I didn’t read the message. I couldn’t. The sight of Vincent’s name alone sent me into a panicked frenzy. The phone trembled in my hand. I should have expected this. Should have known he wouldn’t let me go quietly and that he would contact me. I should have blocked his number, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t protected myself. One more entry in my ever-growing journal of failures. Another reminder that I couldn’t sever what should have been cut clean. Another damning piece of evidence proving I lacked even the simplest instincts for self-preservation. I couldn’t manage my life. I couldn’t manage myself. All the old scriptscame rushing back, narratives I’d learned by rote. I was useless, weak, incompetent.
“Oliver?”
Luke’s voice reached me like a hand through murky water drawing me back to the surface. I looked up to see him crouched in front of me, close enough to be with me but far enough away to avoid boxing me in.
His brow was furrowed with concern, eyes scanning my face. “What is it?”
My vision blurred from the tears in my eyes. I fought them. I didn’t want to cry again. Not over Vincent. Not after everything it had taken to finally crawl out from under his clutches.
Turning the phone over, I pressed it face down against my thigh. “It’s nothing.”
Luke didn’t say anything, but his eyes didn’t leave my face. He stayed quiet, letting the silence hang open.
A fresh wave of frustration consumed me. I had finally found the means and had the support to cut myself free from Vincent. I didn’t want him to hold dominion over me in escape. I wasn’t going to let him steal my voice, not again, not when I had survived the worst of him.
“It’s him, he texted.”
Luke nodded in this way that indicated he’d suspected as much. “Did you read the message?”
“No.”
Luke nodded again. “We can forward it to my phone so he won’t see it’s been read. I can read it for you, or we can read it together, or we can ignore it. Whatever you prefer.”
I knew I couldn’t ignore it. It would fester otherwise, like an infection, blistering until it consumed everything else. Avoidance would only give him more ground inside my head.
At first, I wanted to refuse, to push Luke away, insist it wasn’t worth his concern and I could handle it alone. I wanted to buildthe wall higher and thicker so he couldn’t see the parts of me still broken and bleeding. He’d seen enough. Another part of me wanted to let him in. I was tired of carrying this alone.
“I need to know what it says, but I don’t want him to see I’ve read it.”
“Okay, to bypass the read receipt, you’ll need to download an SMS forwarding app. Do you have one already or know how to use it?”
“No,” I said, fighting the urge to apologize, inadequacy holding me fast in its firm grip.
“We use it at work to help protect our clients,” Luke said. “It’s standard procedure for us to reroute incoming messages to our secure work phones so we can monitor for potential threats. Unless you’ve ever needed to use it, most people don’t know it exists. But it’s user-friendly. I can walk you through it step by step. You’ll pick it up in no time.”
Luke had an uncanny way of anticipating the shame and insecurities that lived inside me, countering them with reassurance that neither belittled nor spotlighted my vulnerability. Uncanny, and maybe a little exposing, but I appreciated it all the same.
“Is it alright if I join you on the couch?” he asked.
It amazed me once again that Luke treated my boundaries and autonomy as inviolable, never as inconveniences to dismiss or wear down. He didn’t assume that because something had been okay in the past it remained okay in the present. With every small, unremarkable act he honored me in ways Vincent never had. Vincent had never asked permission, not once, not even in the beginning. Back then, I mistook his assumptions for intimacy and his entitlement for passion. With every minute I spent with Luke, I grew more certain he was the best person I had ever encountered.
“You can join me,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended but sure enough.
Luke settled onto the couch, instructing me on what to do but letting me take the lead. He didn’t get impatient or reach for the phone when I fumbled over adjusting the settings. He allowed me to operate at my own pace. I appreciated that too.
With the app downloaded and configured, I pressed the button to forward the message. A second later, Luke’s phone buzzed. He didn’t move immediately. Looking at me, he waited for my nod before he reached for it.
“Do you want me to read it first or for us to read together?” he asked.
“With me,” I said.
Navigating to the app, he pulled up the message, shifting closer, not enough to crowd me, but enough to make the screen visible for both of us.
Vincent:I let you have your games but it’s time to come home now. Running away like a baby is not the answer. You’re going to regret this, Oliver. No one else will want you. No one else will love you. You’re nothing without me. Come home and we can talk.
Even though I’d braced for disdain, the text hit harder than I expected. A soft, wounded sound escaped me—not quite a whimper, not quite a keen, but something unnamable and aching in between.
Reading it with Luke proved yet another bad idea. He could now see the full extent of my shame, how pitiful I was and how easily Vincent unmoored me. I dropped my gaze and hunched my shoulders, wishing I could disappear into the seams of the couch.
