by Cole Gibsen
Unlike texts, which could be captured, copied, forwarded, and saved.
There was no way out.
Chapter Six
It took more than fifty dollars and a half an hour’s worth of car washes to get off all the lipstick. Every time I pulled out to check, I half expected to look up and see Amber and Payton laughing at me from Amber’s car. Maybe Christy would be there, too. I hadn’t been able to go home afterward on the off chance Dad left the office early. He’d know I missed my therapy appointment, and I couldn’t risk his calling Mom.
There was nothing my therapist could do for my mental state that some time with my horse couldn’t do twice as well, so I went to the barn instead.
I unbuckled the girth and lifted the sweat-soaked saddle pad and saddle from Rookie’s back. Rookie was a thirteen-year-old ex-racehorse I’d adopted straight off the track when he was seven. After only a couple years of training, he’d become an amazing hunter/jumper, and together we’d won enough ribbons and trophies to fill an entire wall. On weekends, the two of us worked in the barn’s therapy program for children with special needs.
The volunteer work was actually—surprise—my mom’s idea. After all, what was the point of doing anything if you couldn’t use it to improve your image? For once, I didn’t mind. Unlike building houses and picking up trash in the state park in the sweltering heat, horse therapy was something I actually looked forward to. I never got over the feeling of seeing a kid sit on top of Rookie, grabbing fistfuls of his black mane and grinning so broadly, it was like nothing existed but him and the horse. That was what made horses magical.
I leaned out the stall door to place my saddle on the wall rack while Rookie pressed his velvety muzzle to the back of my head. He chuffed softly, tickling the fine hairs along my neck. I smiled, but even alone with my horse, it felt forced. I wondered if I’d ever really smile again.
I twisted around and leaned my head against Rookie’s, my forehead brushing the white star between his eyes. I combed my finger through his wind-tangled mane. Earlier, we’d spent an hour cantering around in the outdoor arena. As a former racehorse, Rookie would sometimes strain against the reins in my hand, and I could feel the desperation of his muscles beneath me, his desire to run farther than the fence allowed.
Before today, I’d never understood his urge. I’d always thought it was safer in the arena, where people were nearby and watching. But now, for the first time in my life, I wondered what it would be like to unlock the gate and fly with him, as fast and as far as he could go, without looking back.
My phone rang, pulling me from my fantasy.
“Sorry, boy. I’ll be right back.” Hope swelled through me as I ducked beneath the chain hooked across Rookie’s stall door. Maybe Payton was finally returning my calls. Maybe she’d realized how stupid it was to be mad at me for something she did, too. Maybe she’d already figured out how to get back at Amber.
Ignoring Rookie’s nickers of annoyance, I ran for the wooden picnic table outside the tack room where I’d left my phone and keys. I snatched the phone off the weathered wood and read the screen. My shoulders slumped. With a sigh, I answered. “Hey, Dad.”
“Hey, honey,” he said. “I just got home. Therapy go long?”
“No.” My head throbbed, and I rubbed my fingers against my temples to ease the building migraine. “Sorry for not calling earlier. I decided to stop off at the barn after my appointment.”
“How’s my second mortgage doing?”
“Rookie’s the same as he always is—hungry.”
Dad laughed and then fell quiet. A couple seconds later, he cleared his throat. “Listen, Regan, when are you going to be home? I think we need to have a chat.”
My stomach clenched into a knot. “Does this have anything to do with today?”
“The nurse called me at work.”
I closed my eyes and swallowed past the lump in my throat. I so did not want to have this conversation right now. I needed to work on fixing my problems, not adding to them. And if Dad became involved, he’d bring Mom with him, and it would snowball from there. “It’s not a big deal, Dad. I had a minor freak-out over a test.”
“Regan.” I could hear the worry in his voice. “The nurse said you hyperventilated.”
“It was a really intense test.”
Dad was silent. I could picture him sitting at his desk in his blue scrubs with the little crease pinched above his nose that he got whenever he frowned. Finally he said, “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to it than that?”
“There’s not,” I said, maybe a little too quickly, because he didn’t reply. I was sure he knew I was lying, and since I had no other choice, I decided to use another of Mom’s techniques—throw him off the trail with a half truth. “Okay, maybe there is something else going on.”
“Okay,” he prompted.
“Payton and I kind of got into a fight at school.”
“Really?” The concern in his voice shifted to surprise. “You two have been friends forever. What started the fight?”
I was certainly not going to tell him about the notes with all the horrible things I’d said about people being plastered all over the school. While my mind raced for a possible explanation, it hit me. Another one of Mom’s tricks—throw your opponent off with a topic that made him uncomfortable. And I knew exactly how to make Dad uncomfortable. “You see, there’s this boy—”
“A boy?” Panic laced Dad’s words. “Since when have there been any boys? You’ve never mentioned a boy before. Who is he? Do I know his parents? What are—”
“Relax, Dad. It’s nothing that serious. But I thought he liked me and it turned out Payton likes him and there was all this tension and—”
“You know what?” Dad cut me off. “This might be a topic better suited for your mother.”
Thank God. I quietly exhaled so he couldn’t hear my relief over the phone. “Okay. If you think that’s best.”
