I’d been picked on, but I’d never been picked apart like this. Not by someone with love in their words, but not in their heart. I was beginning to see some cracks in his charm, in his words, in the promise of what it would be like, could be like, when it was just the two of us against the world.

Any hope he might have had of working for my father someday was gone the second my grades went in the toilet. And any hope he might have had of building great things, huge things, in the city where my father knew literally everyone at every architectural firm, every construction company, every everything that had to do with building in this incredible city of architectural beauty, was gone the second I missed my father’s fiftieth birthday party to bring my boyfriend chicken soup because he was feeling under the weather, and I thought that was more important than anything.

And with his world beginning to crumble when his thesis fell apart and his advisor told him he was way off base and in danger of not getting his master’s, my world was going to shit right along with it.

The veiled hints that I might stand to drop a few pounds here and there had become aggressively rude and crude, with handfuls of fat grabbed during angry sex. Red fingerprints on white skin that folded and crumpled when forced to sit naked, hunched over in order to see just how many rolls there were.

Do I really think that when he saw me across the street, those many months ago, that this was his plan? Maybe not. Regardless, he very likely already knew what he’d be able to get away with, considering who I was back then.

When I saw my mother for the first time since I’d moved out, she burst into tears. I couldn’t cry, and not just because I was emotionally shut down, but because I literally didn’t have enough water in my body to do so. I’d lost sixty pounds in four months, and was so exhausted I could barely meet her eyes.

I’d gone shopping downtown, taking the subway when Thomas was teaching his undergraduate class one afternoon and I actually had some time to myself. He was home so much more than he used to be, not making all of his lectures for some time now, staying in, with me. For the first time in a long while, I was alone, out and about, actually feeling myself relaxing for a change—coupled with exhaustion. And then she saw me, and I could see on her face just how bad I looked.

If you lose that amount of weight in that short a time, there’s a slackness to the skin, a person within a person, almost. But factor in the stress, the lack of laughter, my poor health and well-being, and I knew I didn’t look myself.

I let her take me home. I let her wash my face. I let her talk on and on about how much she missed me, how much she worried about me, how many times she’d tried to call me but Thomas told her I was busy. But when she tried to make me a sandwich and put some cookies on a tray, I left.

And went back to the Bronx, where Thomas was waiting for me, wondering why in the world I’d been gone so long, and shouldn’t I have put on some lipstick if I was going out?

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But something happened that day—even though I didn’t realize it at the time. Just being in my home, with my mother, had opened the tiniest sliver of a door. She’d wept when she saw me, and she’d wept when I’d left, but she was so grateful to have seen my face, even though it was too thin and sad-looking. She was happy to see my face.

And Thomas? He was never happy. He used to laugh, make jokes, and tell funny stories—but that night, as I lay next to him in that fourth-floor walk-up studio where our bed was a mattress on the floor, I realized that his humor always had a slant to it, a dark edge or a mean vibe.

He never thought anything good about anything. There was always an angle, someone wanted something from him, or someone was going to try to screw him over for something, or he wasn’t going to be able to get something done because someone always had something more. More money, more power, more connections. Stripped down to the naked truth, he was mean.

I used to think abuse was someone getting hit.

Now I know it’s anything that makes you double over with pain, that makes you question anything and everything about yourself that you knew to be true. It’s anything that tells you that you’re only good if . . .

I felt a drop of water splash onto the back of my hand, and I realized that while telling this story, which I rarely shared with anyone, my eyes had filled with tears. Shocked, I looked up to see Chad and Logan watching me, their own eyes filled with sympathy.

“I’m so sorry.” I sniffed, snatching up a napkin and wiping my face. “I don’t know what happened there. Truly, I didn’t mean to go on so.”

“You didn’t go on, it was—”

“Seriously, I’m so sorry, I never talk about that stuff, it’s ancient history.” I hurried on, dabbing at my nose, horrified to find that it was running. What the hell was I doing, spilling my guts to two men I just met?

“Natalie.” Logan covered my hand with his. “Stop.”

I looked up at him through still-teary eyes, shaking my head. “I should have never—”

“Shut the hell up and let two gorgeous men hug you,” Chad interrupted, no nonsense. Surprised, I laughed, still wiping my face and knowing I must look a fright.

But I let them hug me. And I realized that sometimes strangers can make for the best company ever.

When Chad and Logan dropped me off at Roxie’s a while later, I felt wiped out. Emotionally drained. Wasted.

I hated revisiting that stuff, so I don’t know why it all came out today in a blubbery mess in front of two people I barely knew.

I thought about Thomas from time to time, of course. Not intentionally, but sometimes he’d flash across my brain when something about old New York architecture would come up, or someone would be talking about their dissertation.

Or the time I was sitting in a booth behind some couple and the guy started telling the girl that she’d had enough to eat and she shouldn’t get dessert, and by the way my mother is coming over for dinner next weekend and don’t you think it’s time you learned how to make a decent coffee cake?

That time was bad. I had to leave the table to hide out in the bathroom for a few minutes while I got the shaking under control, and then I had to leave the restaurant entirely when I poured a pitcher of water over that asshole’s head and was asked to leave by the manager.

But not before I gave the girl all the cash I had in my wallet and my card, and told her to call me if she needed a place to stay for the night.




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