A/N. Because it's been a while and y'all have fish memories, reminder on a few small things regarding characters. Marnie and Kiara are sisters. Kiara is dating Amalia's dad, Elias. Max and Marnie used to work together. Marnie is dating her boss Jordan. Avery is Abby's old piece of shit agent. I think that covers all the characters you might have forgotten connected to other characters.

Amalia saw the news first. I'd decided not to say anything and hope that it fell to the bottom of the media feed before someone caught it. But Amalia read the news and the updates and she loved it whenever she and Max were photographed together by the paps. So she screenshot the pictures and had a pin board of photos of her and Max out on romantic dates or hand in hand on the sidewalk.

She said that she loved how authentic the photos were. There was no warning that a photo would be taken so however big her smile was or how in love they looked, it was genuine and she adored that aspect of the attention both of them had started to receive.

But the point is, she saw the news article about Avery. About a woman that heard of his assault and decided to jump on the chance to come forward about what he did to her while he was physically unable to come and find her. She'd been raped. Her statement, which was summarised in the article, was graphic and I couldn't stop thinking about the fact that, that could have been me. I also couldn't understand why it wasn't.

"This is good," Max said from beside Amalia in the middle of the living room. I'd been pacing for the last fifteen minutes. I also hadn't had a wink of sleep last night. The three of us were in our PJs. "You can come forward too. You won't be alone now. I mean, I bet that girl was scared. But there's strength in numbers. More witnesses means a higher chance of conviction."

"If dad sees this," I came to a stop and looked at both of them. "Then he's going to lose it. He's going to be so hurt. He'll know that I— that I—"

"He might not see it to be honest," Max slipped his hands into his sweat pockets. "He doesn't check mainstream media anymore. He stopped after that whole parking lot incident went down months ago. He couldn't handle reading the rumours and that sort of thing."

"Well. . . a silver lining I suppose. Still. Someone he knows will see it. And tell him."

Max looked thoughtful as he shook his head. "Not necessarily. I mean, lots of people know dad. But for people to put this together, they would have to know all the little details. They'd have to know that you were working for Avery here in New York. They'd have to know the timeline of events etc. I mean, dad's proud of you, but I doubt he went around and told all of his mates what your agents name and location was. Even if his friends do see the article, they might not click a thing into place."

"I guess," I worried my lip and felt my stomach turning over itself. Stress brought on involuntary vomit. After making myself sick for so long, my body had an automatic response to throw up on certain triggers. I used to stress whenever I ate. Stress in general can cause nausea. But this was harder to control.

I ran to the bathroom, fell on the damp tiled floor and lost bile into the toilet bowl. I hadn't eaten so all that was coming out was a yellowish liquid. My stomach started to ache and a hand moved across my back.

"At least it's not chunky," Amalia said, pulling my bed hair behind my shoulders.

I laughed and spat a mouthful of thick saliva out. My nose felt full and sore as well. "That's true. Chunky vomit is gross." I left out the part that it didn't bother me all that much. I was used to throwing up.

After I'd brushed my teeth and wandered out of the bathroom, feeling a bit flush, I found Max pouring water into a cup of herbal tea for me. "You should have some breakfast."

"Yeah I'll make some toast in a minute," I told him and sat at the breakfast bar, hands and fingers trembling from the fact that I hadn't eaten and I'd just thrown up stomach acid. "Promise that you won't tell dad about the article."

He moved around the kitchen, wiping down the countertop and sliding containers back into their place. "I won't tell him. But I think you should come forward as well and help with the investigation."

"Don't put that on me," I snapped. "They have him for rape now. Other girls will come forward but I can't risk dad finding out, Max."

"How about we drop it for now," Amalia said, holding my shoulder as she stood behind me. "Max, baby, just let her go at her own pace, okay?"

He looked at her over my head and sighed, both palms on the countertop. "Yeah. Alright. I'll drop it. Just— talk to me. If you need to. I'll help however I can."

"You've proven that," I lightly touch the top of his bruised knuckles. I'm still pissed that I missed that. Max, losing his cool and beating the hell out of someone. Unheard of.

On Saturday, Amalia and I decided to take Bernie to the mall to do some shopping on mom. Just a few bits and pieces.

