Chapter 37
Namaste, Andrew
Andrew
I stay at Vince's house the entire time he's away in New York.
For weeks, coffee waits alone in the kitchen. I run alone around Vince's neighborhood, just as I promised him, steering clear of Warner Park... just in case someone really is out to get me.
My days fall into a quiet rhythm. I work, grab lunch with Cynthia or Gary occasionally, hang out with Aubrey when he's free, teach my classes, then come back to Vince's house—alone.
When we first met, Vince teased me about my routines. "Sounds really lonely," he'd said.
It doesn't hit me until now how true that was. Loneliness is all I've ever known. I don't realize how much brighter life could be with someone like Vince in it. Now, I can't stop comparing the way things are to the way things could be with him around.
Running around Vince's neighborhood isn't even close to running in Warner Park with him, but it's starting to feel like a routine again. Almost there. Tomorrow, Vince is coming home. Butterflies flutter in my stomach since the moment I wake up. I can't wait to see him.
I wonder where he's running in New York, if he thinks of me during his mornings the way I think of him. Three hours ahead of me... it's weird how my brain adjusts, constantly calculating the time difference, guessing what he might be doing.
My lungs burn as I finish my morning run, gasping for air that never seems to fill them completely. But it's not the exercise that drives me now—it's a decision forming like a fire in my gut.
Today. I'll move into Vince's house today.
A surprise waiting for him when he lands tonight.
This is my answer, unspoken until now. Before his trip, when he asked me to stay, I hesitated.
The words "let me think about it" tumbled out, protective armor around my heart.
But these weeks alone in his house have taught me something profound: it's okay to fall, to trust, to be vulnerable.
Vince will catch me. He'll catch us. My priorities have realigned themselves like planets finding their orbit around his sun.
There's nothing to fear in loving him completely.
The drive to my apartment blurs past my window. When I park and approach the door, my key slides into the lock with unsettling ease. No resistance. No satisfying click of metal meeting metal.
I freeze.
It’s the same feeling I had in my gut weeks ago.
I locked this door. The memory is crystal clear this time—my fingers turning the key, the solid resistance that confirmed my safety.
But now? My mind flashes to the last time I entered this space, to overturned furniture and chaos splattered across my walls.
What fresh hell awaits me behind this door?
My hand trembles as I push it open.
No disaster. No wreckage. No signs of struggle.
Instead, Ted sits in the center of my living room, his presence a violation more profound than any broken window or scattered belongings.
He casually flips through a stack of my mail on the coffee table, munching on one of my post-workout protein bars.
.. the ones I keep in the drawer under the microwave.
Jeans, boots, and a black dress shirt, sleeves rolled up and top buttons undone to an unprofessional degree, showing far more chest than necessary.
It used to be a look I thought was attractive.
Now, it just pisses me off.
He shoots up as soon as he sees me, his expression shifting from surprise to something unreadable, an intensity in his eyes that sends a bolt of fear straight through me.
"What the hell are you doing in here?" I demand, my voice steady, but my pulse races.
Ted clears his throat, standing awkwardly. "I thought you were staying somewhere else. I mean, I haven't figured out where yet, but you haven't been here in forever—"
"How the hell did you get in?" I snap, stepping back toward the door, my palms raised like a barrier between us.
He ignores my question, holding up a few sheets of paper. "How the hell do you even have time for all this?" His tone mocks, but the weight in his words makes my stomach churn.
My cellphone bill.
He's holding my goddamn cellphone records.
It hits me like a brick: this isn't the first time things have felt off in my apartment.
My salted caramel lip balm went missing months ago.
I'd searched everywhere for it—checking every pocket, every drawer, even the trash can—convinced I'd misplaced it.
Sometimes one of the front door locks would be engaged while the other wasn't, a small detail that nagged at me each time I left or returned home.
My clothes, my receipts, even an empty milk carton left in the fridge. ..
I'd thought I was losing my mind.
Each small inconsistency built upon the last, creating a foundation of doubt that made me question my own memory, my own sanity.
I remember standing in my kitchen one morning, staring at that empty milk carton, knowing I'd thrown it away the night before, yet there it sat—mocking me from the top of the trash bin.
But it wasn't me. It was Ted. He's been following me, every move, watching.
