She’s not wrong. I’ve watched my mother take this exact step a dozen times. The man notices her, treats her differently, fromevery other dirtbag she’s known before, and makes her feel seen in a room where everyone else is looking through her.
Then the man moves in, the bills get shared, the boundaries dissolve, and eighteen months later, tops, Denise is packing boxes and telling me it’s going to be different next time. The only variant is sometimes, the dirtbag takes her money, or her things, first. Number seven stole her mittens and steak knives.
“I’m not my mother.” Now I sound defensive.
“Nobody thinks they are.” Marisol’s tone softens, which is worse than the sharpness because it means she’s actually concerned. “I love you. You know I love you. I also know you’ve spent six years in a building full of men who treat you like a vending machine, and the first one who treats you like a human being is going to feel like water in a desert. That doesn’t make him safe. It makes him appealing, and appealing is how smart women do stupid things,mija.”
The server brings my toast. I eat a bite and let Marisol’s words sit where they are, because arguing with her when she’s right has never been a productive use of either of our mornings.
“I hear what you’re saying.”
“Good.” She picks up her wrap. “Now tell me about Eric. I saw his car near the club when I drove past Thursday night.”
I set down my fork. “He came by twice. Once before we opened, with the usual pitch about school and how I’m wasting myself. Then again around one in the morning, and I told him to leave.”
She scowls. “Did he actually leave?”
“Eventually. He does his hurt routine, where he acts like I’m the unreasonable one, and then he goes. It’s calculated, but at least he goes.”
Marisol shakes her head. “He’s not going to stop.”
“I know he won’t.” There’s no point in denying that.
“Have you thought about a restraining order?”
I wave a hand. “He’s a cop, Mari. A restraining order against a homicide detective would go through his precinct, and I’d become the difficult ex-girlfriend who couldn’t handle a few visits. They’d make fun of me and dismiss any threat. No one would enforce it.”
“That’s exactly what he’s counting on.” She points her fork at me. “His access to you depends on you not wanting to make it official. The moment you do, he loses the casual drop-by excuse. Think about it.”
I’ve been thinking about it for months, turning over the idea and examining every angle. The problem isn’t the paperwork or the courage to file it but that Eric has friends in the system, and the system treats cop drama as internal business. Every colleague of his who hears about a restraining order will decide I’m the problem and ignore it. I’ve met these people at his work gatherings, and they’re all close. It won’t be worth the hassle or humiliation to get it when it won’t be enforced.
We finish eating and split the check fifty-fifty regardless of who ordered what, because Marisol once told me friendships that keep score don’t survive. She hugs me in the parking lot and tells me to call her if Eric shows up again. I promise I will, but I probably won’t. He’s shown up several times, and I didn’t tellher afterward because she can’t do anything except feel impotent rage on my behalf. I can do that myself.
My apartment isa one-bedroom in a building that’s seen better decades, but the rent is manageable, and the neighborhood is quiet enough to sleep past noon when my shift ends late. I drop my bag on the kitchen counter and call my mother.
Denise answers on the second ring, which means she’s been waiting for this call. “Baby, I was just thinking about you.”
I brace myself, recognizing the cheerfulness in her voice is bad news. She’s been alone for four months this time, so it’s longer been longer than I expected to hear it. “Hi, Mom. How’s work?”
“Work is fine. The hotel booked a wedding block for next month, and they gave me extra shifts, so that’s good.” She pauses, and her tone changes. “I wanted to tell you something. I’ve been seeing someone.”
I lean against the counter and close my eyes. “How long?”
“About six weeks. His name is Ray. He works in construction, and he’s the nicest man, Aurora. He opens doors, remembers what I like to eat, and hasn’t asked me for a single thing.”
Six weeks is the honeymoon phase. Every man Denise has ever dated has been perfect at six weeks. The doors get opened, the preferences get memorized, and the good behavior lasts exactly as long as it takes for him to get comfortable enough to stop performing.
I’ve watched this cycle enough times to know the script by heart, from the excited introduction to the phone call six to eighteen months later, when it all implodes. That window is the longest relationship she’s had besides with my father, who left when I was five. She’ll tell me it didn’t work out and ask if I can help her move. Knowing all this, I can’t muster enthusiasm when I say, “That sounds nice, Mom.”
“It is nice.” She sounds defensive already, which means she heard the reservation in my voice. “He wants to spend more time at my place. I’m thinking about letting him stay over more often, and maybe he could move in once things feel more serious.”
I bite back an impatient sigh. “Mom, you’ve known him for six weeks.”
“Six weeks is long enough to know whether somebody treats you right.”
“Six weeks is long enough for him to decide whether to keep treating you right. There’s a difference.” I sound like Eric, measuring her choices and presenting my judgment as concern, and I hate it. I soften my voice. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I’m just saying that moving someone in early is how bad situations start.”
“Not every man is your father, Aurora, and not every man is Eric.”
