“No.”
“Anyone?”
“No.”
He nods once. “And she’s the first person you told?”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to.
Dean exhales slowly. “Okay.”
I turn back toward him. “That’s why it’s not just a book,” I say, my voice tighter now. “She wrote things I would never have wanted out there.”
Dean nods. “I get that.”
The words land differently this time.
“That’s an invasion,” he adds. “At least, it feels like one.”
I exhale slowly. “Yeah.”
We stand there for a second.
Dean tilts his head slightly. “But let me ask you something.”
I brace.
“Did she write your story?”
“No.”
“Did she name you?”
“No.”
“Did she expose anything someone else could connect back to you?”
“No.”
He nods. “Okay.”
I frown slightly. “Okay?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Because that matters.”
I cross my arms again. “She still crossed a line.”
“I’m not saying she didn’t,” he replies. “And you’re allowed to be pissed about that.”
The tension in my chest loosens slightly.
“But there’s a difference,” he continues, “between someone crossing a line because they didn’t think it through”—he pauses— “and someone crossing a line because they didn’t care.”
I don’t respond. I already know which one Kayla falls into, and that’s the problem.
Dean studies me. “Did she look like she didn’t care?”
The question lands harder than anything else.