A people pleaser. That’s what I’ve always been and even when I know I should stand my ground, I don’t. I’m terrified of starting over. So much so that I keep clinging to whatever this is. It’s not love. It’s not even a relationship. It’s just misery.
But somehow, it still feels impossible to let go.
I slip into our tiny guest room after brushing my teeth, crawl into the bed and pull the covers up to my chin. I stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to the muffled sounds of the city. I don’t let myself cry, but I do let myself feel bad. Just for a minute. But that’s enough for me to think again that maybe I should go apologize to Matthew. Even if he started it, even if he was awful, shouldn’t I at least try? We’ve been together for seven years. Apologizing is what adults do, right? They make peace. Talk to each other.
I lie there, still staring up at the white ceiling.
Part of me wants to march back in there and tell him exactly where he can shove his attitude. But another part—the part that still flinches at raised voices—is already composing freaking apologies. My dad’s face flashes before me, that tight smile he’d wear after our fights, waiting for me to break first. Somehow each time Matthew and I fight, I’m seven years old again, hiding behind the sofa while Dad slams cabinet doors in the kitchen. My mom worked double shifts at the hospital, came home to dishes I was supposed to wash but didn’t, and then—kaboom. Nuclear Dad came home. I’d slink out eventually with my best “‘I’m adorable, please don’t be mad’” smile, and he’d sigh that bone-deep sigh before Mom pulled me into a hug. Then my father was gone, and Mom got depressed.
And the damage was done. My brain’s wiring is officially: conflict → panic → people-please → repeat. It’s like my personal emotional algorithm, and the output is always me, folding myself into origami to keep the peace. Now here I am, grown up and rehearsing the words “I’m sorry” even though they taste like surrender. Maybe if I just smooth things over, we can pretend this never happened. Maybe that’s what love is supposed to be. Or maybe I’m just a coward.
When I finally can’t stand it anymore, I throw off the covers, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and pad out intothe apartment. My walk of shame. The bedroom is washed in flickering gray and blue from the TV. At first, I think Matthew is asleep, his head propped awkwardly on one of the hideous throw pillows his mother gave us. His feet are bare, poking out from the edge of the blanket.
I take a few steps closer, hugging my arms across my chest for warmth and maybe a little self-protection. I open my mouth to say something—I haven’t decided what yet, probably just “hey” or maybe “I’m sorry”—when I notice that he’s not sleeping. At all.
He’s lying on his back, knees up, eyes glued to the TV, and his hand is wrapped tightly around his dick, stroking in time to the rhythmic panting noises coming from the speakers right next to me. It’s not subtle. It’s not gentle. It’s so aggressively, performatively masturbatory that I’m not sure if I’m supposed to leave or start clapping.
I stand there for a few seconds, waiting for him to notice me, maybe to be embarrassed. But he just keeps going, never breaking eye contact with the TV. The woman on the screen is fake moaning like her life depends on it, which, come to think of it, maybe it does. I want to say something scathing or clever, but all the words shrivel up in my mouth.
Instead, I clear my throat. Loudly.
He doesn’t look over. Doesn’t even slow down. Just lets out a low, guttural sound—not quite a moan, not quite a growl. The tempo picks up. The blanket tentpoles, then deflates.
He hits pause on the remote.
The woman on the screen is frozen mid-arch. Mouth wide open.
I just can’t believe him. We had a fight. He threw insults my way, and while I lay awake, tormented by guilt, all he could think about was jerking off? Like, yay, finally she’s gone. Now there’s time for me and myself?
Matthew finally turns his head toward me. His face is all stubble and bleary eyes, and he doesn’t even bother to pull up the blanket to hide his erection.
“Do you want something?” he says, voice flat, as if I’ve interrupted a crossword puzzle—not his porn.
I want to scream at him. I want to throw something heavy at his head. I want to curl up and die of humiliation. I want to demand an explanation for why he hasn’t laid a finger on me in months. Why he prefers to wank the minute I’m out of sight.
Instead, I lift my chin and say, “Nothing. I wanted absolutely nothing from you. Don’t worry and stay the fuck where you are.”
Then I spin around and march down the hall, slamming the guestroom door shut behind me. Only then do I let myself slide to the floor, back against the cheap fake wood, knees up to my chest. I press my fists into my eyes until I see fireworks. I breathe in slowly, then out even slower. I can still hear the faint wet sounds of the paused video, echoing in my head like some perverse lullaby.
I’m not against porn. It can be fun. It’s just the whole situation. The way he acts towards me. Like there’s not a single spec of respect left.
God, I wish I could start over.
I wish I could be anyone else, anywhere else.
Why is being loved so hard?
Why do I have to do so much for someone to actually love me the way I am?
Sometimes it feels like it’s so effortless for others. They marry, have children, and live these happy lives where their partners cook for them without a hint of anger, or tend to them when they’re sick. If I catch a cold, Matthew heads to his mother’s place because he doesn’t want to risk getting sick himself. A tear slips down my cheek, followed by another. I feel so mocked.
That’s when I notice it. My phone lights up, and my gaze darts to the large clock mounted on the wall behind the bed. It’s 2 a.m. now. A message at this time? Another tear slips down my cheek, but I push myself up and settle onto my bed, checking my phone. It’s a message from Colton. His personal Gmail address. I hesitate. For a second, I consider deleting it without reading, but I’m curious. This case is so complicated.
Ms. Davis,
I just wanted to check in if you are okay. I am sorry if this is unprofessional. I can’t sleep.
–C.
