Charlotte grinned at the girls, but Ben didn’t find the joke funny. I was raised not to air my dirty laundry, he drawled as he stood up and collected their empty paper plates.
Nina frowned at his retreating figure, waiting until he was inside the house to raise her eyebrows. What was that about?
I think he’s nervous, Charlotte said. Meeting the friends is intimidating, you know? And you’re not just a friend, you’re my ex-girlfriend!
She didn’t admit it to Nina, but the weird comment didn’t sit well with her either.
Back in his room at Sigma Delt, she asked him why he’d been so dismissive.
I just don’t understand what you need a support group for when you have me, he said as he stroked his fingers up and down her arm, making her wriggle with arousal and confusion. Besides, your mom likes me! Or she likes that I’m a boy. Problem solved. He gave her a Cheshire-cat grin, his fingernails snagging the delicate skin at her wrist.
And so Charlotte stopped going to meetings. Not immediately, but soon. There was always something Ben wanted her to do instead: Go with him to a lax game, help him revise a political theory essay, stay in bed just a little longer, C’mon, gorgeous, please? Before she knew it, she rarely spent time with her friends. It was just the two of them in a claustrophobic loop: Charlotte circled from class to the dining hall to Ben’s room at the frat house. She lost the group’s valuable outside perspective, which in retrospect was exactly what he wanted.
Thankfully, Jackie could not be shaken off that easily. When her best friend returned from study abroad, Charlotte moved her belongings from her abandoned room in Acronym to the apartment she and Jackie shared until they graduated in 2013. It took five minutes for Jackie to figure out there was a problem.
Who are you and what have you done with Charlotte Thorne? she demanded upon seeing Charlotte’s closet stocked with gifted designer threads from the Mead family. Is that J.Crew? Have you been brainwashed?
Their friendship nearly hadn’t survived the following months. Jackie thought Ben was a phony legacy kid masquerading as an activist, and he thought she was an obnoxious hipster feminist. They were not subtle about their mutual loathing. Charlotte struggled to keep the two most important people in her life away from each other, wishing they would grow up for her sake. Jackie cooled it on the criticism when Charlotte asked her to stop, but Ben made no such effort.
She’s such a snob, he said, wrinkling his nose. She thinks she’s better than me because I’m in a frat, which is so unfair.
To avoid an argument, Charlotte spent more time with Ben than with Jackie, but still less time than he thought he deserved. When the girls did hang out, he blew up her phone with text messages and questions about when she would be done.
I know you love him, Jackie said diplomatically. I know he’s…charming. But this isn’t the kind of relationship I imagined for you. Charlotte didn’t have a comeback for that. It wasn’t what she imagined either.
The situation got worse before it got better, but Jackie never wavered. She always seemed to be waiting in the apartment when Charlotte came home, and she dropped everything to help when Charlotte was ready to ask. When the end finally came, Jackie stocked the fridge with ice cream and a box of PBR cans. She even had the grace to not say I told you so.
When Charlotte returned to the support group at the beginning of senior year, she found she had even less to contribute to conversation than she did before. She didn’t know how to be vulnerable when she had so much to hide. Her love for Ben went in its own little storage cubby, firmly bolted shut. With such a large emotional wound suppurating in her mind, she couldn’t process much of anything—not her mother’s frosty disappointment that she had left Ben, not her confusing feelings for Reece, and certainly not the voice in her head telling her she was a humiliating, pathetic disaster.
Jackie gave her the Feelings Chart for Christmas that year. Charlotte turned red enough to match the designated shade for anger, but the communication aid did help. I feel embarrassed, she said when Jackie reminded her about a 3Ds meeting that afternoon.
Good job, Jackie said. And I don’t care, you’re coming with me.
Your name is Charlotte Thorne, she told her before they entered the dining hall, or Acronym, or whatever venue they’d reserved for an hour. You are my best friend. You are safe here. Then she kept her arm securely curled around Charlotte’s shoulders just in case she lost her nerve.
Jackie squeezed her knee under the table. “You okay, Char? Still with us?”
Today, all this time later, Charlotte fought off the unexpected echoes of Ben’s manipulation. For years she had kept her memories of that traumatic relationship neatly tucked away, but coming back to campus had knocked them loose.
