Excerpt from My Dark Vanessa by Kate Russell, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

"Strane?"

He exhales a heavy sigh. "I guess you saw."

"Yeah," I say. "I saw."

I don't ask questions, but he launches into an explanation anyway. He says the school is opening an investigation and he's bracing himself for the worst. He assumes they'll force him to resign. He doubts he'll make it through the school year, maybe not even to Christmas break. Hearing his voice is such a shock that I struggle to keep up with what he says. It's been months since we last spoke, when I was gripped with panic after my dad died of a heart attack and I told Strane I couldn't do it anymore; the same sudden onset of morals I've had through years of screwups—lost jobs, breakups, and breakdowns—as though being good could retroactively fix all the things I've broken.

"But they already investigated back when she was your student," I say.

"They're revisiting it. Everyone's getting interviewed all over again."

"If they decided you didn't do anything wrong back then, why would they change their minds now?"

"Paid any attention to the news lately?" he asks. "We're living in a different time."

I want to tell him he's being overdramatic, that it'll be ok so long as he's innocent, but I know he's right. For the past month, something's been gaining momentum, a wave of women outing men as harassers, assaulters. It's mostly celebrities who have been targeted—musicians, politicians, movie stars—but less famous men have been named, too. No matter their background, the accused go through the same steps. First, they deny everything. Then, as it becomes clear the din of accusations isn't going away, they resign from their jobs in disgrace and issue a statement of vague apology that stops short of admitting wrongdoing. Then the final step: they go silent and disappear. It's been surreal to watch it play out day after day, these men falling so easily.

"It should be ok," I say. "Everything she wrote is a lie."

On the phone, Strane sucks in a breath, air whistling through his teeth. "I don't know if she is lying, at least not technically."

"But you barely touched her. In that post, she says you assaulted her."

"Assault," he scoffs. "Assault can be anything, like how battery can mean you grabbed someone by the wrist or shoved their shoulder. It's a meaningless legal term."

I stare out the window at the farmers' market: the milling crowd, the swarming seagulls. A woman selling food opens a metal tub, releasing a cloud of steam as she pulls out two tamales. "You know, she messaged me last week."

A beat of silence. "Did she."

"She wanted to see if I'd come forward, too. Probably figured she'd be more believable if she roped me into it."

Strane says nothing.

"I didn't respond. Obviously."

"Right," he says. "Of course."

"I thought she was bluffing. Didn't think she'd have the nerve." I lean forward, press my forehead against the window. "It'll be ok. You know where I stand."

And with that, he breathes out. I can imagine the smile of relief on his face, the creases in the corners of his eyes. "That's all I need to hear," he says.

Back at the concierge desk, I bring up Facebook, type "Taylor Birch" in the search bar, and her profile fills the screen. I scroll through the sparse public content I've scrutinized for years, the photos and life updates, and now, at the top, the post about Strane. The numbers still climb—438 shares now, 1.8k likes, plus new comments, more of the same.

This is so inspiring.

I'm in awe of your strength.

Keep speaking your truth, Taylor.

* * *

When Strane and I met, I was fifteen and he was forty-two, a near perfect thirty years between us. That's how I described the difference back then—perfect. I loved the math of it, three times my age, how easy it was to imagine three of me fitting inside him: one of me curled around his brain, another around his heart, the third turned to liquid and sliding through his veins.

Excerpted from My Dark Vanessa by Karen Russell. Copyright © 2020 by Karen Russell. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.