But it turned out that she wasn't the best shopper. "Wait, one hundred and sixty dollars for a T-shirt?!" She stared at the fabric with disgust and confusion. "I could make one at home for a lot less. Be better quality too. That stitch is garbage."

Amalia explained that Bernie didn't and had never done high end shopping. It was a lot of thrift shopping which she thinks gave Bernie the eye for vintage design. Otherwise, Bernie made all of her own clothes with fabric that she sought through her father's art supplier. Who sold a huge range of materials and supplies.

"Bernie," Amalia nudged her little sister while we stood around a stand of ankle boots. "Look at that guy. Isn't he so cute?"

Bernie peered at a teenage kid with a full head of curls, long legs and great street style. Her indifferent shrug was full of boredom. "Eh." She turned around and wandered towards another shelf.

"I feel like it'd be so much easier to talk boys if we were the same age," Amalia said to me, running her fingers along a row of woollen slippers. "I kind of want an opening to have the safe sex talk with her. Dad passed that job on to me. But I can't tell what her type is."

"You can talk boys with me," I told her. "I don't have a sister to gush over gorgeous men with. Oh but ooh. You're dating Max. So. . . not too much information. Shit, why are two of my closest friends dating my brothers? The odds."

"Well how about we keep it unrelated," she linked her arm through mine and we abandoned searching the shelves. Instead we just followed Berns while she shopped. "Like who is one celeb that you love so much, you'd let him pass your hard limits?"

"I don't have hard limits."

Amalia slapped a hand across her mouth, gaze wide as she gasped. "No hard limits? Okay. So, you'd let Flynn poop on you? Or—"

"Oh gross, what the fuck," I laughed loud enough that a few women browsing through the lingerie shot me an unimpressed glare. Lingerie? What are we doing in this aisle. "No okay. Yeah. I guess I do have some hard limits. Alright I suppose I would let. . . Michael B Jordan do some wild shit to me."

"Mhmm," Amalia agreed and we saw Berns flicking through the sports bras so we wandered towards her. "I agree. He's gorgeous. I'd let Sebastian Stan poop on me."

Bernie recoiled, her hands full of colourful sports bras and a few black ones too. She glared at her sister and shook her head. "That's gross. I didn't need to hear that. How would Max feel?"

"We're talking about celebrities," Amalia informed her. "Max does it too. His pass is Dove Cameron."

I wondered if I should tell Amalia that Max has met Dove before. Mom co hosted a dance event over the fall a couple of years ago and Dove was a guest appearance. So we all met her. Would she still be as unbothered if she knew that it was more possible than most cases of having a celeb pass? No. Amalia was relaxed and confident in her relationship. It wouldn't upset her.

"And that was an exaggeration. I'd never let someone poop on me. Those are cute," Amalia moved the conversation while Bernie was pretending to gag. She had a closer look at the sports bras and then peered around. "Ya know, you're probably developed enough for something a little cuter now. You could get a proper bra. A pretty one. If you wanted?"

"Ya think?"

"Yeah," Amalia encouraged and I nodded along. "You can get fitted and find something pretty."

"These ones are kind of comfortable though. And no one is going to see my bra right now. So what's the point?"

"The point," Amalia grabbed Bernie's shoulders and guided her towards the rack that was labelled for young teenagers. The ones that were just starting to curve. "Is never about someone else seeing it. It's about you feeling beautiful. And a cute bra and panties set can be such a confidence boost. Right, Abby?"

"Yeah," I nodded and plucked one off the rack. It was  blue and white with lace detail and a little charm hanging from between the cups. "There's something empowering about having cute lingerie on. Even if no one does see it. And no one should be right now, right?"

Bernie rolled her eyes and took the bra from me. "I'm not even fourteen. No one is seeing a thing."

"Thank God," Amalia clutched her chest after Bernie had gone in search of the changing rooms.

We followed her into a corridor of cubicles, mirrors and gorgeous gleaming marble floors. Staff were checking items and unlocking rooms for customers. Amalia went with Bernie to ask one of the woman about fitting her into a bra so I sat down on a little white cushioned stool and waited.

A fun fact that I'd come to learn in rehab was that change room mirrors were literally altered to make you look slimmer. There was a secret about their instillation and the angle at which they were placed. A slight curvature on just one axis can make a person look thinner. The lighting plays a huge part too. The right lighting could spotlight your cleavage, making a shadow and giving the illusion of a smaller waist. It could hide your imperfections and smooth your skin.

