Part 4.

I slouched in my seat, ankles crossed on a chair in front of me, saddened by the Latina and her perfect posterior's absence. The therapist droned about addressing our "feelings of inadequacy," well-meaning but mindless Oprah-shmoprah babble.

I found myself squirming, the heat in the room rising.

It took a second to realize that I squirmed for the therapist. I'd never noticed how sexy she was. Pure MILF: late thirties or early forties, well-preserved, fly as fuck in her tight-fitting skirt, conservative in cut but in a warm purple-pink plaid. The neck of a semi-sheer satin blouse stood opened, the hint of cleavage a mammary magnet.

I gasped, chuckling to myself, biting back laughter. God, was I horny. No wonder, since the last time I'd gotten my rocks off was Homecoming Weekend.

After reasserting self-control, I listened. She'd soon open the floor, and I wanted to talk about Tibor's articles. Most of the groupies were raped or abused on campus, so odds were they knew about his articles forcing the administration to face reality, which would provide some measure of payback. Right?

My doing. Screw the assholes.

Smug, I smiled and leaned-back, trash-talking silently: "I'm like Beyoncé and Buffy rolled into one, 'cause I slay, serving cold justice to motherfuckers like PJ and Squee and Alpha Shlong. Don't fuck with this bitch, bitches."

I flinched when a notification rang on my phone. Loud AF. Embarrassed, I dug through my handbag, searching for my phone. "Sorry."

The therapist smiled, her lips full, like rose petals. "Forget about it, happens all the time. Just because you're in therapy doesn't mean reality stops being real."

"Thanks." I searched the bag, feeling like a heel because these groupies needed help. I'd hate to hinder their recoveries.

A second later, I snagged my iPhone 11 Pro, by far the most on-fleek phone ever manufactured, entered my passcode, and read Kelsey's message.

did you see this? how'd they get your name?! and this pic?!?!?! wtf? my lookbook and imediagram are blowing apart!

Intrigued, I tapped the embedded link, and my heart fell.

A picture of me taken this summer at our engagement party illustrated an article in The Daily Gawker: 'TRANSEXUAL FORMER FRATERNITY BROTHER ALLEGEDLY RAPED BY HIS FRATERNITY, UNMASKED?'

I scrolled down, reading the article, dread settling like a dead weight, rooting me in place.

They had my name, where I attended high school, and where I lived now. And they had the dates I attended State, the Mag Cum honor from the School of Business, and my position as rush chairman and veep of the Omega Theta Pi branch at State.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

They had everything right.

What the fuck, and how the fuck?

I growled, anger flaring as I set my brow.

As if sensing my distress, the therapist stopped. "You okay Ulysses?"

I breathed slow and deep as I could, considering my reply, my heart thumping strong in my ears. "Personal stuff. About my case. You know, the cops and the press and that crap. May I leave for a sec?"

"By all means, you're here of your own accord. But remember this is a safe space for you to forget the outside world and work on you. Your problems will still be there an hour from now, why not hang out? It's what I'd recommend."

Frustrated, I stood and snatched my handbag. "Thanks, but this is important. Need to call the cops, and maybe a lawyer to sue the Gawker back into the stone age."

"To do what to who now?"

I shrugged. "Nothing, just pissed. Anyway, I'll be back."

"Okay," she said, eying me with suspicion as I stomped through the door.

In the hall, I dialed Tibor, who picked up midway through the second ring. Without ceremony, he jumped to business. "Oh, hey, Ulysses. And yes, I saw the Gawker hit-job. Doodled it at the office, and it looks like it's gone viral.... Hey, hold on, would you? Traffic's heavy and I'm driving, looking for an address I've never been...." I heard the background hum of traffic, and a few seconds later, Tibor returned. "Anyway, My phone's been ringing off the hook since they posted it. And we're talking heavy hitters. Jodi Kantor from The New York Times, The New Yorker, Leslie Stahl's staffers from 60 Minu—"

My heart skipped a beat, and I cut him off. "Wait, 60 Minutes? You're messing with me, right? I mean, I'm just a rando from Cleveland."

He clicked his tongue. "A rando, you kidding? You're a star, man. Remember how you wanted to make a splash, to hold those assholes to account? Well, here's your chance."

I collapsed onto the stairs, breathing out like a punctured balloon. "Yeah, I said that, didn't I? But I didn't want my name, you know, out there. All my friends knowing I'm a... well, I guess like a trannie or some other bullshit." I imagined my coworkers and Omega brothers reading that article, sharing it on LookBook and Twiddler, and making me the laughingstock. "Fuck."

"Well, Ulysses," Tibor said, his voice at once firm yet approachable, "if it means anything, the source wasn't me."

"Figured as much, it's just..." I sighed, holding my lower lip between my teeth.

"Not your plan, huh?"

That caught me off guard, but it hit the mark. "Not by a mile."

Tibor's car chimed as he opened the door with the key still in the ignition. In a voice as warm, earthy, and wizened as corduroy, he said, "John Lennon said it best: life's what happens when you're planning something else."

I smiled. "Oh my God, that's one of my mom's favorite sayings."

"She's got good taste." His car door thumped shut, and an electronic chirp rang-out as his door locked. "Anyway, I gotta go. But remember when I asked how the texters knew you weren't a garden-variety rape victim?"

"Yeah."

"Well, think about that, and hard." I heard voices in the background, "Well, gotta go."

I smiled. "Your next victim?"

Tibor laughed a sharp, nervous laugh, and we said our goodbyes. Alone, I shrunk into myself as if my ribcage were imploding, and felt compressed and constricted.

What now, I wondered, What now