9. Down the Rabbit Hole
NINE
Down the Rabbit Hole
SHANNON
Shannon curled herself into a tight ball in her bunk and pulled her grandmother’s quilt closer as she re-situated her book. Thunder in March might mean rain or snow, and the rumbling outside cued her to dig her phone out of the covers and text Elouise, who was in the library and probably three floors underground working in the stacks. If she had service down there and got the message, she would want to beat the storm home.
She read page one hundred and seventy-three of The Ghostwriter over and over again, each time unable to tell herself what had just happened. Flipping back through the chapter, Shannon groaned when she realized she didn’t recall much of what she’d read in the last half hour.
“Ugh,” she said, sitting up and grumbling to herself. “Notes, notes, notes.”
She preferred to read for class the way she read for enjoyment, cozy and relaxed, but nothing was sticking. She didn’t have time to read the book twice and get her paper outlined in time for the next group meeting, so she resigned herself to doing it the boring, efficient way, taking notes as she went.
Notes, even on her tablet, made the cartoons happen on the pages. She quickly fell into a groove with a little stick-person sketch of Nathan Zuckerman, posed and repeated along the margins with speech and thought bubbles calling out points in the text she wanted to remember as the outline came together: synopsis, themes, symbolism, and what-ifs to explore later.
An hour later, she reviewed the list of bullet points, an act that usually calmed her when she saw her own good work on a screen. She jittered nonetheless, with fingernails clicking nervously as she twirled a pen with her other hand.
Her entire existence would be so much easier if she knew how to let go of the conflict pulsing in her veins—maybe she could run and never look back at violent men and broken women and a justice system that didn’t do right by anyone. She could go back to her old life, before blue hair announced her newfound unwillingness to sit down and shut up, when any stomping was in Birkenstocks or Converse instead of motorcycle boots she picked because she wanted to look as tough as she needed to feel. She could go back to a life where she was ‘normal’ like her cousin and friends, and dated boys who respected her. That life whispered to her from her family and hometown.
This isn’t your fight.
This isn’t about you.
Your life matters, too.
Purpose eluded her, diaphanous as a shadow. Her purpose in life was not to play clarinet or swim one hundred meters faster than other people could. It wasn’t to read and analyze banned books or study the geopolitical landscape of Chile. It certainly wasn’t to marry Hayden Hamilton, of all people, and love and enable him the rest of her life. It wasn’t even to win the love of a beautiful young man whose lips and hands still warmed her dreams.
On some days, her purpose—whatever it was—felt more like a curse.
Shannon pushed Philip Roth and Nathan Zuckerman aside, opened a browser, and gave in.
Hayden’s full, legal name yielded the same search results it always had, and she read the headlines aloud, top to bottom and sorted oldest to newest, in the same order every time. Like a rosary in its comfortable repetition, the list on the screen soothed her with its lack of unpleasant surprise additions. She knew what was behind every link and clicked them anyway. Every line steeled her resolve and her belief that her aim was justice and not revenge. Delilah would live with the fallout the rest of her life while he went on with his, and there was nothing fair about that.
It still sickened her every time she indulged the thought of the girl with the long, wheat-blonde hair and blue eyes. She didn’t try to hide the scars on the right side of her face with makeup, but sat with her chin held high next to her parents in pink cashmere and pearls. Delilah carried herself with a posture and patience Shannon envied. If she thought too hard or too often about the miserable mess, she would scream at herself in the mirror first, then find him and deliver every unfair blow he’d dealt as payback. She’d do it herself. End his hopes and dreams like he’d ended Delilah’s, shatter his innocence and make him feel real vulnerability down to his bones.
Six months before, he hid his darkness so well.
“Why aren’t you up there?” the handsome stranger asked, nodding at the platform. He didn’t smile or wink, Shannon noticed, and looked bored more than anything. The flirtatious line might as well have been read from a book.
“I don’t do wet T-shirt contests,” she said. “A girl’s got to have some standards.”
He glanced at her without turning his head. “Most standards are just excuses.”
“Fine,” she said. “It’s my excuse. Whatever you want to call it. My friends are wet and I am not, and everyone’s happy.”
“I’m not.”
“Then go get wet,” she said, scanning the line of drenched girls looking for faces she knew.
“And leave you alone?” he asked, slightly more engaged as his eyes roamed her body with no attempt at subtlety.
“I was fine before you got here,” she said, unsure why her sleeveless pink polo and white Bermuda shorts seemed to invite him to leer at her and not at the girls being hosed down ten yards away. “I’m only at this party to babysit. What’s your excuse for hanging back here all crabby?”
“I was a little curious about the girl who didn’t act like other girls at this party,” he said. “And other parties. I’ve seen you before and wondered about you. Some days I get tired of sycophants and my thoughts turn to babysitters.”
His familiar face piqued her interest, but she wouldn’t ask why he had hangers-on. She’d seen him at a few other parties her friends dragged her to as their sober driver. He was often flushed and drunk, loud and obnoxious. Leaning against a tree with his shirt buttoned and his deck shoes neatly tied, he might have been a different person. A lock of sandy blonde hair escaped its perfect wave and tickled his forehead.
