The Dare (Briar U Book 4)
Chapter 40

I only watch shows with British accents now. It’s like going on vacation without having to put on pants. On Friday I skipped class—it was just a review anyway—turned off my phone, and dove into my to-be-watched list that has languished for months. When that failed to adequately distract me, I signed up for about a dozen streaming free trials.

My takeaway thus far is that serial killers are rampant in quaint country villages. Also, dating shows are better with accents, too. Although one thing I’ve noticed is the severe lack of excessive drinking on their reality programming—I mean, how are people supposed to start throwing chairs and breaking shit if they’re sober all the time? They do love their lip fillers and hair extensions, though.

“I like the one who says ‘fit’ a lot,” I tell Sasha over speakerphone while I watch a show that’s essentially Tinder, except they all live together. “And they call girls birds. I feel like it’s still the fifties in just Cuba and England.”

“Uh-huh,” Sasha says with boredom in her voice. “Have you showered today?”

Clearly she doesn’t appreciate sophisticated television.

“It’s Saturday,” I tell her.

“Do we not shower on Saturdays now?” Always so judgey.

“Water doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

After Sasha drove me home from the Kappa house Thursday night, I got in my sweats, went to the couch, and watched British Cottage Murder Detective Priest while eating an entire box of Cheerios before falling asleep in the same position, waking up this morning, getting more cereal delivered, and resuming my viewing schedule. This will be my life now. With Instacart and online classes, who needs to leave the house?

“It’s the end of the semester,” I add. “Isn’t this what college students are supposed to do? Lie around in a nest of our own molting skin, watching TV and gorging on processed foods.”

“Not since millennials all got startups, Taylor.”

“Well, I’m an old soul.”

“You’re hiding,” she says sharply.

“So.” So what. Aren’t I allowed? I was dragged out in the middle of the student union, stripped, and ogled by the entire campus. That’s how it feels, anyway. So fucking sue me if all I want to do is lock myself inside and escape into other people’s lives for a while.

“So you were violated,” she starts, her tone softening.

“I’m aware.” Thanks.

“Don’t you want to do something about it? We can get the video taken down. We can go to the police. I’ll help you. You shouldn’t have to just accept that this happened and suffer for it.”

“What am I going to do, have Jules arrested?”

“Yes,” her voice bursts out of the speaker. “And Abigail’s shithead boyfriend. Or, ex, I guess, based on the screaming coming from her room last night. What those two did is a crime, Taylor. It would make them sex offenders in some places.”

“I don’t know.”

Cops mean statements. Sitting in a room with a dude staring at my tits while I recount my humiliation for him.

Or worse, a morally righteous woman who tells me this wouldn’t have happened if there wasn’t a video, if I hadn’t put myself in that situation.

Screw that.

“If it were me, I’d be slitting throats.”

“It’s not you.” I appreciate Sasha’s venom. It’s what I love about her. She’s everything I’m not, vengeful and confident. I’m not built that way. “I know you’re trying. Thank you. But I still need time to think. I’m not there yet.”

Truth is, I’ve barely wrapped my head around the idea that this is happening, much less the larger implications. When my alarm went off yesterday morning for class, a fierce and immediate sense of panic erupted through my muscles. I felt sick at the thought of walking across campus to the lingering eyes and hushed conversations. Heads turning when I entered the room. Classmates with their phones in their laps, the video playing. Giggles and stares. I couldn’t do it.

So I stayed home. On one of my TV breaks, I even texted Rebecca. I don’t know why, I guess to share in the misery together. She didn’t respond, which is probably for the best. Maybe if we just ignore this and each other, it’ll just go away.

“Have you heard from Conor?” Her voice is apprehensive, as if she’s concerned I might hang up on her for daring to ask.

I almost do. Because just the sound of his name sends a knife of pain to my heart. “He’s texted a few times, but I’m ignoring the messages.”

“Taylor.”

“What? It’s over,” I mutter. “You were there when I dumped him.”

