cloying sweetness, a mix of Ryan' s colog
fall of his bare chest as he slept, a stupid,
first developed a crush on Ryan Peterson in freshman year. He was the
buzzing on the night
al thought being to sile
ing a notification from a g
t the better of me. His thumbprint wasn'
ered as I ope
message was from
bag the quiet art ch
o beat a little fa
me, was a picture. It was a photo of me, asleep, my face peaceful, my hair fa
she looks, boys. Played hard to get for y
pt scrolling, my hands starting to shake. The conversation was a blur of crude jokes an
bottom of the screen, this one from just
a bit. She' s got that rich
y mouth. This wasn't real. The boy sleeping beside me, the one who had whispered that he' d
filmed from a low angle on the nightstand. It was us. It was a moment I thought was shared on
he group with a
he was all
yal was a physical thing, a cold, heavy weight settling in my gut. I felt dirty, used, and u
ed over, reaching for me, his arm draping across my
is voice still thick with
e with such supposed passion were the tools of a liar. The same hands that had held me
igned affection, his warm body against my back, while the cold, hard evidence of his treachery glowed on the ph
n easy mark. A ste
ay from his touch as if I' d been burn
he asked, his voice
ing out of the bed, clutching the sheet around m
id I do so
y heel catching on the rug. I stumbled, crashing hard against the desk in the corner.
t log for the whole world to see. But he wasn't looking at the phone. He was
so badly I could barely pull on my jeans. I had to get out. I ha
ran out of the room, down the empty hotel c
the cold night air, gulping it down like a drowning woman. The
way for the trip, I stumbled into the bathroom. I turned the shower on, as
it was useless. The filth wasn't on my skin. It was inside me, a deep, indelible