It was why we so often love what how we look in a dress that we put on in the fitting room but hate when we get home.

I leaned against the cold wall of mirrors behind me and saw a teenage girl appear from a cubicle. She was wearing a pencil skirt and her mom was waiting outside. The girl had a splitting grin on her lips as she smoothed her front and did a slow twirl. But the mother, a short woman with broad shoulders held a finger to her pursed lips and shook her head.

"It's not quite right, Fliss. See this particular design is better on girls with big bums and small waists," she turned her daughter around and looked her over. "You've got quite a small bum but big hips baby. You got my muffin tops. It's accentuated the wrong places. I wouldn't wear it if I were you."

"Don't say that," I stood up and marched towards them, my voice bouncing off the walls and echoing. I was seeing red as I approached them with a pounding heart. "Don't you dare say that to her! What is wrong with you?! You might think that you're just giving her clothing advice. But you're not. You're hurting her! Do you get that?! Hurting her—"

"Wel—"

"What happens after she listens?!" I shout. "Here's what happens, she starts working for the body that is apparently better suited to the clothes that she wants to wear. So she eats less and she works out more. But she still doesn't look like the girls on Instagram who's flaws are rubbed out with a digital eraser. So she works out even harder and eats even less and it continues because she's striving for an unrealistic goal and then she doesn't even work out anymore because she's got no strength left. So she just eats nothing and has no nutrients and she still doesn't see what everyone else sees when she looks in the mirror because she's sick and then she's dead! Do you get it?!"

"Bu—"

"No. You know what, fuck you. She's fucking beautiful," I turn to the girl who's watching me with her mouth hanging open. "You're beautiful. Do you like that skirt?"

She closed her mouth and nodded.

"Good. Then you can have it. On me. You can have whatever you want and it's on me. Got it?!" And then I look at the mom again who has turned a brighter red than her hair and I point a finger at her. "Don't ever tell your daughter, or any young girl, or fucking anyone, that her hips are too big. Got it?!"

She nodded and I heard the echo of enthusiastic clapping. When I turned around, Bernie was standing beside a cubicle in her bra and jeans, clapping so hard that the noise pierced. She whistled. "Hells yes. The only Lahey sibling that I'll ever stan."

Amalia gave her a light slap in the shoulder.

"Oh and Max, I guess," Bernie corrected.

"Why does everything I do end up online," I stared at the clip of myself screaming at the woman at the mall. Who, now that I was watching this without a blanket of rage across my eyes, I realised looked a little bit terrified. I am the vision of instability.

"Because you're a public figure," Milly stated from her spot at the breakfast bar. She was cradling a cocktail and her red hair was curled and sweeping over one shoulder. She'd come in to New York for a girls night with Amalia and I. A Pat Benatar record was blasting on Max's machine while we waited for Amalia to get dressed. "And because you do crazy shit in public. You're as bad as Lucas."

"Not even close," I poured a second drink. As in a second shot of straight vodka because I didn't want something with all of the sugar in it. It went down with a slight burn.

"You're a hero, mate," she shrugs. "That woman needed to hear it."

"She probably had no idea that she was being so harmful. I could have told her like a sane person instead of flipping out."

"Mmm no," she shook her head. "A mother should know not to tell her daughter that her hips are too big for a skirt. That's fucked."

There was no point in expressing to Milly that I felt bad about what happened. She was ruthless and unforgiving. She'd have done the same thing that I did but she might have finished it with a backhand or a kick to the shin.

Max and Amalia's bedroom door opened at the end of the hall and she stepped out wearing a navy slip with delicate white flowers on the skirt and a plunging neckline. It was short and almost looked like something an ice skater would wear. She had it paired with strap platforms. It was elegant but alluring.

Max was behind her wearing nothing but his sweats. He rested his hand above his head on the doorframe and used his other hand to grab her and pull her back.

I turned away and let them have their moment. He kept on mumbling about wanting to keep her all to himself. It was adorable but I was getting impatient waiting for our girls night to begin.

She must have pulled herself free because she appeared a moment later and her eyes went wide as she looked Mills and I over. "I'll never get over how gorgeous that dress is," she said. I was wearing the same one that Bernie made me. I didn't care that it was more formal than the usual club attire.