“Yes, I was, and it was obvious you weren’t thinking clearly,” she says in aggravation. “You did everything you could to push him away. I get it, okay? When we’re in that level of crisis, we fall back on our worst insecurities. You were worried he’d judge you or feel embarrassed on your behalf—”

“I don’t need a psychology lesson right now,” I interrupt. “Please. Just leave it alone.”

There’s a short beat of silence.

“All right, I’ll leave it.” Another beat, and then she somberly says, “I’m here for you. Anything you need. I’ll drop everything.”

“I know. You’re a good friend.”

With a smile in her voice, she replies, “Yes, I am.”

After I hang up with Sasha, I go back to my shows and stress-eating. A few episodes later, there’s a knock at the door. I’m confused for a minute, wondering if I’d forgotten I ordered something else, until I hear another knock and Abigail’s voice asking me to let her in.

Fuck.

“Before you tell me to piss off,” she says when I reluctantly open the door, “I come in peace. And to apologize.”

“It’s fine,” I reply, just to get rid of her. “You apologized. Bye.”

I try to close the door, but she pushes it open and slips her skinny ass in before I can slam her foot in the doorjamb.

“Abigail,” I huff, “I just want to be left alone.”

“Yeah…” Scrunching her face at my never-to-be-seen-by-another-human-person sweat ensemble, she says, “I can see that.”

“Why are you here, dammit?”

Being Abigail, she waltzes over to one of the stools at the tiny kitchen island and takes a seat. “I heard you broke up with Conor.”

“Seriously? You want to start with that?” Fucking unbelievable.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she says quickly and takes a breath before starting over. “I mean, I think you made a mistake.”

Her pretenses drop. That air of permanent bitchiness. For the first time in a long time, she’s regarding me without a smirk of cruelty or sarcasm. It’s…sort of creepy.

Still not ready to trust her intentions, I stand against the opposite counter from her. “Why do you care?” Not that I give a shit what she thinks.

“Okay, look. I do this too.” There’s a chord of sympathy in her voice. “You’re upset and embarrassed and you want to push everyone away. Especially the people closest to you. That way they don’t see the pain you’re going through. They don’t see you the way you feel about yourself. I get it. I truly do.”

First Sasha, now Abigail? Why can’t everyone just leave me alone?

“What the hell do you know about anything?” I mutter. “You run through boys like makeup wipes.”

“I have issues, too,” she insists. “Just because you don’t see my insecurities doesn’t mean they aren’t there. We all have scars on the inside.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry about your deep personal traumas, but you’re one of mine, so…”

If Abigail is feeling some remorse because her assheadedness blew up in my face, she’s going to have to turn elsewhere for absolution. She might have sympathy for me, but I have none for her.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she says ruefully. “I was so insecure about you kissing a guy I was dating on a stupid dare that the only way I knew how to cope with that was to take my hurt out on you. After the kiss he wouldn’t shut up about oh her huge tits and have you ever thought about implants and all kinds of shit. Do you know how humiliating that is?”

A crease cuts into my forehead. I didn’t know that. I mean, sure, I knew she was pissed. But if a guy I was seeing kept going on about it, comparing us, I’d have lost my shit, too.

“In high school,” she confesses, drawing patterns on the countertop, “I was called pancakes. I didn’t even have enough to fill out a training bra. I know you probably think that’s a stupid thing to obsess about, but all I’ve wanted, for my entire life, was to feel good in my clothes, you know? To feel sexy. For guys to look at me the way they look at other girls.”

“But you’re gorgeous,” I say, exasperated. “You’ve got a perfect body and a beautiful face. You know the last time I wore a bikini? I was still sleeping with a nightlight.” I gesture to my chest. “These things are a fucking burden. They’re heavy. They don’t fit any apparatus known to man. I’ve got back problems like I’m seventy. Every guy I meet is staring at my boobs to distract him from the rest of me.”

Except Conor. Which sends another pang of loneliness stabbing through my gut.

