I was sitting at my desk, working on a new project when I got the text. It was Beau, a coworker who’d begged my number from a mutual friend at work. He’d insisted he had “something important” to tell me and even though I was pretty sure his definition of “important” was “bedding every woman in a 5 mile radius” I let her give it to him. After a year-long relationship with a coworker who ended up being a total psychopath, I’d adopted a strict policy of not dipping my pen in company ink.
But there was something about his urgency that put me on edge.
“Sure, give him my number. But I better not end up having to change it again.”
I’d only had this number for a couple months—even though I’d broken my lease to get away from my Ex and had changed my routines, I’d been afraid to cut off that final link of communication. I was afraid of what he might resort to if he didn’t have the option of periodically reminding me what a worthless whore I was. It was only after The Other Woman let me know he’d cheated on me the entire time that anger outweighed fear just enough to let me change my number.
Two blissful months of silence followed and I dared to hope the worst was over. Behind closed doors I was still a wreck—I couldn’t sleep at night and when I did it was only so long before I’d wake in a panic, unable to breathe and bathed in sweat, convinced he’d finally come to collect on his promise; that he was there to kill me.
Still… it felt like an improvement.
Until Beau texted me. [Read more…]
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