Page 10 of The Way I Am Now
But I don’t say that.
“We heard from the DA earlier this week,” I begin, instead. “Me and Amanda and Gen—Gennifer, I guess, is her name. His girlfriend. Or ex-girlfriend. Gennifer with a G, that’s pretty much all I know about her, but . . .” I ramble, stumbling through the words, not sure I really want to be talking about this with him.
“So there’s news about the trial, or . . . ?” he asks hesitantly.
“Yes and no,” I tell him. “This hearing thing we were supposed to have this spring just got pushed back, so now it might not happen until the summer or fall, even.” I still have the text from DA Silverman sitting there on my phone, unanswered, along with the voice mail from our court-appointed advocate from the women’s center, Lane, telling me she was available if I needed to talk about it. I look up at him, realizing I’ve stopped in the middle of the story.
“I’m sorry,” he says, like he really means it.
“I guess Kev—” But my mouth won’t let me finish; I have to clear my throat before continuing. “He has this fancy new legal team that’s representing him now.” I take a breath, look down at my lap, trying to squeeze the wristband over my hand.
He reaches out and places his hand over mine. “That doesn’t change what he did,” he says, and I stop messing with the stupid wristband and take his hand; I know I’m holding on too tightly, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“I’m just starting to wonder if any of this is ever going to happen.” I glance up at him. “If this was all even worth it.”
“Don’t say that. It’s worth it,” he insists, giving my hand this small, reassuring squeeze.
I nod, but I make myself let go of his hand because I’m going to have to sooner or later.
There’s a brief silence between us. He looks down, then out at the parking lot, like he’s trying to think of something to say. “Where did he get money for a fancy lawyer, anyway?” he finally says. “Not his parents—they wouldn’t, not with his sister being . . .” He trails off, not finishing, but some part of me really wants to know what he was going to say.
Not with his sister being. . . what, hisvictim? Is that what he was going to say? I wonder. Does he think of Gennifer as his victim too? DoI? And what about me—am I his victim?
“No, not his parents,” I finally answer—now’s not the time to try to navigate that ongoing victim-slash-survivor tennis match that’s constantly bouncing from one side of my brain to the other. Their parents are on Amanda’s side, which still seems pretty miraculous to me, knowing the gravitational pull of Kevin.
“It’s some rich university alumni guy—or guys—who are backing him, just waiting to induct him into some kind of Look What We Can Get Away with Hall of Fame.” I try to laugh at my bad joke, pause to catch my breath, to reel in my emotions a little. “I don’t really know. It all has something to do with fucking basketball and—” But I stop myself, immediately place my hand over my mouth. Sometimes I forget he’s part of that whole world too. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“Don’t, you’re right,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “No, I get it. Fucking basketball,” he repeats, somehow with more contempt and bitterness in his voice than even I had.
“I didn’t mean, like,allof basketball is bad. Or that sports are evil or anything. Just . . . just this part.”
“Yeah,” he says, his voice tight, narrowing his eyes as he stares off. “The part where they can’t have their team’s name tarnished. Their legacy, their image,” he scoffs, air-quoting with his fingers, like he’s heard these phrases too many times before. “I’m sorry, this shit just makes me . . .” But he doesn’t finish that sentence either. He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, like he might be just as emotional about this whole thing as I am.
“Okay, let’s talk about that instead. Let’s talk aboutyou. Please, really. Please.”
“Me?” he asks, lifting his shoulder in a half shrug, shaking his head. “No, I don’t want to talk about me.”
“You always let me talk about myself way too much.”
“Well, there’s nothing going on with me.”
“Yes, there is.”
He looks at me like I’ve startled him. “Why do you say that?”
I’m not really sure why I said that, but his response tells me I’m right. We’re interrupted before I can try to answer. People suddenly pour out the doors in droves, shouting and stampeding and disrupting all this sensitive air protecting us in the bubble we’ve created.
“It can’t be over, already,” Josh says, picking up his phone to look at the time.
I look at mine too. “How is it after eleven?”
And then I see the series of texts sitting there.
Steve:hey r u coming back?
Mara:are you ok
Steve:getting worried now. you OK?
