22 #2
“Let’s see, first he texted me to tell me he’s back in town and wants to take me out again.
Then he got a burner phone to text me from a second number, in case I had him blocked, obviously.
Then he started messaging me on my social media accounts.
Then he started leaving public comments on my social media accounts—all burner accounts, of course, but I knew it was him.
And now he’s paying attention to my location, as you clearly saw. Oh, and I’ve seen him in person twice.”
That last one has Owen’s eyes widening, voice fighting not to shatter as he asks, “He’s following you?”
“No,” I reply. “I—I think it was coincidence. I saw him at Haymarket while I was grocery shopping and then at—” I cut myself off, not wanting to tell him that part yet. Not until I know what to do about it. So I just say, “—a restaurant.”
“I assume you’ve already filed a police report?” Owen asks
And I can’t help it. I laugh out loud, a manic edge slicing through the sound. It’s actually funny—that he can be so experienced in the law and at the DV shelter and still have no idea how things really are.
“The police aren’t gonna care. All I have is one text he sent me from his real number.
Everything else is burner numbers and burner social media accounts.
You think they’re going to start a criminal investigation because a slut who posts half-naked pictures on social media thinks a guy she used to have consensual sex with might be saying creepy things to her?
They won’t give a fuck, my dude. I promise you that. ”
“Well you have to do something. Start a police record now just in case it escalates. And a restraining order could—”
“No.” I start walking away.
“Amel—”
“I said no.” I spin back around to face him. “If I’m going to talk to you about this—if you’re going to be a party to this at all—you need to let me decide whether or not to report it. You need to respect my decision.”
“But what could it hurt?”
“You don’t think I reported what he did in college? Do you know how horrible that was, having representatives of the university—people I respected—dismiss me like a hysterical bitch? Barely make a note in their files and never do a thing about it? It was fucked up, and I won’t go through it again.”
“Well, we can’t just ignore it. You can’t just keep living alone in a first-floor apartment with windows right out onto the street, walking your dog alone at night when this fucking creep is keeping tabs on you. It’s not gonna happen. I won’t let it.”
“You actually don’t get a say in what I do. And if you’re gonna be just another controlling jackass about it then you can leave.”
“That’s a pretty broad definition of controlling.”
“It’s the standard definition, Owen, and if you don’t know that it’s a problem.”
I see his lawyer-brain kick into gear as his expression shifts into something stern, almost professionally detached. He asks, “What about addiction?”
“What?” I spit.
“Let’s say if Nolan, God forbid, became an alcoholic—would it be controlling of you to tell him to stop drinking?”
“What kind of strawman rhetorical tactic is that? That’s a completely different situation and you know it.”
“How so?”
“Because Nolan and I aren’t dating, for one.”
“Fine,” Owen paces away from me. “Same example. You’re dating someone with an alcohol problem. You’re telling me you’d just leave it alone?”
“Again, it’s not relevant. Addiction is an illness. If my partner had cancer or high cholesterol I would tell them to get treatment, just like I would with addiction.”
“And if they refused?”
He thinks he’s check-mated me but I was born fighting. “If they refused I would try to make them! Because again, it’s different. It’s their physical health. It’s not ambiguous and it’s not a personal preference.”
“But there are lots of risks to physical health. Joining the military, taking a drink from a stranger, walking your dog alone at night. Would you be in the right to stop your partner from doing those things?”
“I find this conversation very frustrating.”
“It’s frustrating because I’m right.”
“No,” I spit, “it’s frustrating because it’s turning people’s real, complicated lived experiences into some reductive intellectual exercise. No, there’s no bright line between actions that are clearly supportive and actions that are clearly controlling. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Yes, it is.” He takes a step towards me but I’m not having it.
I push past him, marching towards the door, needing space as I say, “Fine. You win.”
But of course he cuts off my path to the door, voice low as he says, “I’m just trying to keep you safe.”
“And I don’t need that. I’ve kept myself safe until now and I’m gonna keep doing it. Didn’t you just say that to me a few nights ago? Didn’t you tell me I handled it and I survived and that’s enough?”
Finally, I’ve found a crack in his calm facade. There’s a rough edge to his voice, a desperate grating as he pleads, “Why won’t you let me help you?”
“I don’t make you do things you don’t want to do, even when they’re for your own good. I’m not running around telling Andy your secrets, or forcing you to tell him. Why can’t you do the same for me?”
“That’s not what this is at all. This is your safety. This is a real, acute threat of bodily harm. I’m not crazy for wanting to do something about it.”
“I think you should go,” I snap. “Now.”
“Are you serious?” He tosses his hands in the air and I flinch—my body’s learned reaction showing up without invitation.
Owen notices, takes a step back.
Embarrassment at myself, at the weakness I just showed, flushes my cheeks as I say, “Yes, I’m serious. Please leave.”
And even now, in the heat of this fight, when I’m so mad I could spit and he thinks he’s right and I’m the unreasonable one—even now, he breathes a deep sigh before bending to gently scratch Archie behind the ears.
“I’m gonna head out buddy, but I’ll see you soon, okay?”
And that? That’s too much.
Because unconsciously, my body was bracing for danger. Fighting with a man, a man bigger than me, alone here in this small space. Kicking him out, not giving in. My instincts prickled with barbs of self-defense, ready to fight or flee.
But even at my worst, my most unreasonable and volatile, Owen is stone. Stable enough for me to throw every piece of emotional baggage at him and watch it shatter.
He stands and says, “I’ll see you later, okay?” but the words are pure exhaustion.
I don’t respond.
He pulls open the door and walks away.