The realization sends a cold chill down my spine, each small mystery suddenly clicking into place with terrifying clarity.
The lip balm, the locks, the milk carton—they weren't signs of my declining mental state; they were breadcrumbs left behind by someone who had been violating my space, my privacy, my very sense of safety.
"Get out." My voice shakes, but my resolve doesn't. "I'm calling the cops."
Ted's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing as he calculates his next move.
This is the man I used to trust without a second thought. The man I once called my boyfriend.
I pull my phone from my shorts pocket, my hands shaking. Before I can even punch in the passcode, Ted lunges. He grabs my wrist, wrenching the phone from my grip and hurling it across the room.
It slams into the doorway to my bedroom and bounces onto the floor, the sound of it hitting the tile echoing in the silence.
I stare at him, frozen.
The Ted I thought I knew—annoying, petty, but ultimately harmless—is nowhere to be found. This man in front of me is a stranger, his eyes wild and unrecognizable. Any trace of familiarity is gone, replaced by a creeping, visceral fear.
"I knew you were cheating on me with Vince the whole time," he says, his voice shaking with anger. "But to break up with me like that? In public? At dinner? You're fucking unbelievable, Andrew."
He kicks the door shut behind me, and before I can react, he grabs my arm, dragging me into the kitchen. He shoves me against the fridge with enough force to knock magnets to the floor, the clatter ringing out like a warning.
"I was floored that night," he spits, his face inches from mine. "You thought you were better than me. What the fuck made you think you could humiliate me like that?"
I yank at my arm, trying to free myself, but his grip is iron.
I could fight, I've weathered more than a few brawls growing up in Alaska, but Ted outweighs me by at least forty pounds, and the odds don't favor me.
Fear surges like ice water through my veins as I realize how badly this could end.
Vince had been right about getting cameras, about being more cautious.
God, I wish Vince was here.
Ted's rant continues, his voice rising with every accusation. "You disappear with Vince all the time, act like you're above everyone else! You think I deserved that? You think Sam deserved that? You just throw people away, Andrew, like they're nothing. Who the fuck do you think you are?"
"Let go of me," I say, my voice low and steady despite the fear churning inside me. "Get the hell out of my apartment."
He leans in closer, his breath hot on my face. "No. I'm not leaving, and neither are you."
Before I can process his words, he steps back, winding up for a punch.
The motion catches me off guard, and I barely have time to react.
His fist swings wide, aiming for my face, but I drop to the floor, twisting his grip on my arm and yanking him down with me. We hit the ground in a tangle of limbs, wrestling for control.
Ted curses, his weight pressing me into the floor.
"I have evidence you were cheating with Vince, Andrew," he hisses. "We're not done here."
I see red. Evidence? What the hell does he think gives him the right to break into my home, attack me, and act like he's the victim?
"You think you can just walk in here and do this?" The words rip from my throat as I shove against him with everything I have. "You're fucking insane, Ted! Do you hear yourself?"
His grip vanishes. I watch in horror as he stands above me and his boot lifts, his leg coiling like a spring.
Instinct takes over. I don't think—I move, exploding upward with a raw fury I didn't know I possessed. My shoulder drives into his gut, and he folds around me with a wheezing gasp as we topple sideways. The coffee table skids across the hardwood.
I land across his chest. I pin him down. My fist finds his jaw. Again. And again.
Each impact sends a shockwave up my arm, but I don't stop.
I can't.
Each hit unleashes a torrent of emotion I don't even realize I've been holding back.
Years of frustration, disappointment, and pain pour out with every swing.
Brian leaving me. My family's abandonment.
Dropping out of grad school. Falling into my depression.
The mountain of debt I'm still clawing my way out of.
And now this... Ted, thinking he has any power over me.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a rational voice tries to pull me back.
This isn't therapy. This isn't productive. Hitting Ted won't fix anything.
But I'm not thinking rationally. Not now.
"Andrew!"
Ted's voice breaks through my haze.
I pause, my fist hovering mid-air. He's gasping beneath me, his face bloody and swollen. For a moment, I don't recognize the man I've spent months with. He looks small. Weak. Pathetic.
And then I see his leg shift. The glint of desperation in his eye.