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Back When We Were Bright and Beautiful Save as PDF
Chapters (72)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. Part One
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. Part Two
  25. 20
  26. 21
  27. 22
  28. 23
  29. 24
  30. 25
  31. 26
  32. 27
  33. 28
  34. 29
  35. 30
  36. 31
  37. 32
  38. 33
  39. 34
  40. 35
  41. 36
  42. Part Three
  43. 37
  44. 38
  45. 39
  46. 40
  47. 41
  48. 42
  49. 43
  50. 44
  51. 45
  52. 46
  53. 47
  54. 48
  55. 49
  56. 50
  57. 51
  58. 52
  59. 53
  60. 54
  61. 55
  62. 56
  63. 57
  64. 58
  65. 59
  66. 60
  67. Epilogue
  68. Author’s Note
  69. Acknowledgments
  70. About the Author
  71. Also by Jillian Medoff
  72. About the Publisher

I leave Lawrence, the Valmont, New York, Eleanor, Nate, Billy—my whole life. And ever since that day, he’s been dragging me back. Every conversation—my selfish behavior, his business that’s barely a business, the foundation that will never take off, my responsibilities, my obligations, my future—is about Lawrence + Cassie. Billy’s trial is about us. Lawrence doesn’t want me to meet DeFiore. He doesn’t want me to go to court. He doesn’t want me to testify. He wants Billy to plead guilty. He’s willing to sacrifice his own son. All because of us.

Lawrence + Cassie is my darkest secret and deepest craving, my festering sore. What the mind closes off, the body remembers. Memories fade, emotions die, but the skin erupts, the flesh screams.

“After the trial,” Lawrence promises. We’re alone in the car, heading to the hotel from the courthouse. “We’ll be together. I’m begging you, baby. Don’t leave me.”

“I don’t know,” I tell him as he tries again to reel me back in. His hand strokes my bare thigh. “I don’t know.” Maybe.

* * *

Our culture is obsessed with predators. Ever since I was a child, I’ve been warned about older men who groom young girls for sex. The details change, but never the message: girls are weak and foolish; men are dangerous and canny. Predators are everywhere.

Are there really that many dumb girls? That many violent men? (I don’t know the answer; I’m simply posing the questions.)

A predator is careful about his selection; out of a hundred girls, he’ll choose one. But it’s not as if the girl waits, passively, to be chosen. In her own way, she chooses him too. The man and the girl are familiar to each other; they share feelings they believe are uniquely theirs—strong urges, insatiable needs. Previously, these feelings were shameful, which is why the man is so relieved to find them in her. The girl is just grateful to be loved, to be seen. These feelings are their special language, their private means of communication.

Their relationship is symbiotic, a mutual experience. The man breaks down barriers, but the girl offers herself up. Each word, every gesture is calculated. So is the response. Can I get you a drink? Call you a cab? Walk you upstairs? Days pass, months. Can I touch you? Kiss you? Take off your bra? Touch your breasts? Pull down your pants? Occasionally, years. But the endgame is clear. Can I love you?

Yes, she says. Please.