“I get how much you like Claudia,” said Ridley when they pulled up to the curb outside the dorm. “But I want you to ask yourself this question: Is she really worth it? If she cared about you even half as much as you care about her she would have at least paid your bail. Has she called you since they found her? Texted?” Ridley saw the answer was no. “No. She’s moved on. She used you, son. And now she’s done with you. If it were me, I’d be pissed.” He pulled out his business card. “I hear the NYPD wants to talk to you about Jeremy. I can help with that. As I’m sure you know, a good lawyer doesn’t come cheap. What I’m hoping you’ll do is keep me informed about Claudia. If you hear she or her family are thinking about going to the cops or the media, call me. I’ll pay you $10,000 for a tip. Nobody wants that video out there, son. None of us.”

“Fuck you, Ridley,” said Trevor. He opened the door and climbed out of the low car and onto the sidewalk. “There is no ‘us.’”

TREVOR

He returned to freshman life. What else could he do? When men with visitors’ passes carried boxes out of Claudia’s suite, Trevor said nothing. When someone in his Great American Cities class brought up what happened in the Mews and the conversation became about opioid abuse and gentrification, he said nothing. When Whitney gossiped about Claudia having a nervous breakdown, he said nothing. Whitney was easy to ignore if he didn’t go to church. And he was done with church for a while.

“If you need Jesus we’ll have Bible study here,” said Boyd the Sunday night after Trevor’s misadventure. They’d eaten stale pot gummies and were drinking what was left in the bladder of a box of wine Boyd brought home from a party.

“We’ll do it all,” continued Boyd, standing up, turning the conversation into a performance. Ad-libbing a monologue. “Old Testament, New Testament. Eye for an eye, radical love. Everything.”

“Great,” said Trevor. “How about forgiveness? Can we do forgiveness?”

Boyd was the only person at school that Trevor told about Martha’s Vineyard, and his roommate swore to keep the foolish pilgrimage to himself.

“Can we do forgiveness?” Boyd guffawed. “Christ is forgiveness.”

It was good to laugh. For a moment he forgot about his heart, which felt a hundred years old. Life was now split into before and after spring break. Who he’d let himself become after seeing that video. What he’d done. What that meant. It was never going to go away.

“Praise Jesus,” said Trevor, lifting the plastic cup for more.

When he woke up, hungover and hurting in the middle of the next afternoon, he had a text from Claudia.