“Are people looking at us?” I lean over and whisper to Caulter, who sits beside me at the wedding party table. “I feel like people are looking at us.”
“Of course they are,” he says. “We’re at the wedding table in front of everyone. Everyone is fucking staring at us, or our parents.”
“I’m not being crazy,” I insist. I feel like people can see right through us. Like they know.
On the other side of me, one of the groomsmen leans over to talk to me. “So, Harvard in the fall, eh?”
I want to tell him to fuck off. I want to tell Caulter to fuck off, too. I am so incredibly on edge and irritable, but I swear that this is not in my head. People are looking at their cell phones a little too much. Laughing a little too much. “I’m not sure,” I say absently.
“Not sure?” he asks. “You're unsure about Harvard? Your father says you’re going pre-law.”
“Yes. Yes, of course I am.” I shake my head, completely fixated on the woman at a table toward the front who is checking her phone and showing the girl next to her. They both look over their shoulders in our direction and giggle, covering their mouths with their hands. Okay, I am not crazy here. I reach down to my bag on the floor beside the chair and open the clasp, pulling out my phone onto my lap.
Caulter glances over at me. “So rude,” he scolds.
“I’m not delusional here,” I hiss. “People are staring at us.” And it’s not just a few people, either. It’s multiple people, looking at their phones in the middle of the reception dinner. It’s like some kind of disease spreading through the crowd.
“They're probably just staring at your tits,” he whispers.
“That's funny, asshole.” I check a few of the news websites, glancing up every so often to respond to some lame question the groomsman beside me asks. There is nothing --no major terrorist event, no war that’s broken out since we started the reception.
“Why are there phones here anyway?” I ask. “Don’t celebrities hate that?”
Caulter leans over. “Your father and my mother aren’t exactly trying to avoid media attention.”
I ignore him, clearing out my internet search engine.
“And?” Caulter whispers. "What did you find?"
Then I check one of the gossip sites. And there it is, the headline emblazoned across the screen in bright red letters, just in case anyone might miss it. My heart sinks. I think I’m going to be sick.
SIBLING LOVE: HAS CAULTER STERLING MADE KATE HARRISON THE NEWEST NOTCH ON HIS BEDPOST?
It’s just a tabloid, I think. My head is swimming. It's just a stupid online tabloid with no evidence of anything. It’s nothing. Just a rumor. There were bound to be rumors.
I scroll down. There’s a photo of us, from yesterday, in the car where we’d parked, Caulter’s hand on my shoulder. Okay, at least it's not a photo of what came right after that. It's not entirely incriminating.
Damn it, I told him to not be so fucking stupid and careless. I knew I shouldn’t have been so careless.
I feel dizzy. I continue reading, my emotions vacillating between horror and utter humiliation. And then I hit the thing that makes everything else, even the photo, look like nothing.
It's a photo of a card with girls’ names on it, the words "Brighton Bingo" running across the top. All of the names are blurred out, except for mine. Mine's right in the middle of the whole damn thing, with a star around it.
Katherine Harrison.
BJ- 50 points.
Sex - 100 points.
Anal - 200 points.
Bareback - 500 points.
No fucking way. I think I'm going to vomit, but I can't help but read on.
“A source close to Caulter Sterling says that the celebrity, notorious for bedding many young Hollywood stars and New York socialites, invented the game, Brighton Bingo, as a way of tracking his conquests at the prestigious private boarding school. Katherine Harrison is clearly his ultimate prize.”
I look at Caulter, my hands shaking. “What?” he asks.
I think about stabbing him with my steak knife. “Brighton Bingo?” I hiss. I can’t say anything else. I push my chair away from the table, too overwhelmed to think.
I have to get out of here. My father is standing up and I think it's almost time for the father-daughter dance. The thought of getting up in front of all these people and dancing with my father here makes me want to cry.
Someone asks if I’m okay and I don’t answer. I stumble past the people at their tables, guests I know had to have read the article and are watching me for a reaction.
I’m not going to cry. I’m not going to cry.
I’m crying before I even get out of the room. I can feel the tears overflow, landing on my cheeks. Outside of the reception area, Caulter grabs my hand and I whirl around.
“Shit, Kate,” he says. “What the fuck -- holy shit, are you crying?”
I yank my hand away from him, aware that we’re not even alone out here. From the corner of my eye, I see an older couple walk past us and back into the reception hall. I slap Caulter across the face, and he grabs my wrist, pulling it up.
“What the ever-loving fuck is your problem?” he asks.
“Brighton Bingo,” I say. My voice is too loud. I tell myself to be quiet. I shouldn’t be having this conversation here. We need to go someplace else. All of those rational thoughts run through my head, spinning around and around in circles and being completely overwritten by the fact that Caulter sees me as some kind of prize in a fuck game.
And everyone knows.
His face goes white, and that’s all the answer I need. “That is not me, Kate,” he says.
“Not you?” I say, my voice louder. “Fucking me bareback is five hundred points, Caulter. No wonder you were so quick to throw yourself on that grenade, huh? Has this all been a game the whole time?”
“Yeah, Kate, it’s all been a game. My goal the entire time has been to bang my step-sister without a condom,” he says, his hand still on my wrist. I try to jerk away, but he pulls me closer, his face contorted in anger. “You've figured me out. That’s my fucking kink. Are you crazy?”
“You’re disgusting.” With my free hand, I slap him across the face. I just don't believe him. “Let go of my arm before I kick you in the nuts.”
“I’m being sarcastic,” he says. But he lets go of me and I step back. “Jesus Christ, get a grip on yourself.
“I fucking hate you.”
“Yeah?” he asks, his voice louder. “Well, I fucking love you.”
The words reverberate through the space between us, and it’s like everything stands still. I stand there while he looks at me, his hands at his side, palms outstretched.
It takes someone’s hand on my shoulder to jolt me out of my haze, and I whirl around. Someone has opened the door to the reception hall, and people are staring at us. I look at them, their faces turning away as they pretend not to notice the spectacle.
And then I turn back to see Caulter still standing there, frozen in position. He looks the same way I must right now-- like someone punched me in the stomach.
Everything is over.