Chapter Three #2
And then one day, I came home to find Kyle reading my diaries.
He was tearing out entries, page by page.
With a terrifying, manic look in his eye, he informed me that I was not allowed to write anything down ever again.
That was the last straw. My writing was my one solace, the only truthful part of my life.
Those journals were the only things that were 100 percent mine and no one else’s.
I stormed out the door, even as he yelled after me.
He warned me that if I left, he’d lock me out.
I could never come back.
It’s funny. I now recognize his behavior as emotional abuse.
But I couldn’t tell how bad it truly was until I had some distance from the relationship.
I had never wanted to call it the A-word.
To admit how I had allowed him to treat me.
Our time together had felt like waiting out a passing storm.
I kept thinking, Well, maybe it’ll stop raining soon and I can go outside.
But I had been stuck inside the hurricane for far too long, seconds away from being struck by lightning.
I didn’t tell Tey until after I’d already left.
My parents were off doing their own thing.
When they’d met Kyle at Thanksgiving, they’d declared him charming and well mannered.
I did not want to pop their bubble of delusion, to let them down that way.
They were happy for me. After years of watching me suffer from bullying and assimilation, they could finally exhale.
How could I pull back that curtain, depriving them of the fantasy that everything was okay?
That’s the thing about being the child of immigrants. When your parents risk so much to give you a better life, you feel like the least you can do is pretend said life truly is better, even if the reality is so much darker.
Nico had never liked Kyle, though. When I told him, blinking back tears, that we’d broken up, he muttered only two words: “Good riddance.”
But he had lost the right to care a long time ago.
The day that Kyle kicked me out of our shared home, I found myself back in Mystic, wandering the streets just as I had after Sam revealed her true colors back in middle school.
Just as I’d always done as a kid. And my feet pointed me in the direction of Ends Whale Books.
As I lost myself in the stacks, hiding from the realities of the outside world, I heard a rustle.
I shut my eyes and held my breath, preparing myself for the possibility that Kyle had found me.
That he was going to let me have it in front of all of my favorite authors.
Instead, I came face-to-face with Rona, the owner. She placed a slender hand on my shoulder, then rubbed my back until my breathing slowed and my body stopped shaking.
“Oh, honey,” she said, each syllable full of concern. “What’s the matter?”
I didn’t want to tell her. I couldn’t. I did not yet have the words.
“I need a book rec,” I blurted out instead.
She studied me, apprehensive. “What kind of book?” she finally asked.
I chewed on the inside of my cheek. Yes, what kind of book, Joonie?
“One that will restore my faith in love,” I said. And then, in a quieter voice, “And maybe myself.”
She nodded, offering up a sad smile. “I’ve got just the thing.”
I expected her to bring me a classic. Austen, maybe. Or Jane Eyre.
Instead, she returned moments later with a thick hardcover novel from the fantasy section. I eyed it curiously.
“What’s this?” I’d never read fantasy as an adult before. In my head, it was a genre that children escaped into, then grew out of. A phase. Something frivolous.
“Welcome to the world of A Tale of Salt Water and Secrets by Evelyn Grace Carter,” she said. “I’m so very excited for you to meet my friend Ryke.”
I sighed and graciously accepted the book, thanking Rona, fully believing I wouldn’t read past the first chapter.
But that night, hidden inside a fortress of cotton quilts that Tey had lent me while I crashed on his pull-out couch, I devoured the entire novel.
And began the second. The next morning, I staggered down to the restaurant with red eyes, bad breath, and damp underwear, a changed woman.
The books followed a badass human woman in her early twenties named Merriah and her ancient all-powerful love interest, Ryke.
But the story was so much more than a romance.
Merriah has suffered verbal abuse from her husband.
Her shimmer has dulled, and she has lost sight of herself.
But as the story progresses, she grows resilient, stepping into her power.
At its heart, the series is about Merriah learning to trust herself, owning her strength and her femininity, and the way her potential grows alongside her confidence.
I see so much of myself in her journey. She inspires me. Makes me feel seen. Less alone.
And then there’s Ryke.
Ryke, with his dark hair and amber eyes and flirtatious smile.
Yes, Ryke is part mer (as in, cousin to Ariel).
Sure, he can grow a sparkling onyx tail.
And fine, it’s heavily implied that the size of said tail correlates to the size of his, um, appendage.
But that’s not what makes Ryke so special.
He not only cherishes Merriah’s beauty but respects her agency.
He never tells her what to do or how to think.
Instead, he listens to her and supports her.
He asks for consent and allows her to take the lead.
He always gives her a choice, even when it isn’t advantageous to him.
And he loves her. Oh, how he loves her.
With every ounce and fiber of who he is.
Even more than his good looks, dirty tongue, and perfectly defined torso, that true, unrelenting, all-consuming love is what makes Ryke the world’s most perfect fictional man.
Written by a woman, of course.
In other words, I fell head over heels in love.
The day I first read that book, I vowed never to settle for anything less than I deserved.
A man who is as charmed by my intellect as he is the slope of my neck or the arch of my back.
A partner who will ask me to remain by his side as we chart the course of our lives together instead of leaving me behind.
Someone who makes me blush and flush with pride in equal measure.
Who believes that my flaws are strengths and that our differences are what make us special.
A lover and a friend and a true equal.
A great love, one that could bring the gods to their knees and spin the Earth off its axis.
I’ve been searching for him ever since, to no avail.
But I refuse to give up, to believe the Ryke to my Merriah isn’t out there waiting for me.
I can’t allow my mind to go there, to slip into old habits, even for a second.
I have to have faith. To trust the process.
Even if that means spending my nights alone, snuggled up with words on paper instead of skin and bone.
Because if I can’t have the real thing, at the very least, I’ll always have Ryke.