wasn’t the girl in those blurred-out photos that my dad’s lawyer kept referencing in his argument. I was dressed for business, a professional with a huge future only a few weeks away from beginning. That man made me sound like a wild party girl who shows up in tabloids, even hinting that there’s no guarantee there aren’t more photos of me like this flying around. “Or worse, video,” he said.
I’ve told my mother everything. I promised her it was just this one time, which it was—I’ve never been so stupid as to flash my flesh for the camera. But I was drunk and feeling invincible because I just landed the part of my dreams. I was feeling carefree and romantic with a mysterious guy who was paying so much attention to me, and it felt good. I hate that I keep blaming myself for this mess. My mom keeps nearly convincing me that I’m not the one to blame, that the guy who took advantage of me is. Yet all it took was that one seed of doubt planted by my dad’s calculated lawyer to fuck up everything.
Or worse, video.
That one tiny phrase is on repeat in my head, as is the sick expression that weighed on my mother’s face, sagging her eyes, souring her mouth and tightening her body where it sat. She shifted her feet when he said those words, her heeled shoes scraping along on the floor beneath her chair like chalk on a board as her ankles uncrossed and crossed again.
Our car ride home was quiet. That’s usually a sign things didn’t go well. When my mom leaves one of those meetings feeling confident, we stop for smoothies. Today, we drove straight home and she took a bath—for an hour.
She’s back at it now, hunched over at the table, emailing statements back and forth with our attorney until she gets the wording just right.
“I’m sorry,” I say, paused at the coffee maker, the bag of grounds in my hands.
She blinks up at me, one pair of glasses on the tip of her nose, another pair tucked in her hair. I point at it and she looks straight up at her brow, feeling around the top of her head until she uncovers them.
“Oh.” She laughs, pulling them from her twisted-up hair and tossing them on the table. “I spent an hour looking for those.”
“Found ’em,” I say.
She gives me a very tired, slightly crooked smile. Both of our bodies are numb from the emotional beating we took today. It kills my mom to have to talk about me like I’m a commodity, especially when I’m in the room. Even worse, it’s probably hard to have her parenting judged on my mistakes, especially when the other parent couldn’t even bother to fly in for this meeting.
“Stop saying you’re sorry,” she says, finally, resting her chin on her fist.
I shrug.
“But I am.”
My mom slowly shakes her head.
“Well, forgive yourself, then, because I have no reason to. My daughter is perfect. Mistakes are part of growing. As parents, we are here to guide you and support you through your highs and lows, even if there’s a financial responsibility tied to it. Your dad . . .” She straightens her spine and draws in a deep breath.
That’s another thing my mom is good about. She limits the bad things she says to me about my father. I did not inherit her ability to take the high road. I like to battle in the trenches and go low. Mostly, though, I do it to stand up for my friends who are like my mom and won’t get ugly.
That’s how fights are done—ugly.
“Okay, well, how about this? I’m sorry I didn’t make him pay for the privilege of taking my photo in the first place.” It’s actually a thought I’ve had a lot, about how this guy didn’t even earn what I gave him. I’m starting to think the only reason I made out with him was because his name was Jake and he reminded me of my yogurt commercial crush with the same name.
“If that makes you feel better.” My mom chuckles.
She pushes her glasses back up her nose and continues with her work while I begin a pot of coffee. A light rap at the door catches my attention and I look over my shoulder to see if my mom heard it too. She’s so deep in her work, though, that I dump the water in the coffee maker and wipe