“I can’t,” I say, which is the truth. “I—I can’t. I’m barely processing.”
“Alice told me you were working on something important,” she says. “I’m so proud of you, Josie. Let me hug you.”
She pulls me into her arms, squeezing tight. I grin into her shoulder.
The TV’s volume is up, but just barely, and Alice walks out of the way so I can see. A white-haired journalist is talking directly to the screen.
“After the article was published in the Times this morning, ten other victims came forward with allegations of sexual abuse,” the newscaster says. It looks like he’s shaking, but I can’t tell if it’s because he’s angry or surprised. “Roy Lennox initially denied the allegations but has released an additional statement, clarifying that this was consensual sexual intercourse.”
How long have I been asleep?
“Oh my God.” I run a hand through my hair. “I can’t believe this.”
“Is it that big of a surprise?” Alice asks. “ ’Cause I’m not surprised at all.”
“I’m just in awe of you, Josie.” Monique pulls away, eyes searching my face. “Your parents must be so proud.”
“Speaking of Mom and Dad, they want to talk to you,” Alice says, glancing down at her phone. “I told them you were asleep. They’re worried that you might get sued.”
“Oh God.” My voice sounds faint. Has Deep Focus seen this already? They must’ve, if it’s on TV.
I’m so screwed.
“Not you individually.” Alice bites her lip, glances at Monique. “At least, we hope not. Lennox threatened to sue the Times before the story broke this morning. But more people—men and women and I think a nonbinary person—have been coming out, so he’s had to change his statements.”
The first thing I need to do is call Penny. I reach behind me, finally finding my phone, and scroll through my text messages. There are several from Savannah.
I never thought there were so many.
Thank you, Josie.
This wouldn’t have happened without you.
I blink back tears. They’re bittersweet. She broke her NDA, which means Lennox could sue her. But I’m proud of her. I’m glad we got to tell this story together. I’m glad that other women are telling their own stories now.
I text back: None of this would’ve happened without YOU.
I’m not expecting her to respond almost immediately with: <3. Also: Don’t check social media for a while.
“Wow,” I say out loud. I turn to Monique and Alice. Even though Savannah said not to, I immediately want to go online. “Should I check Twitter? I mean—”
“No,” Monique snaps. “You’ve gotten a lot of good attention, but there are also lots of negative comments. I wouldn’t check that out if I were you. Bask in the good stuff for a little while.”
“Oh. God.” None of this feels real, even as it’s reported live.
I can’t help but wonder what people are saying about me online. They flash a picture of me on CNN—the senior photo I took at the beginning of the year, cocking my head to the side and wearing a dark red cap and gown—but Alice shuts it off before we can see anything else. When I reach for my laptop, Monique wants to talk about Living Single.
I get that they’re trying to protect me. It’s just a little annoying. I still feel myself shaking, like I just finished boxing a rhino or something, my body full of adrenaline. I need to do something. I can’t just sit here.
Finally, Penny calls me, and I put my foot down.
“I don’t need to be babysat,” I say, glaring at Monique and my sister. “What I need is privacy.”
They share a look, but I step away from the couch and into the kitchen area with my phone. Monique’s apartment doesn’t have rooms like Marius’s does. The thought of him makes my heart ache. What is it like to see the story everywhere? I don’t get a chance to think about it that much longer, because Penny’s voice floods my ears.
“Oh my God.”
“I know,” I say.
“It’s insane.”
“I didn’t think it would happen this fast,” I say, shaking my head. “I didn’t even— I wasn’t sure the story was good enough, honestly.”
“The fucking Times obviously thought it was good enough!” There’s something breathless about her voice. “Fuck. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe he tried to deny it.”
“It doesn’t feel real.” I shake my head again, a tiny laugh escaping my mouth. He tried to get me to stop, to keep me from writing the story, from publishing the story, but it went out anyway. “My sister and my mentor, they won’t even let me check online to see how people are reacting. Is it as bad as I thought?”
“Um.” She pauses. “I hung out online for maybe ten minutes and felt like I had this gigantic weight on my chest. So maybe avoid that.”
“I’m sorry,” I say automatically. “Jesus.”
“The only person who is really looking online is Julia. Everyone else is just saying they confirm what they said in the story and don’t want to be bothered. I know I don’t want anyone asking me rude questions on TV. But people are starting to pull out of his movies, so there’s good stuff happening, too.”
“What about Marius?”
“I haven’t heard anything about him, except that he was just nominated for a Golden Globe,” she says, voice softening. “But I also stopped looking online a few hours ago. It was all pretty overwhelming. Like, you should just see the stuff about you.”
“Me? I’m not even part of the story.”
“Yeah, but people think you’re interesting,” she says. “They want to know who this wunderkind is. It’s like you’re Harriet the Spy—that’s what I saw on People magazine, anyway. Some people are being idiots about it, though.”
“Idiots how?” I glance over at Alice. She’s on her laptop, looking up at the TV every few minutes. This must be what Mom is worrying about. “What did you see before you stopped looking?”
“Just stupid stuff,” she says. “Stupid stuff, like that you probably couldn’t have written it yourself or that your age means
