“Mehar!” She jumped up and hugged me tight, rocking me side to side. “Oh my God, I missed you so much. You look amazing. Is that a new top? Sit down, I already ordered us drinks.”
“I’m driving, so just water for me.”
“Boring. I got you a margarita anyway. You can just sip it.”
I sat down and looked at her across the table. She was beautiful as always, hair done, makeup flawless, outfit expensive. She had pretty, clear sepia-toned skin. Her big doe eyes were my favorite feature and she kept her lashes lengthy and wispy. High cheeks bones and a small chin dimple accompanied her Bambi like face. But underneath all of that, something was off. She was thinner. The energy she was radiating wasn’t joy, it was chemical. And there were shadows under her eyes that the concealer couldn’t fully hide.
“How’ve you been?” I asked.
“So good. Mega and I just got back from Miami. He surprised me with a whole trip—beachfront hotel, spa day, dinner at this insane rooftop restaurant. He’s so good to me, Mehar. Like, I don’t even know what I did to deserve this man.”
“That sounds nice.” I kept my voice even.
Her phone buzzed on the table. She glanced at it, typed something quickly, and set it back down. Thirty seconds later it buzzed again. And again. And again.
“You need to get that?” I asked.
“It’s just Mega. He’s checking in.” She smiled but it didn’t reach her eyes. “He worries about me.”
“He’s called three times since I sat down.”
“He just wants to know where I am. To make sure I’m safe. It’s actually really sweet if you think about it.”
I didn’t think it was sweet. I thought it was a pattern I recognized from two different men who had controlled every woman in their lives under the disguise of love and protection. My father checked on his wives constantly—not because he cared about their safety but because he needed to know they weren’t doing anything he hadn’t approved. Ahmad did the same thing. Texting every hour, calling if I didn’t respond in ten minutes, showing up wherever I was if I took too long to answer.
“Serenity, how often does he do that? The checking in.”
“I don’t know. Whenever I go out.” She shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just because he cares?—”
“That’s not caring, Serenity. That’s controlling.” I said it straight because I loved her too much to wrap it in something soft. “I’ve lived with men like that. I know what it looks like when someone is tracking you and calling it love. It starts with checking in and it ends with you not being able to go anywhere without permission.”
I didn’t even bother bringing up those bruises I saw a couple of months back. I knew what they were. Even though she lied and said they were from rope play or whatever.
Her face changed. The loose, high energy tightened into something defensive and her jaw set the way it did when she was about to fight.
“You don’t know Mega. He’s not like that.”
“I know what I’m seeing. Your pupils are dilated, you’ve lost weight, and your man is blowing up your phone while you’re at dinner with a friend. That’s not love, Ren. That’s a leash.”
“Oh, so now you’re an expert on relationships? You’ve had two failed relationships. Shit, you’re practically a virgin.” She regretted it the second she said it. I could see it flash across her face, the instant recognition that she’d crossed a line. But the words were already out and they sat between us on the table next to the margarita I wasn’t drinking.
“I’m an expert on abuse and you know that’s true,” I said quietly.
“I’m not being fuckin’ abused! So, stop lecture me about Mega checking in on me, okay?” She was getting louder. The couple at the next table glanced over.
“I’m not lecturing you. I’m telling you what I see because I love you and nobody else is going to say it. You’re using, Serenity. And the man you’re living with is feeding you drugs and tracking your location and you’re calling it romance.”
“He’s not feeding me anything. I make my own choices.”
“Then choose better.”
She stood up so fast the silverware rattled. Grabbed her purse, grabbed her phone—which was buzzing again—and looked at me with eyes that were wet and furious and high and heartbroken all at the same time.
“You know what, Mehar? Don’t call me until you’re ready to stop judging me. You’ve got your own shit to figure out.” Sheturned and walked out of the restaurant, weaving through tables with that too-fast stride people use when they’re trying not to cry in public.
I sat there in the booth by myself. The margarita sweated in its glass. The waiter came by and asked if I was ready to order and I told him I needed a minute, which was a lie because what I needed was about six months of peace and a world where the people I loved stopped destroying themselves.
I paid for the drinks and left.
