What if it was me? Brooke considered. That person whose personal life had just turned into a political weapon? Lindsay didn’t have it right either. None of this was really about justice, or even about protecting women. There’d inevitably be holes in both women’s stories, and soon everybody would be calling them liars, which was why you don’t take meetings with low-lifes offering you money for your story from that time you got too drunk a decade ago. Because once the story isn’t yours anymore, no amount of money could possibly be worth it.
She read the article right to the end. It was awful. Then she sent Derek a text, the first message she’d sent him in a while, breaking a silent streak of more than a month, which had been so hard-won, but now everything was different. Just thinking of you. I’m here if you need to talk, or more. Derek’s whole world had fallen to pieces, and maybe nobody else had thought to check in and see if he was okay. Really all she was saying was, “You are not alone,” and then she texted that message too, just to be clear about it. Waiting a moment for him to reply, the familiar vibration of her phone. There had been a time when the buzz between them had been constant. Derek would make a speech that would be the top story trending that night, and three minutes before—from where she was waiting, ready to watch him go live—she’d receive his message: You’re my good-luck charm. Sometimes totally out of the blue: You’re amazing.
But her phone was still and silent now, the way her heart felt, slumped down there on the floor. And she imagined him feeling the same, all alone in his room, those empty walls a void. She sent him one more text, the same thing he used to say to her: You’re amazing. She’d texted him too many times now, but these weren’t ordinary circumstances. If Derek was as desperate as he seemed, a bit of support could make all the difference in the world.
Which was the trouble, of course, how everyone these days came down so hard on others for all their faults and frailties, forgetting that these people being held to such exacting standards were only human. Humans whose faults and frailties were magnified and compounded under media scrutiny, along with the pain and vulnerability that might have caused the faults and frailties in the first place. Though, Derek’s was a problem that was partially of his own making—he always had to insist on being more than only human, which establishes an impossible expectation for a person to have to live up to. Was it only inevitable that it would all fall apart?
* * *
—
Brooke went back upstairs to Circulation, where Lindsay apologized when she saw her. “I wasn’t being flippant,” she said, “but I know the fire these women are going to come under. I feel for them.”
“I feel for everyone,” said Brooke, and Lindsay started telling her a story about an old boss who’d once tried to kiss her in an elevator. “I had no recourse,” Lindsay was saying. “It was literally part of my job description, putting up with that shit.”
“Well, that’s not right,” said Brooke.
“For me, I guess,” said Lindsay, “the whole thing is a little bit personal. I’m thinking about those girls. I’ve been those girls.”
But people ought to be able to be responsible for their own choices, was what Brooke was thinking. If Lindsay’s old boss had made her uncomfortable, surely she could have taken the stairs? Even though it made Brooke ashamed to think such things, and she knew she sounded like Sheila, which was opposed to all her politics. But if people weren’t responsible, see, it only meant that you were not in charge of your own life, and who would ever want to believe such a thing about themselves? To accept this, Brooke thought, felt like a surrender, a life sentence. But she said nothing about these complicated and blasphemous thoughts to Lindsay, instead nodding and going about her duties refreshing the stack of date-due slips as her co-worker continued to explain that these poor girls were victims, that all of us girls were victims. And then Lindsay left for the reading room to take her turn at the reference desk, leaving Brooke to climb up into the chair at Circulation, adjusting it accordingly, holding the lever so the seat rose—Lindsay was very tall.
Brooke was still fiddling with the backrest when she heard a voice she immediately recognized, and she contemplated adjusting the chair so it would sink so low that she might disappear behind the counter. But it was too late now. She’d already been spotted.
“Jacqui Whynacht!” she exclaimed, like this was good news. Run-ins with people like Jacqui Whynacht are the reason most people tend to flee their hometowns at the first opportunity.
Jacqui flashed a ring, informing Brooke, “It’s Jacqui Diamond now.” Evidently she’d married her high school boyfriend Matt, or else his brother, because you never know in Lanark. Her hair was blonder, and she seemed shorter, or maybe just weighted down by the toddler on her back. “When did you get back to town?”
“Beginning of the summer,” Brooke told her, taking the books that Jacqui unpacked from a cloth bag, Good Night, Good Night, Construction Site the one on top. Brooke pretended to examine the titles carefully, anything to divert attention away from herself. Jacqui had always been intense. She’d run the morning announcements in high school, her shrill voice ringing through the hallways and classrooms with way too much enthusiasm. Brooke had never understood what Jacqui was so excited about, and even now, she felt herself wilting in her presence.
“Where are you living?” Jacqui asked, fishing for something in her enormous duffle bag. “Are you back home? You got a place yet?”
“A place?”
“A house,” she said, still rummaging. “It’s a buyer’s market, you know. It’s not going to get any better than this.” Finally Jacqui had it: her card. She laid it on the counter before Brooke. “Diamond Realty,” she said. “Family company. Lanark’s top-rated—you’ve probably seen the ads on benches.”
“I’m not really looking,” Brooke told her. “I’m just renting right now, temporarily. I’m sort of in-between—”
“In this market?” Jacqui was shaking her head. “You’re throwing money down the drain.”
“Well, I don’t know what my plans are,” said Brooke. “I’m still just kind of taking stock.”
“Setting up a meeting would be a good start,” said Jacqui, gesturing toward her card on the counter. “Listen, do you have a card?” She looked around for a pile on the desk, but Brooke didn’t have that kind of job, nothing business card–worthy. “Why don’t you give me your number,” Jacqui said. “I’ll keep you in mind, let you know if something comes up. Ow, Jared.” The kid on her back was pulling her hair. She said, “I’ve got to get him to the babysitter. Here.” She plucked a brochure of library programs from the pile on the counter. “Write your number here. Maybe we can get together? Have coffee.”