I’ll still have to address the boys at The House at some point. The thought causes me to roll my shoulders in unease.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to drive down?” he asks again. “I can skip some classes tomorrow.”
“No. Thank you, though. I don’t want you skipping any classes. Just hearing your voice has made me feel better.”
“Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Positive.”
“Okay. Speaking of classes, I’ve got to get to one right now.”
We say our goodbyes, and I sit on the bed with my phone clutched in my hand. All I can think about is Shane and the little ray of sunlight his call afforded me. How that little boy I took in at The House way back when has grown into this incredible man who worried enough about me to call Colton to make sure I was okay.
There is right in this world. And I helped make it. I hold on to that thought. I think I’m going to need it in the coming days.
I make my way down the stairs listening for sounds of Colton in the kitchen. That flutter of panic happens when dead silence greets me. When there is no response to my whistle for Baxter, I head toward the downstairs bedroom that houses our workout equipment to find the door shut, the beat of Colton’s feet hitting the treadmill coming through it.
And as much as I need to talk to him, I also need to face the reality of what my world now looks like through the microscope of public scrutiny. Besides, by the way he’s pounding the belt of the treadmill, I have a feeling Colton needs the release the exercise will bring.
I grab an apple on the way to the office but don’t even bother to take a bite of it once the screen of the computer flickers to life. Images upon images of myself litter the monitor. Good images. Bad images. Violating images.
No wonder the treadmill sounded like it was going to break. Colton must have been surveying the damage before he ran.
The pictures suck the air from my lungs so it takes me a moment, my eyes wide with horror, before I can even my breathing. And as much as I know I should turn the computer off and not click on the links to see the public’s perception, this is me. My life. I have to know what I’m facing.
With a reluctant hand, I click on the first Google link and am brought to a massive gossip news site. An image of some of the boys and me from a promotional event a few months back dominates the page, but it’s the title that owns my mind. “Risky Business: Sex tape vixen leads our troubled youth.”
My hands start shaking as I read the article and the comments that don’t have merit gracing the pages. “Rylee Donavan surely knows how to land the racing world’s most eligible bachelor. I wonder just what she’d do for you in exchange for a donation.” Or “Is this how we fundraise nowadays? Is Corporate Cares struggling to fund their next project so their most prominent employee decides to take matters in her own hands to raise awareness? She’s been known to say anything for her boys. We didn’t realize this was her anything.”
Link after link.
Comment after comment.
I don’t want to believe what I’m reading and seeing so I keep clicking, keep reading, keep being shocked by the cruelty of others.
Oh. My. God. This isn’t possible. It’s just not. Can’t be. I’m not that person. The media whore needing to further my career. Yet that’s what they’ve made me out to be.
My eyes burn as I search and scrutinize and look for some kind of good in the links, but I’m fooling myself if I actually think I’m going to find some. And when I do, the positive and supportive stories are buried four pages in by the sensationalized crap that sells.
I’m horrified by the images I’m not yet familiar with. The ones from the new version of the tape. And yet I can’t stop clicking the links and reading the bylines. I can’t stop seeing all of my hard work and dedication to a worthy cause dragged through the mud because some asshole wants to prove a point none of us are privy to.
I replay it again. Paralyzed. Lost in the images. Mortified. Wondering for the first time if there is more to this than just an attack on Colton. The obvious go-to answer. What if this is about me? What if someone has a vendetta against me because I was the person taking care of their son?
It’s a ridiculous thought. I shake my head to clear it from my mind. It’s not possible. Even if it were, they’d have no clue this video even existed.
But the thought lingers. Worries around in my head. Draws my eyes back to the video on the monitor and the final image frozen on screen when the video ends. I close my eyes and sigh because the lasting image is more damaging than the sex itself. It’s a close up of Colton and me as we leave the garage. He is looking over to me and I am looking ahead, almost as if I’m directing my face toward the camera. Like I knew it was there. The worst part is that I have the happiest of smiles on my face. Emotions I can still feel all these years later rush back to me, but this time they’ve been tainted. Because with the grainy quality of the video, the smile I have on my face can now be misread.
I look smug, calculating, manipulative. Like I knew exactly where the camera was, and was telling anyone watching, “Look who I landed.”
Lost in thought, I stare out the windows beyond and try to figure out what we need to do and where we need to go from here because my worst fear is that this will hurt the boys somehow. Boys that have had way too much happen in their short lifetimes to be affected by this too.
“Ry?” Colton calls to me from the doorway where he’s standing with a towel draped around his neck, both hands pulling down on it. His chest is misted with sweat from his workout, and a cautious expression plays on his face. And there are so many questions in that single syllable. Are you all right? Are you going to speak to me yet? Do you know how much I missed you?
And just the sound of his voice quiets the turmoil within. Whereas last night all I wanted to do was lash out at him—blame him when it’s not his fault—today I just want him to pull me into him and hold on tight.
“Hey,” I say as I stare at him in a whole new light. This is the first real problem we’ve encountered since we’ve been married, and yet he was able to step back and give me the space I needed when I know it was killing him not to rush in and try to fix what can’t be fixed. “Good run?”
He shrugs. “Just trying to work off some shit,” he murmurs as he moves into the room behind the desk where I am, and clicks the computer screen off. “Please don’t read any more.”
“Look, I’m the good girl. I don’t do things that get attention so this is . . .” I blow a breath out not sure what I’m trying to say. “I needed to know how bad it was,” I explain quietly, as my eyes follow his when he leans a hip on the desk in front of me. We sit in silence for a moment, until I reach out and he meets my hand halfway, our fingers lacing in an unexpected show of unity that sounds stupid but feels so very significant.
Us against them.
“And . . .”
“It’s bad,” I say as I look up from our hands to meet the somber expression in his eyes. When I just purse my lips and nod my head because there is nothing else I can say, he just squeezes our fingers.
“I talked to my parents. To Tanner. To Shane.” My voice fades off as the disbelief I have to take stock and let him know the damage control I’ve done takes hold. Unsure how to respond to me when he’s always so sure, he just nods his head as our eyes hold steadfast. “Our baby is going to grow up knowing this is out there.” My voice is so soft, it sounds so very different than the storm of anger that rages inside me, and yet I can’t find it within me to show my emotions. I can feel his fingers tense from my comment, see his Adam’s apple bob from the forced swallow, and notice the tick of muscle as he clenches his jaw.