“I can’t believe we’re so close.” I’m on the phone with Cami, swiping a pale lipstick in the mirror and rolling my lips to make an even coat. “The party is next week,” she says, and I sigh, moving the phone from where it’s perched between my ear and shoulder.
“I don’t know, Cami. It feels . . . wrong.” There’s silence on the line.
I know this silence.
“What do you mean it feels wrong?” Her voice is nearly hysterical, and part of me wonders if she is more invested in this than I am.
Scratch that. At this point, I know she’s more invested in my revenge on Richard than I am. Because when I get a text from Damien, I don’t get eager to advance my plan—I get butterflies. When we meet up for dinner, I’m not thinking about how to bring up the party or work events in conversation—I’m trying to get to know him more, to hear more funny stories of growing up in the Bronx with his friends.
The truth is, I’m falling for Damien Martinez, and I am so wholly fucked because I don’t think there’s an easy way out of this.
There’s no easy way to admit my initial motivation to date him, no easy way to tell him that this started not as a way to get to know a kind, caring man but a way to get back at a piece of shit ex.
“We’re spending so much time together.” The other end is quiet. “And, Cam . . . I think I like him.” I say that part more subdued, almost nervous, because I know Cami will not be on board with any change to the plan.
“You like him?” I sigh.
“Yeah, Cam.”
“You like him?” I sigh again, already exhausted by this conversation.
“Cam, stop it. It’s not like that. He’s sweet. He’s . . . good. He’s different. He’s not like Richard. And he doesn’t deserve to be the butt of some joke.”
“All men are the same, Abbie. All men only want one thing—to control you and then break your heart. They love the power, love knowing they won.” Her words are full of anger, venom, frustrations, and retribution.
Full of knowing.
And with what her ex did to her, she would know.
“Cam, I don’t—”
“Trust me, babe. It’s true.”
“It’s not. Some men, yes. Richard? Absolutely. Jason? Fuck yes. But Damien? He’s not that. And I’m a shitty person for doing this.” She doesn’t respond, and I sit on my bed, preparing to drop the final bomb that will destroy Cami’s entire plan.
“I’m going to tell him.”
“What?!”
“I’m going to tell Damien everything. Tonight.” I think I decided on the night in his apartment when he talked to me about the party. Despite my failed attempt and him telling me to wait, I need to get it off my chest. The churn in my gut isn’t worth any hint of revenge.
There is officially a real chance of someone other than Richard getting hurt in this. I don’t want Damien to be collateral damage. He doesn’t deserve that.
So when I woke up this morning, I decided that at some point tonight, I’m going to tell him. I’m going to lay it all at his feet and let him decide how big of a piece of shit I am.
“You can’t do that, Abbie.”
“I’m an adult, so I can do what I want,” I say, standing again and moving to grab my bag.
“Abbie, please. We’ll have a girls’ night tomorrow. Talk it through. You just . . . need time to refocus.”
“Appreciate it, Cam, and love you to the ends of the earth, but no. I’m done. I need to—” My phone vibrates against my ear. “Hold on, I think that’s him,” I say mid-sentence, pulling my phone from my face that just beeped with a text.
But it’s not Damien telling me he’s on his way up like I thought.
It’s Richard.
Richard: Please remove any photos and tags of me off of your social media.
I stare at the words, trying to understand them.
Why would I—
Another message comes through.
Richard: I don’t want anyone searching and finding us together.
I think in that moment, I’m going to be sick.
Four years.
Four years of photos and moments that I thought were precious, even now, despite knowing how much of a shit person he is. Moments of my life that I found important enough to put on the internet for the world to see. Four years of posting about him with gushy captions that I subconsciously thought would make him realize who I was to him, who I could be.
Four years of him never seeing it. Never appreciating the small things I did to make his life easier.
And now, four years later, just weeks after our break up, he wants to make sure there is no proof of him ever having stooped so low as to date me.
To date the not serious, not wife material, and definitely not worthy of a prestigious lawyer girl from New Jersey.
All hesitations are wiped away.
This is why.
This is why.
This is why I can’t stop.
My mind snaps back into place, and I hear Cam talking through the receiver, not at my ear, so I move it back to speak.
“Abs? You good?” she asks, and it’s obvious it’s not the first time she has said it.
“He just texted me,” I say, and even to me, my voice sounds hollow. Empty. Defeated.
“Damien?” In her voice, there’s shock. I know it’s not shock that he texted, but shock that I sound the way I do.
“No. Richard.”
“Oh, Jesus, that scumbag?”
“He hasn’t reached out since Halloween.” I remember the days following the breakup, coming to terms with many, many things about our relationship, but one of the most glaring ones was that I didn’t have to go to his place to pick up my stuff, nor did he have to come here to get his.
We were two complete entities.
It was another wake-up call, just how separated he’d kept us and how delusional I was about it.
He always made sure I brought my things home.
I once left a box of tampons under the sink cabinet for emergencies. The next time I slept over, he sat me down and told me he didn’t appreciate my “being sneaky” and asked me not to do that again. That the clutter made his life difficult.
In hindsight, the box of tampons wasn’t the clutter.
I was the clutter.
“He wants me to delete all of the photos of him from my social media.” Cam is silent. Another text comes through.
Richard: Please confirm when you have done this task.
God, he speaks like I’m his assistant and he’s going to dock points from my performance review if I don’t do it in a timely manner.
How was I so fucking stupid?
“What the fuck?” Cam says when I have my phone back to my ear. “Why?” I quote his text for her without glancing at my phone, each word already seared into my subconscious. “What a fucking piece of shit.”
“You’re right,” I say. “I need to stick to the plan.”
This must be a sign from the universe. A sign saying don’t stop now—it’s a necessity. This isn’t a bad thing. You’re doing what you need to be doing.
Why else would it line up like this, Richard texting as I’m talking to Cam about confessing, as I’m waiting for Damien to come pick me up?
“Atta girl,” she says, a smile in her voice. “Fuck men. Fuck the patriarchy.”
There’s a knock at my door. Damien.
“Gotta go, Cam. Damien’s here.”
“Remember the cause, Abbie,” she says, and despite the reminder, I can’t help the jolt to my stomach at her words.
“It’s not a cause, Cam. It’s real life,” I say, my voice low as I walk to the door, grab a coat, and end the call.