“Am I supposed to be impressed that you have groupies?” she asked, sipping ice water.
“You know what a sycophant is,” he said, brightening. “I like smart girls. A point in your favor.”
She lifted a brow. “I don’t need to earn points with you.”
“You can’t control how and when I distribute points,” he said in a teasing lilt, stepping toward her. He was tall but looked taller, tipping his head down to look at her instead of only following her with his eyes, an impression he had to duck to her level. “And you’re cute when you’re mad. Another point.”
“I’m always cute,” she said. She tossed her long, fair hair over her shoulder, trying to look flippant to disguise her confusion at the swift turn the dour stranger made.
“Confidence,” he said with a winning smile. “Point.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“How do I get points with you, gorgeous?” He poked her shoulder. “Come on.”
“You don’t reduce me to my appearance,” she said.
“Can I reduce us both?” He gestured between them. “We look gorgeous together.”
“You’re ridiculous.” She stifled a laugh, and on impulse, offered her hand. “Don’t call me gorgeous. I’m Shannon.”
His hand was strong and warm, and he didn’t let go of hers. “I’m Hayden.”
She scanned him from head to toe, lips twisted in disapproval. “Oh. That’s why I know your face. It’s usually upside- down doing keg stands.” She tried to pull back her hand, and he squeezed tighter.
“I’m embarrassed you know me that way,” he said. “But I know that’s my reputation, and I’m not proud of it. I’m turning myself around this year. Everything is different now.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Since last week after the loss?”
“That was an outlier,” he said, twining his fingers with hers. “And my arm hurt. I threw for nearly three hundred yards and we still lost because our defense sucks ass—I mean, our defense had a rough day.” He pouted, expecting her to remark on his poor sore arm, maybe make a flirtatious attempt to touch his biceps.
“I should go check on my friends,” Shannon said. “It was nice to meet you. I hope your arm holds up better tomorrow.”
“Please don’t go. We were getting along before I told you my name,” Hayden said. “I mean it. I don’t like people fawning over me, and I bet you don’t fawn over anybody. You didn’t even know who I was, and you wasted a little time talking to me anyway. That was really refreshing.”
She stopped trying to pull her hand away.
“I haven’t lived my life the way I should if I want to play football professionally,” Hayden continued. “I need to be all passing yards, not party boy. I can’t go on benders like I did last week. That’s why I’m not judging the wet T-shirt contest. I have a game tomorrow, and I’m about ready to head home and rest.”
“That sounds like a reasonable plan. Good luck,” she said, stiffening her spine as she turned from him.
“I’m glad I stuck around long enough to meet a girl who has no qualms about keeping me in line when I need it most.” He laughed, then waited until she looked up to lower his voice to a sultry whisper. “We could have some fun with that, Shannon.”
No one said no to the tiny smile that curved only one corner of his mouth, and Shannon knew he knew it. She didn’t say no to the softness of his lips as he kissed her hand, or the warmth of his chest as he pressed their hands together against his shirt.
He knew precisely what he was doing, and she couldn’t stop the twitch of her own smile as he stroked his thumb over her knuckles. To have the quarterback, of all people, clinging to her hand and asking her not to go, was Kafka-esque in its absurdity. She was in The Trial , in a parallel universe where she didn’t know her crime or accuser, and every move she made dug the hole of guilt deeper. He should be leering at Audrey or Josie or the other girls on the platform instead of keeping his bright blue eyes locked on hers. The idea that Hayden Hamilton might in a matter of days spin one-hundred and eighty degrees and pay attention to some nobody made little sense.
But it felt good.
“Come on,” he said, turning her away from the raucous scene where girls vied for his teammates’ attention. “Let’s grab a fresh drink and find someplace quieter so we can talk. Your friends will be fine.”
Shannon curled back in her bed and pulled the quilt tight again, shivering. Delilah never asked for a renegade champion plotting Hayden’s demise in a dorm room. Head to toe, she was New England blue blood with impeccable manners and faith in the justice system. But Shannon, despite the comfortable middle-class life she lived, had no such restraint. Delilah was owed. Shannon trusted her research and intuition—but even if she was wrong, and even if Hayden wasn’t lying about the accident, the others he took advantage of were a pattern. A choice.
And Delilah wasn’t alone.
The hurt and embarrassment beneath her bravado felt less significant when she considered it alongside the havoc Hayden had wrought on girls he thought were disposable—things she was too blind to understand and too infatuated to believe until it was almost too late. Not until after she walked away did she realize that by making her the only girl he respected enough not to victimize, he might have made her the only girl who could hold him accountable.
Every time she thought of her instant connection with Mystery Boy and what Missy said, her heart beat in her throat for a moment, choking her. Their perfect night became a betrayal of everything she promised herself, Delilah, and the others, and she wouldn’t let anyone like that ever come so close again.