"I can't remember what happened that night. I'm not talking slippery details or fuzzy-edged visions; I mean a complete and utter blackout. Like I wasn't even there. Except... I know I was."
Since the death of her boyfriend six months ago, Morgan Cai...
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Hanna beats me to the student center. I spot her over at one of the big window tables with a view of the quad, her fingers moving at lightning speed across the keyboard of her brand-new MacBook (her last splash-out purchase with the Davidson Prize money). With headphones over her ears, she's completely absorbed—and doesn't notice me until I've walked right up to her table.
She's calm as she removes the headphones, setting them down on the table. "Morgan. Hey."
Already it's too casual, and a flicker of irritation ignites within me. I want her to feel more awkward: now everything's out in the open, she should find it uncomfortable that I'm even standing in front of her. That she doesn't is a hint of defiant confidence in itself.
"Hello," I say quietly.
She closes her laptop, gesturing toward the free spot opposite her. "You don't have to stand there. Have a seat."
Like usual, she's taking control of the situation. The habit has never really bothered me before—in fact, it's mostly been a blessing—but right now, I can't stand it. "I didn't mean to interrupt anything."
"Oh, you're not," she says, waving a dismissive hand as I settle into my seat. "I was just trying to get a head start on an article for next month's issue, but I'm having such bad writer's block that I can't stand a single word on the page right now. So if anything, you're doing me a favor."
"Well," I say, keeping my voice level, "it's probably hard to write when somebody's reputation hangs on every word."
That's it: the atmosphere is shattered. It's clear from the flicker of alarm in her eyes and the way she tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear that she didn't expect it to happen this quickly. But I don't care, because I can't take this polite small talk any longer.
"Morgan," she begins, a frown creasing her forehead.
"You could've warned me," I say, before she can get any further. "Or even asked if I thought this was a good idea. Did you really think the best time for me to stumble across it was when the entire campus was sharing it on Twitter?"
She's already shaking her head, dismissing me. Like I'm a total drama queen getting worked up over nothing. "I knew you'd react like this. I knew you'd try to stop me."
"He's been gone six months, Hanna," I say. "Would it have been so bad to just leave his memory in peace?"
The look of disgust on her face is a knife through my gut; it's like she can't believe I've said it. When she speaks, her voice is so low it almost comes out as a hiss. "Being dead doesn't make him a saint. You know that, right? It doesn't give him a free pass for all the shitty things he did when he was alive. The same would apply to any of us."
"That's not—"
"Look, I know it's hard to hear because you were his girlfriend," she says. "But don't you dare tell me I should've stayed silent on this. Just because he didn't do anything like this to you, doesn't mean he couldn't have had another side to him. And it's only right that the truth comes out. If a victim wants to make their story heard, the least we can do as a community is listen."
