When Our Worlds Stand Still (Our Worlds #3)(74)

“It seems you two have managed to teach each other quite a bit, even in your time apart,” Dr. Wilson adds. “You should cherish what you two have found.”

“We do.” Graham cups my head in his hand, and pulls it down until it rests on his shoulder.

The remainder of the session is spent listening to everyone else’s stories. Even after all this time, I find something to learn from each of them and their relationships with their boyfriends, parents, and siblings.

The cool air hits our skin as we step out onto the street, our hands clasped together as my other grips his bicep.

“Bea …” Graham begins, and my spine stiffens. “Was she there for her sister or–”

I cut him off. “The only thing I can say is it’s not my story to tell. I’d appreciate if you’d keep her being there private.” I step in front of him, eager to get away from the topic. “Thank you … for coming today.”

“It’s nothing, really.” He brushes off my appreciation.

I stop walking and look him directly in the eye. “No, it’s more than that. For everything you said in there. For not listening to me, once again, when I say I’m okay. I said it wasn’t necessary for you to come all this way, but I’m so thankful you did.”

“Don’t you know, Kennedy Conrad? I would go to the ends of this earth to make you happy.” Graham kisses the tip of my nose and wraps me in a hug. My eyes shut and I breathe him in. A sense of relief cascades around me until I hear the familiar clicks of the camera.

“You’re Kennedy Conrad, correct?” a stocky male asks, holding a camera in front of his face.

Graham shields me with his arm until I’m tucked into the passenger seat of his car. “What the hell is that all about?”

“It’s been happening all week. Every news station has asked me for an interview. They want me to tell my story. Apparently, my dance in Time Square has gained quite the following on the internet, and people want to know about the girl who wowed the world. Their words, not mine,” I explain, searching the parking lot for more reporters.

“My girlfriend, the internet sensation.” Graham pokes my leg playfully, and drives out into the street toward my apartment.

“It’s not funny. They won’t leave me alone.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tell your story. I see the way those girls looked at you in there,” he points back to the building, “and they look up to you, Kennedy. They listen as you speak. Maybe you can do some good by speaking out.”

“I don’t know.” I shake my head and look out the window. My fear boils until tears fall down my cheeks.

“I’m not saying you have to. It’s just an idea.” Graham’s eyes lock on the side of my face, and I reach out to grab his hand, but don’t look up at him until we pull into my apartment building.

Later that night, after dinner, I turn to Graham. “I think maybe I’ll give the Columbia Daily Spector an exclusive.”

*****

“I know this must be hard for you.” Doug, the head reporter, says, ushering me to a contemporary black couch tucked in the back of the office.

“Yes,” I say reluctantly.

My head stays bowed as I take the seat Doug offers. He sits opposite of me on the sofa. His smile is friendly and puts me at ease.

“I want this to be as casual as possible. Please feel free to tell me, with full honesty, if something makes you uncomfortable when the video starts rolling. We can edit anything out.”

“Your junior reporter e-mailed me the questions. I’m okay.” I smile to erase some of his obvious unease about the topics we’re sure to brush up on.

“Okay, Ms. Conrad, let’s talk about the dance in Time Square. In the beginning, it seems like a typical routine, but it quickly turns into a social statement.”

“I never meant for it to come across as a social statement. I had the opportunity to choreograph my own dance, and to me, dance has always been a form of therapy. It’s a way to express myself when sometimes words don’t come as easily.”

“What was the dance meant to say?”

“The world knocks us down sometimes. People knock us down. But what I’ve learned is, standing up, in spite of obstacles, is what shows our character and strength. For me … the dance is a recovery.”

“Have you watched it, your performance?” Doug asks.

When I shake my head, he offers to play it for me. As I watch the video that’s been viewed over a million times since uploaded, my eyes begin to water, but I push the tears back.

“You have a clear reaction to the video.” Doug hands me a few tissues. I dab the corner of my eyes. “What do you see? Because I can tell you what I see. A girl who’s fought.”

“I’m not ashamed of what happened to me. It took me a while to realize I’m not pigeonholed into being a victim.”

“You wouldn’t classify yourself as a victim?”

“No, I wouldn’t, and that doesn’t take away from what happened to me.”

“Would you mind discussing what happened to you?” Doug taps the lid of his pen on his paper.

“I was in high school. My attacker tried once, but wasn’t successful. I suppose I’ll never know what it was about me that stood out. I remember wondering if it was because I was weak, like how lions spot out the weakest gazelle.” I shake my head. “He attacked again. Raped me on a slab of concrete, hidden behind a tractor.”