His Public Shame

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