Confession to a loved one

The blood was rushing in Izzy's ears. A person wasn't meant to keep a secret like this. One of her girlfriends (platonic) once reported having a threesome with an 'older' married couple in college, unloading the sordid details over a brunch the next weekend. Except for a college student, 'older' meant, who knows, late twenties, maybe thirty for the man of the arrangement? And either way, there seemed something less depraved about having a threesome with another woman and a man. It was the kind of story that a guy years down the line could be thrilled to hear. Most future boyfriends didn't like the thought of, "Oh, right, yeah. There was that one time I got facefucked by two older guys who might not even remember my name. Just in case you hear something like that."

Most guys.

Izzy's stomach clenched at the notion of being one of 'those girls.' There was a difference between dabbling in bondage, liking having your hands cuffed or whatever, and being a total whore. It felt like a thing that limited one's options as a normal person. You had to get a tattoo on your neck that signaled to other weirdoes that you were one of them. She wasn't a weirdo. Or didn't want to be.

But she couldn't just keep what happened last night locked up inside. It would cut its way out of her, and not surgically. She would explode. Better to explode to someone who would keep it to themselves than someone else who would report her to Ivan, or the cops. In that moment of panic, she didn't know what counted as a crime and what didn't. A crime against decency had definitely been committed.

Wracking her brain, Izzy tried to think of someone who she could confide in that wouldn't have some reason or another to tell the secret to someone else. Despite the fact that Tystalten was an inevitable dead end in the professional sense, with no chance for advancement, the marginally higher ups like Ivan liked to inculcate a tattle tale culture. She thought her dormmates could be trusted, but she couldn't be sure. And her friends from back home were gossipy as hens. That left the last domain of solidarity left to a young woman out in the world:

Family.

She groaned, slapping her forehead. Maybe Rachel wouldn't tell on her–not like when they were five–but she thought it doubtful that she wouldn't judge. Options were limited. She sighed, pulled up her phone again, and picked out her sister's contact from the long list. Here she goes, she thought.