What We Saw(71)

“No! Kate!” Frantic he grabs both my hands in his. “You know me. That’s not who I am. I told Dooney it couldn’t ever happen again. That it wasn’t cool.”

“And then you helped him delete the evidence?”

“I told you, that was just the pictures of the booze.”

“Why should I believe you?” This slips out quickly and softly, more of a statement than a question.

He walks away from me in a fast circle, running his hand through his hair. When he turns back, his eyes are flashing. “Because it’s me! Because I love you.”

“Just not enough to tell me the truth?” I ask. “Ben, what if you’d come downstairs and it had been me on that couch?”

He yells when I say this, kicking a blue bin of paper grocery sacks, nested inside each other like Russian dolls. “How can you say that? That would never be you.”

“Why not?”

“How can you even compare yourself to her? Stacey is so messed up. She’s an alcoholic loser who’s been a slut since seventh grade when she—”

“Was my friend,” I yell, cutting him off, the tears are fresh and hot and endless. “When she was my friend.”

Ben looks down at me, suddenly exhausted. In his eyes is a fear I’ve never seen before. “Please, Kate. If you tell the police I was there, they’ll want to see that video, and if I get hauled in to witness at the trial Duke won’t give me an offer. You heard what that scout told my mom yesterday. I have to keep my nose clean—stay away from this.”

“That hacker group has the video already,” I remind him. “If we don’t come forward, they’ll release it on Monday. Everyone will know anyway.”

“Let ’em release it. It’s the back of my head for a split second. Who’s gonna tell them? Who’s gonna know?”

“I will,” I whisper. “I’ll know.”


I collapse onto a nearby step stool. Ben drops to his knees in front of me, one hand on both of my thighs, as if he can hold me here, hold us together, keep me from drifting away.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks.

“Come with me. Tell the police about the video. Help me identify who was there.”

“I can’t. Even if Coach didn’t cut me from the team next year, how would I ever face the guys again?”

“How can you face them now?” I ask. “After what you saw them do?”

“Kate, I only want one thing. Us. Somewhere bigger. Somewhere better. We’re so close. We can have it. Together. All we have to do is get through this.”

“By lying?”

“By not saying anything. Please,” he begs.

“I can’t do that.”

Ben’s eyes fill up as I say this. “So what? I go with you to the police or you’re gonna break up with me?”

I shake my head, and a sob escapes my lips. I reach out and place my hand on his cheek. “No, Ben. I’m breaking up with you now. If you come to the police with me, then maybe we can find a way to be friends.”

He swipes at the tears rolling down his face. “But I love you, Kate.”

“Not enough,” I choke. “Not enough.”

He calls after me as I struggle down the drive on shaking legs. Learning how to walk away uses a different set of muscles, new ones that I haven’t yet developed. The task is slow and arduous. I force myself forward. I don’t look back.

I keep hoping he’ll run after me, but he doesn’t, and I realize that everything is past tense now.

This is how an era ends.

Iowa was once an ocean.

I was once the girl you loved.

As I crank the key in my old truck, I hear a roar to equal the engine and turn in time to see Ben ram his shoulder full force into the first of Adele’s shelving units. It teeters for a moment, then topples over onto the one behind it, sending a spray of bottles and cans, bags and blister packs in every direction. A domino effect levels the stockpile in a matter of seconds.

Sometimes, change happens over eons. Other times, in the blink of an eye.

I pull away from the curb. My final glimpse is of Ben, holding his head in his hands, weeping in the middle of the wreckage.

When I get home, Dad is out puttying and painting the trim around the front door. I’m crying so hard that I trip on one of the stairs that leads up to the porch from the driveway. Dad hurries to help me up, sitting next to me and pulling me against his shoulder.

“Hey there,” he whispers. “What’s the matter, Katie?”

I hold him tight and sob into his flannel work shirt. I want to tell him everything, to explain, somehow, that I will never be the same.

Instead, I sob the only words that I can find over and over:

I hurt my friend.

I hurt my friend.

I hurt my friend.











forty-two


THE DETECTIVE IS a woman.

I don’t know why this surprises me, but it does. She asks us if we want some water while Will turns on his laptop. I nod, and she leaves the room for a moment, returning with two white Styrofoam cups filled from the drinking fountain in the hall.

She notices me eyeing the camera mounted on the ceiling in the corner of the room. “Just a procedural thing,” she explains. “We tape all of our interviews.”