Headlines flash through my brain like a movie montage of newspaper clippings and magazine articles. The drama surrounding the details of Dad’s death and the ensuing trial combined with the Liam cheating drama and subsequent bullying all added up to one hell of a bad made-for-TV movie. Thank god Lifetime never picked it up. I shudder at the thought.
“That’s good.” It is. The last thing I want is for people to be reminded of how badly I lost it and the extent of my breakdown. If only dredging up embellished, and sometimes fabricated, news stories was the only thing I had to contend with.
“But my biggest concern is how the internet trolls are going to affect my life. I deleted all my social media years ago, yet…here we are.”
This whole scenario is in direct response to people posting about me, dragging up old pictures and the like, trying to make them relevant again. It already cost me the man I fell in love with; what else will it take from me?
“There are a few schools of thought on how best to handle it, and I can sit here and give you facts and statistics until I’m blue in the face.” There’s this gleam, almost one of mischief, that enters her hazel eyes as she leans back in her chair. “Eric has been very vocal about what he thinks you should do, but…ultimately the decision is going to be up to you.”
I bet that’s a very mild description of how my brother has been. The number of phone calls he has made today while having practice is staggering. Thank god for JT serving as my buffer, because I can only imagine how much E was able to cram into each of his conversations.
I hate that I feel like I’m being forced into a decision that should be inconsequential and is total first-world problems.
My stomach cramps, and the bagel I managed to choke down with my second cup of coffee threatens to make a reappearance as flashbacks from high school hit me.
Cornered in the girls’ bathroom.
The taunting: “If I dick you good enough, do you think your brother can put in a good word for me with the college scouts?”
The whispers: “It’s cute you think you were good enough to lock down someone like Liam Parker.”
Phones constantly pointed in my direction, waiting for the next GIF- or meme-worthy moment.
Underneath the thick blue camouflage cotton of my sweatshirt, my skin breaks out in goose bumps and beads of nervous sweat roll down my spine.
I used to be the girl who could make friends with anyone. Put me in any social situation and I flourished.
With the exception of the woman sitting next to me, you’d be hard-pressed to find a sister prouder of their brother or quicker to boast about his accomplishments.
Then Dad died.
E and I still champion each other, but it’s only done privately.
I’m not the first daughter to suffer the loss of her father, and sadly, I won’t be the last. It’s just his death was the initial spark in setting my private life aflame.
Liam didn’t just betray me romantically by cheating on me. No, he betrayed me on a basic human decency level.
Who was the number one source for the press and stalkerazzi looking for dirt on or photo ops with one of the NFL’s top draft picks? Liam Parker. If only we could have proved it.
What started as a human interest story about how an up-and-coming NFL star eloped with his college girlfriend in an effort to maintain guardianship of his minor sibling was twisted into ludicrous and sensationalized stories of how the great Eric Dennings took on the responsibility of caring for his suicidal sister.
I was extremely depressed, especially during that first week after we learned about Dad being killed. Even now, it’s a complete void in my memory. Though I wasn’t suicidal during that time, the media cared more about selling headlines and advertising space than they did about the truth of our family’s pain.
Stinging radiates from my hands, and I hiss. JT lifts his gaze to me, his eyes dropping to my hands as I unfurl my fingers. Drops of blood mar the skin of my palms from where my nails dug in hard enough to pierce, and a towel appears in my field of vision.
We don’t like to talk about—or even think about—the soap-opera-worthy details surrounding the circumstances of Dad’s death. The press using them as fodder to sell newspapers was one thing. We were able to come to terms with them…sort of.
But having my most private moments of pain turned into memes for my schoolmates’ entertainment is why I ran away from social media and never looked back.
“Eric explained to me—at great length—how you’ve separated your identities to minimize recognition.” Jordan starts to scroll through open tabs on the iPad, and when I catch a glimpse of Instagram, I glance away, physically incapable of looking at it. “I wish I could tell you I think it’s possible for you to continue on this way.” Her eyes flit from the screen back to me, and her throat works with a swallow.
If she’s nervous to say her part when it’s something she is paid to do, how the hell am I supposed to feel? I’m not sure I can handle another bomb. After yesterday, I’m barely keeping it together. The tape holding all my broken pieces together is of the Scotch variety, not the duct.
“But with you dating such a notable player from your school’s football team, the interest in you”—she clicks on the CasanovasMysteryGirl hashtag and scrolls through
