Brett lied to the college dean and the police.
And his parents have backed him up, every step of the way.
So, yes. They’re The Bastards.
I take a deep breath and dial my mom’s number, expecting to get a message. More than likely, she’s turned off her phone and is working, or she’s sleeping.
She picks up on the first ring and her voice is strained. “Phoebe.”
“Hey Mom, Sam said I should call?”
“They’re trying to get him released early, honey. They’re petitioning the court. Bill doesn’t think it will go through, but I put nothing past these bastards. If--”
“Mom, slow down. Look, if your lawyer says it isn’t happening, then it isn’t happening. He would know. We’re not going to panic unless there’s a reason to panic. And right now, there’s no reason.” I don’t feel as calm as the words I’m saying, but I know it’s what she needs to hear.
“You sound like Sam.”
“He gives good advice.”
“He does. And you’re right--both of you. I know that, it’s just…the audacity. I don’t understand it. And I know...I know nothing will bring my baby back. I know that. They could keep this kid in prison until he’s 90 and it wouldn’t change a thing. But, God, does he have to play the victim? Do they not realize he’ll just do this again? If not at a frat party, then to some girl he’s dating, or some guy he’s at the bar with. He has no conscience. That man feels no remorse. None. You saw him in that courtroom, Phoebe--”
She’s not wrong--not at all. But I’ve been down this rabbit hole, and nothing good comes of it.
“I know, I know. But, look, I need to go work on my midterm. Just try to remember what Bill said. Will Sam be home soon?”
“Yes,” she sighs, “he’s skipping practice. Says the assistant coach can handle it. Which makes me feel guilty as hell. Why am I such a basket case?”
“Stop,” I tell her, wishing I could be there to hold her. “You are not a basket case. You’re his girlfriend who got bad news today. Besides, he got bad news, too. Maybe he needs you just as much as you need him. Did you ever think of it that way?” I can tell by her silence that she hasn’t.
“You’re pretty smart, Phoebe,” she tells me.
“Got it from my mama,” I tell her, before ending the call and bursting into tears. My hands are shaking as I try to put my phone back in my back. It’s happening all over again. Just when I think the wound is maybe, after all this time, beginning to heal, it gets ripped open again.
***
Ty
Phoebe is always on time. Hell, she texts me when she’s going to be five minutes early instead of ten. So my boyfriend senses are tingling when she’s twenty minutes late for our tutoring session.
“Hey, shouldn’t Phoebe be here by now?” Meg says, looking a little concerned.
“Yea...and she’s not answering any of my texts…” To say I’m worried is an understatement. Logically, I know that something innocuous could have happened. Maybe she’s in the zone in the ceramics studio. Maybe she dropped her phone in the stairwell and can’t get ahold of me. Hell, maybe she finally crashed and she’s safe and fast asleep in her dorm room.
“... you can go…”
“I’m sorry, what?” Meg’s been talking, but my mind has been going a mile a minute.
“Ty, just go. Head over to her dorm or to Drip to make sure she’s ok. She’s your only session, right? And, look, if anyone comes by with a Brit Lit emergency, I’ll do my best not to inflict permanent damage.”
I should refuse. I should stick around. I could ask one of the guys to scope things out. Or at least call a friend to cover my shift.
But I do none of that. Instead, I leave like my ass is on fire and call a belated thank you to Meg. As I’m crossing campus, my phone buzzes. I swipe, hoping to hell it’s Phoebe and not my mom.
“Ty?”
“Yea. Who’s this?”
“It’s Ian. From the coffee shop. Look, Phoebe’s--”
