July 2019
Minneapolis
“Oh. My. God,” Lily said. “You lost your virginity to a boy your parents haven’t even met. So much for making it special. You’re full of shit, Kate.”
“You don’t understand.”
We were in her room listening to a new Camila Cabello song.
“I understand. He used you. I’ll be surprised if he ever calls you again. Well, he’ll probably call— a booty call and that’s it.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Read this.”
She threw a newspaper at me.
The top article was about a woman who had been raped on campus. Police were looking for a man: maybe Somalian, short dreads.
Sure, it fit Ali, but it could’ve fit a hundred other boys in that part of town. Minneapolis had one of the largest Somalian populations in the country.
Throwing the paper back, I said, “What are you trying to say, Lily?”
“I’m trying to say that the rape happened the night we saw him at the bar. After he stormed off. The rape happened a few blocks away.”
My mouth hung open in shock. How dare she?
I’d felt the anger soar through me and felt my fingers clench into fists. I wanted to punch Lily. For the first time in our friendship I wanted to hurt her.
Instead I stormed out of her house. I saw her dad as I passed. He looked surprised and called my name, but I didn’t stop until I was in my car and driving down the road.
Then I pulled over to the side and punched the steering wheel.
There was no way. Ali didn’t have a violent or criminal bone in his body.
He was gentle and kind and I was half in love with him.
There. I’d admitted it. I was falling for him.