I walk into the bar.

It’s an ideal setting for a secret rendezvous between lovers. The kind of place that allows both the conversation and alcohol to flow, surrounded by hushed lighting and mellow music. Even the wait staff is unobtrusive, gliding to and from tables with lowered eyes and voices.

I see her sitting at a table in the far corner. It’s a booth, distanced from any other occupied table. I take a moment to observe her as she stares down into the tall drink of something before her.

Meghan Rosedale.

Actually, these days she must go by her married name. I have no idea what it is and I don’t particularly give a shit.

I don’t know what I was expecting. Perhaps a femme fatale waiting to lure me into another trap. Or maybe a visibly troubled and broken woman; someone who has aged beyond her years, burdened with the guilt she’s held onto for so long.

But she looks the same. Actually, she looks like a mature version of that college freshman who created the U-turn in my life. Her hair is still dark and thick with curls. Her face has lost that shiny, pink-cheeked fullness. If anything, she looks a little too thin, which can either be attributed to a continuously guilty conscience or the never-too-rich-or-too-thin motto by which women of a certain class seem to abide.

I approach the table, the vision of her becoming more and more defined. She’s still staring down into her drink. It’s something clear with only a lemon and ice floating in it. I’m under no illusion that it’s something as innocuous as soda or sparkling water. She must feel my eyes on her because her head suddenly pops up.

“Rhys,” she says, her blue eyes going wide enough to give me a minor bit of satisfaction.

“Meghan,” I say, sliding into the booth opposite her.

She stares at me a for a moment, perhaps wondering what my first words are going to be. I’m fine letting her do all the talking. I personally have nothing to say.

“Do you want a drink?” she offers.

“No.” I don’t need alcohol muddying my memory of what happens here. Just in case.

She blinks in surprise, then nods in a way that seems to be more of a time-filler than a response.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I wanted to meet you alone.”

“No potential witnesses?” It’s a wee bit petty, but I couldn’t help myself.

Meghan flinches slightly, then nods as though telling herself she deserved that one. Now I’m slightly more relaxed, becoming interested despite myself. She takes a long sip of her drink before she continues.

“I didn’t want any distractions. Last time—back at Princeton,” as though I needed a reminder of what our last time was, “everyone else just…they just made things worse.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Meghan, take responsibility for what you did,” I say, unable to keep my anger at bay any longer. I know this is supposed to be some kind of reconciliation. Forgive and forget. Kumba-fucking-ya.

After all, there’s an election coming up.

I’m not doing my father any favors by not playing nice. I played nice “last time” and look where it landed me. Now I just want fucking answers.

I see the color rise to her cheeks and I’m not sure if it’s out of shame or anger. Either way, I feel more coming. Perhaps a drink is in order after all.

“Okay,” she says, before taking a deep breath. “I suppose that’s fair. I admit it, what I did was wrong. When Lance saw the tape, I just panicked and told him the first lie that came into my head. Once it was out, I couldn’t take it back and it just got bigger and bigger. He was the one to go to my parents when I refused to go to the dean. Once they were involved…you have no idea the kind of pressure parents like mine can lay on you.”

“I have a pretty good idea,” I say through gritted teeth. “And yet, it’s never caused me to accuse someone else of what essentially boils down to rape.”

“I never once said rape,” she says, actually having the audacity to be offended.

“Oh?” I ask, raising my eyebrows in mock surprise. “You, coming to me proposing sex, and hey, here’s a crazy idea, let’s videotape it. Because what red-blooded, heterosexual college boy would say no to that? Then, when the boyfriend you were obviously trying to make jealous—shock and awe—actually does get jealous, you do a complete one-eighty and say I got you drunk—never mind that we were both sober—and coerced you into doing something you didn’t want to do. Then, when your parents start pointing fingers, making these accusations, enough to get me kicked out of Princeton, and destroying the evidence, you just sit by and let it happen. What exactly would you call that, Meghan?”

She’s been completely stoic through the whole thing, not once breaking eye-contact, as though this is some sort of strict penance she has to face. I wait for her to respond, to say something, anything.

“You’re right to be angry,” she says calmly, as though she’s rehearsed this. She now stares at the table as she continues. “What I did was…unforgivable. That’s why I wanted to meet with you. To apologize.”

I’m surprised at the effect it has on me. A hundred times in my head, I’ve thrown her imaginary mea culpa right back in her face. I’ve laughed with scorn, publicly shamed her, metaphorically spat in her face, or nonchalantly brushed it off as though I didn’t care. Now that I’m faced with the reality, I just feel as though a huge weight has been lifted. It’s like a fog that has always clouded my life has suddenly evaporated.

“I know I ruined your life,” she continues. “Princeton. Your parents. Your friends. If it makes you feel better, it’s haunted me since that day. I know I can’t take it back, but if there’s anything I can do to make up for it, to give you back your life, just let me know. I’ve already told my parents the truth, and yours of course. I even wrote a letter to Princeton. I don’t know what they’ll do with it. I’m happy—well, willing to make a public apology if that’s what it takes to—”

“Stop.”

Even though my voice is soft, almost a whisper, she abruptly stops talking and stares at me.

“I accept your apology.”

Now her eyes are wide with something almost approaching fear. I’m sure she’s gone through just as many scenarios of this as I have, and in each one there were probably a hundred different ways she had to atone for her sins. And yet, this version was so easy. She sips from her glass, watching me with wary eyes. When she sets it back down, I watch her face contort, her eyes blinking too much, her mouth itching to say something else.

“What is it?” I ask with slight exasperation in my voice.

“Has it…has it been difficult for you?” There’s a mixture of curiosity and apprehension in her expression.

I consider that question as I look at her before answering. “In the beginning, yes.”

She nods and almost seems to relax as though she was expecting that answer.

“I lost almost all my friends. Then I lost touch with the others as they moved on at Princeton in my absence. My parents, well…” I leave that one hanging in the air. “The trust fund I was depending on disappeared, which didn’t help, considering I was now without even a degree to my name.”

Her breath catches at that, as though that in particular was a fate worse than death. It reminds me how out of touch I was, along with a good number of my fellow classmates, Meghan included. Obviously, not everyone at Princeton was a future trust-fund kid, but there were enough of us to spread the wealth around so everyone could get wrapped up in the idea that life would be a nonstop party of champagne wishes and caviar dreams.

“But it’s better now. Good, actually,” I say, looking off to the side. I think about Sex on the Line, and how it would have never happened if my life had gone down the “proper” path. Right now, I’d be staring out of some office window facing downtown, wearing a thousand dollar suit…and bored out of my fucking mind. Everything I love about my life now would be gone. The podcast show. The Sexton Hotel. The exhibitionist lifestyle.

Prynne Dawson.

“I’m glad to hear that,” she says with a smile of relief before taking a sip. Her head pops back up when she’s done swallowing, and the apprehension is back in her face. “Like I said, I’m…willing to go public. Your father mentioned that he’s campaigning for—”

“Don’t worry about my father.”

“But—”

“Don’t…worry…about…my…father,” I say, leaning in with a hard stare so she drops the issue.

She nods again, obviously just fine with that idea.

“Actually,” I say, pulling back and considering her. “There’s only one person I may need you to tell your side of the story to.”

If Prynne needs this reassurance to know I’m not a liar, or worse, then that’s what I’ll do. We’ve only known each other for a few weeks. Even though her doubt pierced me like a knife, it’s not fair of me to expect complete trust on her part this early on. Especially about something so serious.

“Anything,” Meghan says. “Whatever you need for me to make it up to you, Rhys.”