I… t-thanks for inviting me!” he says. “I appreciate it, I just… yeah. Not for me.”

“No problem,” I tell him — but now that I think about it, it actually kind of is a problem, because that’s officially strike two on finding someone to go to this stupid event with me. Maybe I can dig through the contact lists for my classes this semester and just spam-text female classmates until one’s up for a platonic trip to a frat party. That’s not that sad, right? I’m sure other people have been sadder at some point.

I’m about to go get my laptop and start browsing phone numbers when I feel my own phone buzz in my pocket. My heart’s been through enough already today, but I put it through a little bit more beat-skipping when I see who just texted me:

You still need a date for tonight?

I open Sweetie Belle’s message and reply:

Still on the market, yeah.

Her reply comes within seconds:

I’m in.

And then a few seconds later:

If you still want me to go with you.

I type as quickly as my thumbs allow:

I do. But seriously, no pressure. I don’t want to push you into anything.

I know. I’m up for it. I’m not going to let this fuck up my whole life.

And it takes me a bit to answer that, because I’m too busy grinning at my phone. If Bit thinks I’m cool, he should meet Sweetie Belle sometime.

Awesome. 9 tonight, over at the KNZ house. Walk over together?

I get a thumbs-up back, and that’s that. I’ve got a date. I’ve got one more chance to make the most of rush — to make up for the mistakes I’ve made with Sweetie Belle. And despite everything, despite the voice in my head that — even now — is still whispering to me all the ways this could go horribly wrong, I know already I’m gonna go through with it.

One way or another, I’m seeing this through to the end. And Sweetie Belle’s gonna be right there with me. And no matter what, even if all we’re ever going to be is friends, I’ll be there for her.

I keep thinking about that for the rest of the day, through my afternoon class and a rushed dining hall dinner, while I’m showering and shaving and shrugging on my last clean button-down shirt, and while I’m waiting in the dorm lounge where Sweetie Belle first stumbled into me last weekend for her to come downstairs and join me again. And when she does, she looks nothing like she did earlier.

Her off-shoulder pink dress molds to her body like it was painted onto her, emphasizes every curve and accentuates every inch of uncovered skin, radiates the kind of confidence even the best actor in the world couldn’t fake. She’s not hiding from the world anymore — and neither am I. We’re both going to make the world give us exactly what we deserve.

“Too much?” she asks once she joins me by the front door, one bare thigh poking out from the slit in her skirt, one eyebrow cocked to match her half-smile.

“Just right,” I tell her — and without thinking better of it for a single second, I offer her my hand. She takes a moment to put on the coat she had bundled into her arms, then takes my hand as her half-smile grows into a full one.

The walk to the KNZ house passes in what feels like seconds, and we start turning heads just about the second we step off the sidewalk and into the house’s yard. Thankfully, Source’s head is one of the first ones to turn our way, and the rest of him hops off the porch and comes to meet us halfway.

“What’s up, Wizard?” he says, locking hands with me and pulling me into a half-hug before focusing on Sweetie. “Great to see you out too. You doing okay?”

“I’m good,” she tells him, her voice firm but friendly. “I’m not gonna let it ruin my life.”

“That’s what I like to hear,” Source says, before dropping into a lower, more serious tone. “For real, though, I’ve already talked to all the guys about it, but if anybody’s creepy towards you, and I mean anybody, let me or Case know and we’ll make sure they’re gone. Zero tolerance tonight, all right?”

“All right,” Sweetie says, dropping my hand so she can shake the one Source sticks out. “Thanks.”

Source nods, pats me on the shoulder, then departs to greet another rush and the girl he’s brought along with him. “That’s Source, by the way,” I say to Sweetie Belle. “The guy I told you before.”

“I know,” she says back. “I’ve met him before. I’m glad you met him too.” Now she glances my way, nudges my shoulder, and grins. “Kinda reminds me of you.”

I grin back — because why shouldn’t I? Source is the coolest guy I’ve ever met. Being like him is a compliment.

I take Sweetie’s hand again and lead her up onto the porch and into the house, where we get pretty much the same reception we got outside. The place doesn’t suddenly go silent after a gasp and a record scratch, but more than one conversation gets a little quieter as more than one guy gives both of us a sidelong, lingering glance. I take a deep breath, squeeze Sweetie’s hand, and feel a thousand feet tall once I feel her squeeze back.

Once again, one of the first heads that turns our way is one I’m glad I recognize. Even though I texted him earlier and cleared the air as much as I could, Woody all but sprints my way anyway, trying to talk so fast he stumbles over each word he manages to get out.

“Button, hey, uh… so we’re, um… I mean, y-you…”

“We’re good, Woody,” I say, grabbing his hand and half-hugging him the same way Source just did to me. He’s stiff as a board when my hand hits his back, but he’s loosened up a bit by the time I pull away. “Seriously. I was messed up last night, and it wasn’t your fault.”

If Woody were any more relieved, he’d melt into a puddle on the grungy floor right now. “I just… words. Y’know?”

“I know,” I agree. “Fuck words.” I nod Sweetie Belle’s way and give her hand another squeeze for good measure. “This is Sweetie Belle, by the way."

Woody’s eyebrows twitch up as he turns her way and gives her a little wave and nod. “H-Hi,” he says. “I’m Dogwood. I think we have a class together.”