"That's a gorgeous playsuit," she said to Mills who peered down at her outfit. It was fitted with long sleeves and pants and a cinched waist.

She smiled and stood up with her cocktail. "Thanks. I love your outfit too. You look like a sexy ice skating queen."

Amalia giggled. "It had a longer skirt but Bernie altered it. She likes to live vicariously through me until she can wear her own short skirts and high heels."

"And also until her boobs grow, right?" I added, recalling the conversation that we'd had in the car after she'd bought her first bra earlier. She loved it but she said that she couldn't wait until her chest inflated a bit more.

Our girls night began at a cute rustic joint where everything looked aged. Except for the staff of course. Stained wood, distressed steel detail and green vines made it look natural and it smelled like pine. The lighting was dim and the three of us sat at a small table with a drink while we talked over the loud music and competing voices.

"We should have invited Marnie," Mills shouted with a mild slur. She fiddled with her cleavage and slipped her hands into her top so that she could adjust her boobs. "She's hilarious. You know that she has a blog and she talks about everything."

"Yeah when she first started it, she sent Kiara a link so that she could read it," Amalia leaned in close so that we could hear her. "So we were all sitting around the dinner table, Bernie included, and we got like half way through it before dad flipped out and made her close the blog."

"Really?!" I gasp with excitement. "I haven't seen it. I wanna see it."

"Here," Milly slipped her phone out of her clutch and swiped her thumb across the screen as Amalia and I huddled on either side of her. "This is her latest one. It fucking rolled me."

She pulled up a page that was black with white letters. It looked like a night mode setting. But I'd assume that it was just Marnie. The title was in bold threatening looking letters and it was titled The vegan and the meat.

"I'm already concerned," I laughed but continued reading.

If you're a follower, it won't be news that I'm a vegan. The choice was personal for me. In the beginning it was because I wanted to lose a few pounds and I'd heard that was a good place to start.

I mean, meth seemed effective too but my mom spent five grand on braces for me when I was a teen and she'd have murdered me if I lost my pearls to a drug habit after she'd dished out to have them fixed. Anyway. I digress. My point is, the further into the deep green hole that I fell, the more I came to learn about the environment and the more time I spent with furry creatures and I realised that becoming a vegan was about way more than my hips.

Because let's face it, those aren't going anywhere. I eat too much sugar. I love that shit. So. I come to the next part of my point. Dating a meat eater. Jordan, my boss and babe. Or as I like to call him, daddager. Daddy, manager. You get it.

Now, I don't tell Jordan what to do with his mouth unless of course it's in regards to my vagina. But otherwise, his eating habits are his own. A common jeer in our relationship is the fact that I love blowing him. He likes to tease me and tell me that I'm eating meat. I like to remind him that if all meat tasted like penis, there would be a lot more vegans on the planet.

However, I'm pleased to announce that ever since we started dating, he's cut down on in his meats and fats out of common courtesy. I don't begrudge him his burgers and steaks. But whenever we go out to eat, he lets me choose the restaurant and he's totally open to giving vegan options a go. He's also found that he really likes them.

So as a result, his diet is cleaner and his cum tastes nicer. You all know that my blogs are purely me having a ramble and I would never recommend coming to me for advice. But I will say, fruity cum tastes better. Go vegan! Marnie signing off. Chat next week fuckers.

I leaned back after I'd finished reading and Milly was laughing along with Amalia.

"That's a more mild one," Milly nodded, putting her phone back. "It gets wild. I tried to tell her that she should start a vlog. Her voice just makes her wit sound so much funnier."

"You know what I'd watch," I tell her. "Both of you doing a vlog."

"Yes!" Amalia gasped.

Milly slapped her hands to her cheeks. "I would do that. Should I move to New York?"

"Do one of those split screens," Amalia said, raising her straw to her lips. "Like a conference call but as a livestream."

"Perfect!" Milly raised her glass to the air. "Toast to Abby and having her back so that we can do this more often. To Amalia for taking such good care of her. And to me, starting a vlog with Max's gothic bestie. I can't wait."

We clinked glasses and decided that we'd celebrate new beginnings tonight. We'd celebrate all of the good. And I was so glad. Because I'd had enough of the bad for one lifetime.