I didn't think there could be anything worse than everyone on campus seeing the article.

That's because it never occurred to me it would find its way to my parents, too.

I'm alone in my dorm room later that evening when the calls start coming through. At first, I don't notice my phone ringing, because I'm neck deep in biochemistry reading with my headphones on full blast. It's only when I realize that the vibration isn't part of three tracks running that I reach for the phone on my bedside table—and by then, I'm up to eleven missed calls.

"Mom?" I ask, after she answers on the first ring. "Is everything okay?"

"Morgan," she says, with breathless urgency. "Oh, good. You picked up. I didn't know whether you were busy tonight, or..." Her voice trails off. "It's nothing, really. I was just calling to check if everything's okay."

She doesn't have to say it.

"You've seen the article, haven't you?"

"I..." There's hesitation; the silence is deafening. I'll hear it crashing in my ears for hours to come. "Hanna shared it on her Facebook page. I just saw Josh's photo, I had no idea what it was about—"

I want to slap myself. I can't believe I've been so stupid. It doesn't matter that I've barely spoken to Hanna all summer; our frosty relationship hasn't yet reached social media significance. Of course she's still Facebook friends with me and my mom. Which means I definitely should've seen this coming.

"Mom," I say, before she can get any further. "It's really not what you think."

"I don't understand." She sounds on edge, panicked, and I feel fresh guilt for not diffusing this when I had the chance. Who knows what scenarios she's had time to conjure up between then and now? What nightmares she's invented that I've never had to live through? "Did Hanna write this? Did she talk to you about it first? God, Morgan, did you know this kind of thing was going on when you and he were...?"

"Mom."

It's gentle but pointed; I need her to stop, pause, take a breath. Thankfully, she seems to take the hint.

"I didn't know, okay?" I tell her, because even though it wasn't her first question it's obviously the most important. "This has all come totally out of the blue. I don't know when it happened, where it happened... nothing more than what's written in that article. But I can promise you, Mom: before yesterday, I didn't have the faintest idea."

As the silence stretches the fifty miles between us, I lean back in my chair, running my free hand through tangled curls. The several-second wait is agonizing. I know I'm telling the truth, and yet it still feels like there's a whole world resting on whether or not she believes me.

Her sigh of relief feels like the tail end of a hurricane: a sense of calm marking the end of destruction. "Oh, thank God."

"You don't have to worry, okay?" I tell her. "The way I knew him... it was nothing like that. He never pushed me, never pressured me into anything. I promise."

It's surprising how easy it is to say, when not long ago I would've squirmed at the thought. Sure, we've always been close—but while I lived at home there weren't exactly any intimate relationships to tell her about, and by the time things progressed with Josh it seemed like something I could handle myself. Plus, I had Hanna's endless stream of practical advice. Mom's not an idiot; I'm sure she knew there were things going on behind closed doors, but this is the first time I've said it aloud.

No going back now.

"You don't know how glad I am to hear you say that," she says, and there's a quiver in her voice that makes me wonder if she'd been close to tears. "I just... I'm trying to wrap my head around the idea that he could do something like that. I know we only met him a couple of times, but still... he seemed like such a nice guy. I never would have known."

"No," I say. "You wouldn't."

I hear her inhale, take one deep bracing breath, as if she's pulling herself together. "You're okay, then?"

"I'm okay." I pause. "I mean, I'm not going to lie: it's not what I expected to happen in my first week back. Or ever, I guess. But, uh... I'm dealing with it."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"There's not a lot to talk about," I assure her. "Like I said, nothing like this happened to me. But it's inevitable that I'm wrapped up in it all, especially when nobody on campus will stop talking about it. I just... need time to process everything. To get to grips with the fact that the Josh I miss maybe wasn't Josh at all. And that's something I have to do alone."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to come home?" she asks. "If everyone on campus is talking about it, maybe it would be easier if—"

I beat her to the end of the sentence. "No, Mom. I'm okay here. I promise."

I try not to dwell on the fact that my promises are getting weaker, instead hoping they sound equally convincing. Because I can't say the thought hasn't crossed my mind. In class earlier, when dozens of eyes had burned holes into my back while I tried to concentrate on taking notes, the thought of throwing in the towel had been undeniably tempting. It would be so much easier to pack up and leave, to settle back home and start planning my fresh start. But with that, the first step would be admitting I'm not okay—and after being stuck at a paralyzing standstill for months now, the last thing I want to do is go backward.

"Okay," Mom says. I can't tell whether or not she's convinced. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure."

"And, uh... you and Hanna are okay?"

"What do you mean?"

She pauses, choosing her words carefully. "This whole thing... it hasn't caused trouble between you two, has it? I know it can't have been an easy story for her to publish, but I'm assuming you talked about it beforehand?"

To hear it is both comforting and a stab in the gut. On one hand, I feel a surge of righteousness, a reassurance that my anger toward Hanna was justified. I knew I wasn't just being dramatic. But on the other, it reminds me of the gaping abyss left by our earlier conversation, one we might never cross again. With eight years of friendship hanging in the balance, the price of being right has never been higher.

That's when I realize I can't tell Mom. She's worried enough about me coming back here in the first place, asking over and over if I'm sure I'm making the right decision, in search of peace of mind I desperately want to give her. How can I admit that my best friend—the girl who's been a constant presence by my side since we were kids—is no longer around to help me through the roughest period of my life? I don't need to test the waters; I already know she'll go out of her mind with worry. After everything, there's no way.

So I lie.

"No, no," I say. "We're fine. It was a difficult conversation, sure, but... we talked it out and both agreed it was the right thing to do."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

The word rolls effortlessly off my tongue; it's so much easier than I thought.

"That's great, Morgan." Another sigh of relief. "I'm so glad to hear it. Really, I don't know why I worried—you two are too close to let this come between you. And I know you insist you're fine, and of course I'm here to talk any time of the day or night, but still... it's nice to know you've got her there, too."

"Yeah," I say evenly. "It is."

It would be.

"God, I'm so glad I talked to you, honey," she says, and the uplift in her tone makes me feel wickedly relieved. In the space of this phone call, I've done what I'm supposed to: spoken calmly and carefully enough to create the illusion that everything's okay. And if I have to bear the weight of the truth so Mom doesn't have to, I'll do it over and over again. "I was going out of my mind overthinking things. You know how it is. To me, you're still the baby of the family: I just want to protect you for as long as I can. I forget that you're capable of handling yourself."

A small, sad smile creeps onto my face. "I know."

"I'm proud of you, Morg. You know that, right?"

"Yeah," I say. "I do."

Her words linger after I've hung up the phone. An oddly stoic sense of shame washes over me; I feel like I've just performed some kind of grim duty, one that makes me feel dirty all over but I know has to be done.

I'm not usually a dishonest person. Before college, I told Mom everything—from silly high-school issues like worrying about not having a date to prom, to the deep-rooted anxiety that first reared its ugly head during my SATs. It was part of the reason we were so close. In those days, it felt like any problem could be solved—or at least made a hell of a lot easier to handle—by a long heart-to-heart at the kitchen table.

It's safe to say things have changed. Dishonesty is fast becoming second nature, and the only way I can keep my conscience clear is to tell myself it's for others' own good.

Who was it that said the truth hurts, but lies kill?

I'm starting to think they had it the wrong way round.