“Yeah, I think we do,” Sweetie Belle gamely replies. “Nice to formally meet you.”

“Same,” Woody says, before looking at me. “Crescent’s just over there. And, uh…”

I can see who he’s about to bring up written all over his face. “It’s fine, Woody,” I tell him. “I can handle him. Don’t worry about it.”

And I really, truly believe that for about five seconds, which is about how long it takes for a gap to form in the party crowd and for Alkaline to materialize inside it. And it isn’t him alone that gets to me, or even what he says to me — because he doesn’t say anything to me, or even seem to notice I’m here. His eyes are locked on Sweetie Belle, and Sweetie Belle’s eyes are locked on him.

“Well, how ‘bout that,” he says as he saunters slowly towards us — towards her. “Good to see you out.”

There’s something off about his voice — an odd lilt to it, like he wants to laugh and can’t decide whether it should come with a smile or a sneer. He extends a hand for her to shake. She doesn’t move — squeezes my hand like she’s trying to break my fingers.

“Seriously, you’ve got some balls,” Al goes on, pulling his hand back so casually it’s like he never put it out in the first place. “Lady balls, anyway. I know I wouldn’t be out if it were me all that happened to.”

If looks could kill, Alkaline would be a desiccated corpse right now. Sweetie Belle isn’t just glaring at him — she’s glowering, practically shaking with fury, still squeezing my hand so tight my fingers are starting to go numb.

“But hey, I respect it,” he goes on, gesturing with the red plastic cup in his other hand. “You don’t let anybody get to you. Just do your own thing.” He glances at me. “Or things, really.”

His glance turns into a knowing smirk, and I think back to what Sweetie Belle said about Alkaline yesterday over lunch: I know of him. Enough to know he had something like that coming. I never asked how she knew him. I never asked why she got so upset when I mentioned him earlier today — why she was so angry then, and looks just about murderous now.

And then it all hits me at once, so hard I almost stumble backwards, so heavy I almost drop to my knees. I know why he’s acting like this — why he told me all that shit about Sweetie Belle last night — why he’s still looking at Sweetie Belle in a way that looks more like leering.

Because he already knows her. Because she knows him. Because she knows exactly who took those photos of her and put them online and acted like a total psychopath because she wasn’t who he wanted her to be.

“Anyway, you kids have fun,” he says, voice dripping with cocky swagger. “Not too much fun, though. Never know how that could turn out.”

Because it was him. It was Alkaline. It’s exactly who I should’ve known it was from the second I first met him. And if I want to get a bid, be with Sweetie Belle, be anybody worth knowing and worth looking at in the mirror, I have to stand up to him tonight. I have to go through him.

And even with Source and Sweetie and all my friends behind me, I don’t know if I can.

Comments

[Thought Prism]

Huh, that went better than I was expecting. Both Button and Sweetie handled the situation about as well as they could have, given the circumstances. They're more mature than they give themselves credit for. Alas, they still have Alkaline to deal with. Fortunately, the solution to that is simple: ignore him. Bullies thrive on attention, so you give them none. Sometimes that leads to escalation, but if he makes a scene here, Case will kick him out.

[FuzzyVeeVee]

My fears were (somewhat) misplaced, and despite a "You went to sleep without calling her?! You idiot!" opening, well done to Button. He handled his error, his assumptions, and the task that he had to do with his usual will to, as you have said, 'saddle up'. It might suck, but you do it anyway. And as expected from last chapter, of course it was Al's doing. The added tweak about that she'd been drunk though...oof. Big oof.

I didn't expect us to be through the morning after, The Talk™, and into the party in one chapter, but that's a momentum build there, very well done, and I'm delighted to see Sweetie Belle being an absolute determinator badass who is recognising the worth in standing up to this too. And, I think, seeing that this isn't a one way street, and Button needs help from her as much as she needed him to listen. Her part in this chapter was immensely satisfying in her response. It didn't undercut the impact this has (the door messages were a very powerful touch) on people, but let her be in control of her own response. Her being the one to ask Button to go was the perfect way to handle. If he had directly asked her, it would have been...awkward.

Which had been my fear as evidence in my last comments. No way could he have asked, and that turned to her strength when she was the one who did. Excellent writing move.

Lastly, I highly appreciate that the supporting cast from those like Source aren't "ignorant of events for plot reasons". While not so much on screen, their impact is vast in handling the fallout of that horror show, and is another great touch to ensure the world around them acts separately as well. (I had wondered why he hadn't noticed on his phone the night before, but his focus was on Button, I highly doubt he'd pay attention to his phone buzzing a bit when he's trying to help out a faltering, upset friend, until it was too late to contact him.)

[creep]

excellent responses to a very murky situation. communication is key in these situations and the troubled feel and the big reveal of everything and how it is handled was written nicely! i always check the 3 day intervals for this story and im always captured by it every time

[Miller Minus]

I'm digging the Kim Wexler & Jimmy McGill vibes

[FuzzyVeeVee]

Additional Note: I advise people go re-read Chapters 1 and 2. Damn they get recontextualised a lot after this one.

And a fervant hope that Al isn't just 'seen off' but is actively exposed for the vile piece of crap he is.