“I do.” He paused. “Maybe you should give her a call tonight.”
My mouth went dry at the thought. Talking wasn’t exactly something you did with Mom. All of our “conversations” consisted of her lecturing me and not listening to a thing I had to say. “This can wait until Mom gets home. I don’t want to bother her while she’s in session. You know how stressed she gets.”
“You’re her daughter,” he replied. “You always come first.”
I was glad he couldn’t see the face I made over the phone. “Yeah, okay. Look, Dad, I have to get Rookie cleaned and fed before I can leave. Can we talk about this later?”
He sighed. “Not tonight, I’m afraid. I have to head back into the office—emergency oral surgery. I won’t be home until after dinner. There are leftovers you can reheat in the fridge.”
“Sure,” I said, masking my disappointment. While I was happy to avoid family talk, I wasn’t crazy about spending the evening alone in our large, empty house. Normally on nights when Mom was out of town and Dad worked late, I’d call Payton and Amber to come over and hang out. Didn’t look like that was going to happen ever again.
“All right, Pumpkin. Just try to take it easy for the rest of the night, okay?”
“Okay. I will.”
We said good-bye and hung up. I was about to slip my phone inside the pocket of my riding breeches when I noticed I had an email. I clicked on it to discover a Facebook notification alerting me I was tagged in a post—Amber’s post. A sinking feeling slithered through me, and I dropped onto the nearby bench. My thumb hovered over the Facebook link as I reached for my necklace with my free hand and slowly slid the pendant along the chain. Whatever Amber had written about me, it wouldn’t be good.
I chewed on my bottom lip, my feet tapping against the ground. I knew I shouldn’t click on it, that I was better off not knowing, but I couldn’t let it go. I had to know what I was up against.
I held my breath and clicked on the link.
My Facebook app opened and directed me to a fan page—at least that was
what I thought it was until I read the title: The Regan Flay Abuse Support Group. The profile picture was of my face, though someone had altered it with one of those “turn yourself into a zombie” apps. My eyes were sunken and my skin rotted and peeling. Cracked lips stretched wide to display rotted and broken teeth. The announcement below said: This is a page for anyone who’s ever been abused by Regan Flay. Tell your story and find support.
I wasn’t sure how long the page had been live, but it already had more than a hundred likes and at least a dozen comments. While the page claimed to be a support group, given the nature of the comments, it was anything but. One commenter posted that I was so ugly she needed a support group for the trauma of having to look at me in the hallway. Her comment was liked by Amber and thirty other people. There were more, but tears blurred the words.
I pressed a button and the page disappeared. I jammed the phone into my pocket and dried my eyes on my shirtsleeve. I thought I’d be safe at the barn—that my problems wouldn’t be able to find me here. Turned out I was wrong—I wasn’t safe anywhere.
A wave of dizziness swept over me, but I shoved it back. I wouldn’t have an anxiety attack over this. I refused.
The whole thing was so hypocritical. Like the people calling me names and throwing shit at me had never spoken an unkind word about someone else? They were just persecuting me because I got caught.
It wasn’t fair.
Rookie snorted at me from his stall. I leaned across the chain and reached for him, desperate for a little of that horse magic to rub off on me. He stared at my hand but didn’t bridge the gap between us. Great. My horse had turned against me, too? It was like he knew I wasn’t the same little girl who used to climb on his back and braid his mane while he munched on grass. I was broken, and I didn’t know how to fix me. And for the first time, I didn’t think Rookie could fix me, either.
And so it happened. This was the day horse magic finally stopped working.
“It’s okay,” I told him. I withdrew my hand and used it to wipe my tear-streaked cheeks. “I’ll go get your grain.”
Later that night, after taking a shower so scalding it left my skin red and numb, I crawled into bed and pulled the covers to my chin. I wasn’t really sure why I bothered. Sleep was the last thing I wanted. Sleep would only bring morning, and morning was something I never wanted to come.
Before crawling into bed, I’d made the mistake of checking Facebook one last time. I’d discovered a new comment on the Regan Flay Abuse Support Group page. That comment churned inside my chest like a ball of razor blades, ripping and shredding everything in its path.
Regan Flay should just do the world a favor and kill herself.
It wasn’t so much the comment that hurt as the fact that it had seventy-six likes. Seventy-six. More than two football teams’ worth of people agreed the world would be a better place if I didn’t exist.
I glanced at the bottle of pills on my nightstand.
They were right there. All I had to do was reach for them, and then everyone would be happy. If I were gone, I couldn’t possibly ruin any more lives. If I were gone, I wouldn’t have to endure their hatred.
And it would be easy. So damn easy.
Panic jolted down my spine like an electric current. I snatched the pill bottle and flung it across the room, where it bounced off the wall and landed on the floor. Sure, it would be easy, but it wasn’t what I wanted. The pills would only be a way out, and I wanted a way through. Out was final, but through at least held possibilities. These people couldn’t hate me forever—and even if they did, I’d be done with high school in another year. If I could just hang in there and try not to draw any more attention to myself, things had to get better, right?
Not that they’d ever been great to begin with.
