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I can’t answer that question. All I saw that day was an attractive guy who seemed to like me, despite the fact that I was barely able to look him in the eye while he flirted and bought me a drink.
Going back to the apartment doesn’t feel like a smart idea right now.
I know the second I see his face I’ll have a hard time remembering why I’m angry with him.
And that is so messed up. I can’t forgive him for this. I won’t.
I take in a deeper breath and focus on my reflection in the glass of the storefront.
My heart sinks at how lost and lonely I look.
How could I have been so stupid?
I should have known he was playing me. I should have seen it the first time he said we should break things off when he had to leave for a two-month work assignment. Why else would a guy want to do that other than to be free to screw around with other women? What would make him stop if he was so damn used to doing what he wanted whenever we were on a break?
Nothing. That’s the answer, and it probably always has been.
I don’t have it in me to storm into my apartment and yell at him to get out.
We’re over, but I need to find a way to push him without an in-person confrontation.
I blink back tears and look back out onto the street.
It takes a second, but I know what to do.
All I need is a place where I can sit for a little while, until I’m sure he’s not going to be waiting for me at home, ready to convince me I need him regardless of how shitty his behavior is.
I head to the nearest coffee shop.
I wait in line, get my usual order, and find a solo seat at the front of the shop where I can watch the world go by as I end the only adult relationship I’ve ever been in over text message.
Typing out a message, I stop before I hit send.
It’s not guilt that stops me from sending the text.
I don’t feel guilty. He’s the one who’s been doing something wrong. He doesn’t deserve a chance to explain his actions in person. I don’t owe him that. I don’t owe him anything.
It’s a flare of anger that gives me a more satisfying idea than sending a text message.
He can’t pretend he’s not on a dating app if I create an account and message him through it.
I download Every Beta and sign up for a free trial.
I put in my details and check to say I’m a Beta, and then I simply state on my profile that I don’t want to be matched with anyone named Ben.
Despite that one damning statement, and despite not adding any more details or preferences, he’s one of the first matches they send me.
I ignore that and send him a direct message, telling him to get the hell out of my apartment.
Sending that message makes me feel a little less weak.
It makes me feel like I’m in control.
A few sips of coffee later, and I’m ready to leave the coffee shop.
When my phone vibrates, and his number flashes across the screen, I pick up and answer, “Get out of my apartment. Now.”
I hear a frustrated intake of breath right as I hang up, but I don’t give him enough time to use his pet name for me, never mind anything else. I won’t let him try to cajole, persuade or gaslight me.
