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“Whatever you think you’re doing, just stop.” I hold up a hand. “It’s over, Pete. It’s never coming back. We’re done. We’re finished. Thanks and goodbye. Stop following me. Get a life.”
I turn to walk away, but he grabs my arm. Hard. Probably hard enough to leave a bruise.
“Don’t walk away from me, Nina,” he hisses, leaning in close. “We’re not done until I say we’re done.”
Fighting my urge to shrink away from him, I make myself as big as possible (not easy when you’re 5’2” on a good day) and get right up in his face.
“Listen to me, Pete.” My voice sounds much steadier than I feel inside. We’re in public so I can scream for help at any time, but after eighteen months of walking on eggshells around him, I have to constantly remind myself he holds no power over me unless I give it to him. “Take your hand off my arm. Turn around, and walk away. I don’t want to see you anymore. I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t want a damn thing to do with you. You get on with your life, and I’ll get on with mine.”
“No, I don’t think I will,” he sneers. “I want some answers. Why did you leave without saying anything to me? Why do you feel like you need to get a job? I always told you I would take care of you, and I meant that. Eighteen months of my life I gave to you, and I think I deserve an explanation!”
Pete’s what some women of a certain age would call “traditional.” I would use the term “chauvinistic asshole.” His idea of the perfect relationship is one where the woman stays at home, raises the babies, and has dinner ready by six when hubby comes home from work.
And he doesn’t like to take “no” for an answer.
“You do not deserve anything from me,” I tell him. “I wanted to leave, and I did. Let’s leave it at that before more feelings get hurt, yeah?”
His face twists into an ugly, angry mask. “No other guy can offer you what I have. You’re making the biggest mistake of your life, and you’re too fucking stupid to realize it.”
That’s it. That’s enough. I don’t have to stand here and have this ape paw at me.
I wrench my arm from his in a sudden movement. “Get lost, Pete. And stop following me. If I see you again, my knee is going to end up buried in your crotch. Or I’ll call the cops and tell them you’re harassing me. You need to accept the fact that we’re over, and move on with your life.”
Before he has the chance to say anything else, I’m striding away from him, feeling pretty good about myself.
I spent too long not standing up for myself when it came to Pete, and it feels good to not take any more of his bullshit. I don’t even look back to see if he got the message.
I’m now about fifteen minutes late and starting to get scared that if it takes me any longer, there won’t be a job waiting for me at InFini.
Even though my brother, Dean, has arranged it for me and pretty much told me that I’m guaranteed to get it, I don’t want to make a bad impression.
To make matters even more complicated, the interview is with Brock Turner.
The same Brock Turner who’s my brother’s best friend.
The same Brock Turner on whom I used to have the most embarrassing teen crush.
And the same Brock Turner who has never even showed a hint of returning that interest.
He was a few years older; I was an awkward, gangly teen. Well, it was awkward all around. Cringe-inducing, you could say, probably, if you were an observer of our interactions back then.
It was a weird time in my life . . .
Mom and Dad had died, really suddenly, in a car crash. I was only fifteen years old at the time, and it was like my whole world came crashing down around me.
Dean was twenty, and he basically went from brother to parent overnight.
I guess I was looking for someone to latch onto, and Brock was there. Tall, handsome (really freaking handsome), and kind of detached and aloof in that way that makes him seem intriguingly mysterious.
We never had a conversation about “us” because there was no “us.” But he must’ve sensed my feelings because he distanced himself from me, letting me down gently and kindly.
I was devastated for a while. My whole world was colorless.
Once I went away to college a few years later, I sort of came to terms with the fact that I’d never see him again.
But I will, today.
I’ve changed a lot in the years since I’ve seen Brock, and I’m sure he has too.