I curled my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms tightly around them. I honestly had no idea what would make me happy anymore. My mom certainly thought she knew. But what if she was wrong? What if all the things she said would make me happy—admittance to an Ivy League school, a suitable husband, a successful career—left me feeling as empty and hollow as I did right now?
When I was younger, everything had been so much easier. Happiness was jump ropes and cotton candy. But now I couldn’t remember the last time I’d truly felt happy. When did I lose it? And why had it become so difficult to find again?
Worse still, what if I never did?
Chapter Seven
The next morning, I sat in my car and watched students weaving around vehicles through the parking lot on their way to class. I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turned white. I hadn’t even stepped foot outside the car yet and already anxiety squeezed my ribs.
I reached for my purse and was searching for my pill bottle when a fist rapped against my window. I gasped and withdrew my hand. Nolan Letner smirked at me. As usual, his cell phone was in hand and pointed at me.
Crap. Just when I thought my day couldn’t be off to a worse start.
I didn’t bother to roll down my window. With my new plan to lie low in place, the last thing I wanted was to encourage his attention. Instead, I grabbed my phone and pretended to scroll through my nonexistent texts.
“You’d better hurry up. You’re going to be late for class.”
I clenched my teeth so hard, my jaw ached. “Go to hell, Nolan.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the school building. “Well, it is high school, so close enough.” When I didn’t move, he knocked on the window again. “Are you coming or what?”
I fingered the keys still in the ignition. It would be so easy for me to start the car and just drive away. Unfortunately, if I skipped class, my mom would find out. If she thought I was in some kind of trouble that would reflect badly on her or the family, she’d tighten her hold on my already-choking leash.
I whipped around and glared at Nolan. He was only here to antagonize me, but if I tried to wait him out, I’d get a tardy. He had me trapped and he knew it. “I’m not going anywhere until you put that phone away.”
He shoved it into his pocket and smiled.
Jackass.
With a sigh, I pulled the key from the ignition, triggering my automatic locks. Before I could stop him, Nolan grabbed my door handle and swung it open. “After you.”
Obviously the last thing I wanted to do was go anywhere with him, but I couldn’t afford to ditch school, which meant I didn’t have much choice. I grabbed my backpack and climbed out of my car. As soon as I started walking toward school, he fell into step beside me.
“Go away, Nolan.”
“Why would I do that?” he asked. “If I left, I wouldn’t be able to bask in the warmth of your glowing personality. And do you really want me to go away? Before you walk in there?” He gestured to the doors. “Alone?”
I made a face. “You think I need your protection or something? I can take care of myself.”
He laughed. “Sure you can.”
“And so, what?” I placed a hand on my hip. “You’re going to keep following me around so you won’t miss a second of my misery? Is that your plan?”
He shrugged. “That’s part of it.”
I barely restrained a growl. We’d never gotten along, but I never knew he was that sadistic. No wonder his girlfriend broke up with him. I jabbed a finger against his chest. “Fuck off.”
Before he could respond, I marched up the walkway and into the school.
Not even several heartbeats later, he was back at my side. “I have to walk this way, too, you know. You don’t own the hallways, Princess.”
What I wouldn’t have given to ball up all the anger and sadness from the last twenty-four hours and unleash it on Nolan. But with my reputation in ruins, the last thing I needed to do was draw any more attention to myself. I needed an escape, so I detoured to the nearest doorway.
Mrs. Weber, the middle-aged school secretary and a longtime supporter of my mother, smiled at me from behind her raised desk. “Regan.” Her two front teeth
were smudged with bright red lipstick. “What can I help you with, honey?”
Good question. “Um…” Initially all I’d wanted was an escape from Nolan. I hadn’t thought out my plan further than that. But then an idea came to me, a piece of advice straight from my mother’s political playbook. When hit with a scandal, the best course of action is to remove yourself from the public spotlight until heated emotions have a chance to cool.
“I need to withdraw my name from the student election.” The last thing I needed to do was remind the entire school how much they hated me by plastering posters of my smiling face all over the school. Mustaches, devil horns, and penises—it didn’t take a genius to figure out the vandalism that would befall them.
Mrs. Weber stopped smiling. “Really? Are you sure about that? Politics runs in your blood.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. I was used to people expecting me to look and act like a younger version of the congresswoman. Instead of seeing me as a unique individual, it was like they thought I was a clone manufactured in a lab. If my mother wasn’t so right-wing, I wouldn’t have put it past her to have considered it.
But the fact was, I wasn’t my mother. Sure, she was going to be pissed when she found out I dropped out of the election, but I also knew a weight lifted from my shoulders the moment I’d spoken the words. Lying low felt like the right course of action for now. Remaining a candidate would only bring me more humiliation and ridicule. Not to mention if I handed out Vote for Regan buttons, the other students would probably use them to stab me.
I leaned across the counter. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’ve been…under a lot of stress.” Of course my mother didn’t want people to know her daughter suffered from an anxiety disorder—someone might think there was something wrong with her parenting. So instead, I’d been instructed to tell people I suffered from stress—a much more socially acceptable answer. After all, who wasn’t under stress?