When We Were Bright and Beautiful
Jillian Medoff
Dedication
IN MEMORY OF JEFFREY MASAREK, MY FOREVER FRIEND
(1963–2021)
Epigraph
And above all things have fervent charity among yourselves: for charity shall cover the multitude of sins.
—1 PETER 4:8
Part One
Discovery
1
THIS IS BILLY’S STORY. BUT IF I WERE THE ONE TELLING IT, I would start with Nate’s call. For me, that’s the pivot point between before and after; the moment I was, for lack of a better expression, jolted awake.
“Cassie? You there?” Nate, my older brother, is shouting into the phone. He’s back in New York, and he’s frantic. “Where have you been? I’ve been calling for hours.”
“I’m sorry. I was in the library. I shut off my—”
“Cassie, listen, okay? Something awful happened to Billy.”
Nate is talking so fast his sentences bleed together. I make out the word rape, but that can’t be right. Then he says it again.
“Billy was raped?” This can’t be true. Our younger brother isn’t just strong; he’s also scrappy as hell. “Is this a joke? If so, it’s not funny.”
“Come on, Cassandra. Billy wasn’t raped, he was arrested for rape.” His voice is tinged with antipathy. “I wish I were joking. The girl is out for blood. She . . .” Trailing off, he leaves me to twist.
At twenty-five, Nate is a typical big brother, as bossy as he is protective. I’m twenty-three, and Billy is twenty-two. Billy and I are Irish twins; we’ve been inseparable our whole lives.
“Who’s the girl, Nate?” I ask, though I fear I already know.
“Diana Holly.”
Oh, shit. My body stiffens like I’m girding for battle. If Diana Holly is involved, something is very wrong.
“Yes,” Nate agrees, though I’ve said nothing. “You’re right.”
Our family is partial to silence, but like many siblings, my brothers and I communicate telepathically. At the moment, for instance, Nate and I are tallying up all the ways Diana has hurt Billy before, and the signs that she’d one day go too far.
Billy is a junior at Princeton, as is Diana. They met last June and dated on and off until he broke up with her in December, three months ago. “Not enough hours in the day” was his explanation, which makes sense. Billy is premed and a serious athlete, so he’s buried under a heavy class load and brutal training regimen. He also tutors kids with special needs, children who, like him, have trouble expressing themselves.
“Have you spoken to Billy?” I ask.
“No, just to Dad, and only for a few minutes.”
“How is he?”
“Billy? Scared, mostly. Baffled. Losing his mind. But physically okay, I guess.”
“I didn’t realize he and Diana were . . .”
“Her name still comes up. She knows his weak spots, and you know Billy.”
Billy’s weak spots are also his core strengths and vice versa. He’s defenseless against people in need. After college, he plans to go to med school, become a pediatrician, and subspecialize in something brainy, like clinical genetics, so he can cure childhood aphasia. Sure, it sounds noble. But you know how super-smart people are sometimes big idiots? That’s my kid brother. While Billy’s tunnel vision makes him an excellent student and an inspired competitor (he’s a power sprinter, with a laser focus that can bend steel), it also insulates him. He doesn’t see danger until it’s too late.
“She’s a compulsive liar,” Nate reminds me.
“So her accusation is bullshit, then.” Despite all I know about Billy, I feel a sweeping relief, like being waved through a DUI checkpoint when I’m stone-cold sober. There’s no way I could have gotten a ticket, but I’m still grateful it’s over.
“Wait. You thought it could be true?” Nate is incredulous. “Of course it’s bullshit.”
“I wasn’t thinking anything, Nate. Lighten up.”
“Lighten up? Billy is being interrogated, Cassie.”
“I’m sure he asked for a lawyer. Everyone with a TV knows if you ask for an attorney, the cops have to back off.”
“Never gonna happen. Billy won’t ask for a fucking thing. He’ll choke out what they want to hear and then clam up until they let him go.”
Billy has a speech impediment, a stutter that’s triggered under stress. Most days, it’s barely detectable, but once he starts, he can’t stop. Then he gets embarrassed and won’t talk at all, which makes him seem sullen when really he’s ashamed. In this way, my brother is more sensitive than most college juniors. He’d never hurt anyone, much less Diana Holly—a girl he loved and still has feelings for.
“Dad wants you to come home,” Nate says abruptly, a non sequitur that sounds like a command. “I’ve been here all day.” He has his own place in SoHo, a loft he bought last fall when Billy and I moved out. But from what I can tell, he’s usually at our parents’ place uptown, taking advantage of their fully stocked refrigerator, private gym, and dry cleaning service.
“Why didn’t he call me himself?” Until I left, I was our dad’s go-to child. In my absence, Nate has claimed my spot.