Grief lingered like mold in a dormitory bathroom, forever fresh.
“Yeah, just thinking,” she said. Jackie’s concern was evident in her pinched brown eyes. “I’m glad I’m here.” She hoped those simple words would communicate everything that she wanted them to.
Judging by the mushy look on Jackie’s face, they did. “Me too, Char. Eat your sandwich.”
Charlotte did as she was told and listened to the 3Ds catch up. She focused on the flavor and texture of each bite to ground herself. Nina’s voice overlapped with Jackie’s as they traded relationship misfires and pop culture obsessions. Jio berated her for not watching Killing Eve. Amy warned them what grief-related books weren’t worth reading. As a group of mostly queer and underpaid rebels, they didn’t put much stock in self-help gurus or spiritual quick fixes. Tarot cards and astrology were exceptions.
Finally, once they finished their main courses and relaxed into themselves, Jackie sat up straight. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get into it. Who wants to go first?”
No one spoke up. Matt gave Jio a significant look, but Jio shook their head.
Jackie’s eyes glinted as she studied each of them in turn. “Five years of bullshit? I know someone here needs to vent. Or brag!”
The stillness broke as Nina leaned forward. She smoothed her glossy black hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ears. “Fine, I’ll brag. After years of trying, I finally put thousands of miles between me and my dad.” They clapped. She fluttered her hand like a pageant queen accepting applause. “I know, I know. Thank you. It’s a miracle.”
“Is he still calling you all the time?” Jackie asked.
“He is, but reception is just so spotty in the Amazon.” Nina flashed a cutting grin.
Charlotte couldn’t blame her for being petty—Mr. Dorantes ranked in the Asshole Parent Hall of Fame. Charlotte was used to not telling her mother anything, but Nina had gone to sitcom-level lengths to hide their relationship from her overinvolved dad. At one point Charlotte crawled out the window when he dropped by Nina’s (thankfully first-floor) dorm room for a surprise visit.
“Really though, the nature, the plant samples…it’s amazing,” Nina gushed. “I don’t want to come back to the States when my grant ends. It’s not like this is the best place to live right now anyway.”
Charlotte winced while Matt nodded in understanding.
“Plus I switched to Android so Dad can’t stalk me on location-sharing anymore. We Skype on the last Sunday of the month after church, and I only answer his emails once a week.”
“Nice boundary-setting,” Jackie said. “Good for you.”
“It was a bitch and a half to get here, but worth it.” Nina cracked her knuckles. “Okay, I’m done. Who’s next?” She fixed Charlotte in her unwavering stare, raising a perfect eyebrow.
Charlotte looked down at her plate. She envied the relief Nina clearly felt after speaking, but there was no way she was sharing. She felt flooded enough already.
When the truth came out that Charlotte was not entirely straight, her mother didn’t kick her out of the house. In the eyes of Olivia Harrington Thorne, evicting her only child would be garish and uncivilized. Her status as a single mother was scandalous enough in their Maryland suburb. Better for Charlotte to stay home and keep quiet than disappear entirely and get the neighbors talking.
And so, when Olivia found Charlotte kissing her lab partner in the driveway, she simply proceeded as if nothing had ever happened. No girlfriend, no chemistry puns, no flustered conversation about sexual fluidity over the dinner table. Olivia went on a spending spree for aggressively feminine clothes and hung them in Charlotte’s closet, an unspoken demand to do a better job playing the part of straight, conservative daughter. Charlotte’s queerness could not exist in their house. Charlotte played along like she always had. She didn’t know what else to do. Surely if she got perfect grades, if she aced her AP tests, if she won an award for her watercolors, her mother would approve of her. If she stayed quiet, if she wore the stupid dresses, if she made an effort, her mother would do the same.
It didn’t work. Her mother treated her like a tenant, and then a mouse living in the walls, and then a chipped piece of furniture that sat unused for so long it became invisible. The gap between them only grew as Charlotte left for Hein and shed her preppy camouflage. She patchworked her breaks with out-of-state internships and vacations with the Slaughters. It seemed like a détente was in the cards when she started dating Ben—her mother strongly approved of Charlotte having a boyfriend, especially one with a prestigious last name—but the momentary peace crumbled after the breakup.