“And yet, I never feel good enough. I never feel confident in who I am,” Abigail counters. “I make up for it with—”

“Being a bitch.”

She smiles, rolling her eyes. “Mostly, yeah. My point is, I’ve felt like shit and pushed people away, too. That’s what you’re doing with Conor and it sucks. I don’t know or care at what point you two stopped messing with me—and don’t bother denying it. I saw right through that bullshit. But at some point it changed and you made it official. Yeah, I noticed that too. He obviously loves you, and if your sudden change in attitude the last couple weeks is any indication, you loved him too. So what sense does it make to lose that because someone else did a shitty thing?”

“You don’t understand.” Because she can’t. And I don’t know what else to tell her that doesn’t sound like an excuse. Even the thought of facing Conor after this makes my throat close up and my legs shake. “Thanks for coming by, but—”

“Fine.” She pivots, sensing I’m about to tell her to beat it so I can get back to conversations that take place exclusively in a Manchester accent. “We won’t talk about Conor. Or that the flowers he left for you are now taking up the entire living room coffee table. Have you gone to the police yet?”

You’ve got to be kidding me. “Did Jules send you over here?” I demand.

“No,” she says quickly. “Nothing like that, I promise. Just if you are going to report the video, I’ll go with you. I can explain how Jules got access to it and everything. Be a witness, if you want.”

This topic is getting exhausting. “You know, I’m getting a little sick of people pushing me. Everyone has their ideas of what I have to do and it’s pretty damn overwhelming. Can I have like a fucking minute.”

“I know this is scary, but you really should go to the police,” Abigail insists. “If you don’t attack this now, it will spread. What happens when one day you apply for a job or, who knows, you want to run for office or something and this video pops up? It will live with you forever.” She flicks up her eyebrows. “Or you can do something about it.”

“You’re not the best person to be giving me advice,” I remind her.

It’s easy for others to say this is what must be done, tell me to suck it up. If our positions were reversed, I might say the same. Things look a whole lot different on this end, though. The last thing I want to be doing is weighing the impact of court cases and depositions, headlines and news vans, with tucking myself under my blankets and never, ever coming out again. The latter is a whole lot cozier.

“You’re right. I’ve been terrible to you. I didn’t know how to deal with my feelings.” Abigail looks down at her hands, picking at her nails. “You were my best friend during pledge.”

“Yeah, I remember,” I say bitterly.

“I was so excited about us being sisters. Then it all went wrong. That was my fault, I should have done something about it then, talked it out or whatever, and instead it’s only gotten worse. I lost a friend. But I’m trying to start making up for that. Let me help you.”

“Why should I?” It’s all well and good that Abigail has reached her epiphany, but it doesn’t mean we’re going to be besties now.

“Because with shit like this, women have to stick together,” she says earnestly. “This transcends all that other bullshit. Jules was wrong. No one deserves what she did. I want her punished for you but also for all of us. Even if you never talk to me after this, I’ve got your back. Every single Kappa does.”

I admit, she sounds sincere. Which I suppose means she isn’t entirely devoid of humanity. And it did take courage to come here. She gets bonus points for laying her shit out and taking the blame. That takes integrity.

Maybe it’s never too late to become a better person. For either of us.

“I won’t promise to go to the police,” I tell her. “But I’ll think about it.”

“Fair,” she says, with a smile that reads as hopeful. “Can I make one more suggestion?”

I roll my eyes with a smirk. “If you must.”

“At least let me get my mom to send takedown notices to any sites hosting the video. She’s an attorney,” Abigail explains. “Lots of times she can scare people with just the letterhead. You don’t have to do a thing or talk to anyone.”

Actually, that’s a great idea. I was dreading trying to figure all that shit out. If Abigail’s mother can just use her fancy law degree and make it go away, that’d be swell.

“I’d really appreciate it,” I say, my voice sounding annoyingly shaky. “And I do appreciate you coming over.”

“So…” She twists on her stool like a child. “We’re not sworn enemies anymore?”

“Maybe more like stepsisters.”

“I can live with that.”

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