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I wait for the train to pass and then say, to answer her request, “We had a class together. Honors English, junior year.” I think back, hearkening back to happier times. “We didn’t meet in class though. I assumed he had no idea who I was. He was too cool and I was too insecure. But then one day, I got a job at that little frozen yogurt place in town,” I say. “When I went in for my first shift, I discovered that Ben worked there too. We became friends. He was different than I expected. He was funny and kind, and not all wrapped up in being popular and liked.
“One day after work, Ben and I stayed late to study for finals together. He’d worked there long enough that the manager trusted him to close. I remember how magical and romantic it felt, being there with Ben in the empty shop with all the lights off except for the storefront windows. Ben walked me to my car after we studied and locked up, and to this day I still think about the way our hands brushed by accident against each other and how, somewhere in the middle of the empty parking lot, I pulled shyly back, but Ben reached for me in the darkness, taking my hand into his, holding it.”
The memory overwhelms me. My throat tightens and I wonder, not for the first time, how Ben and I went from that—a budding relationship full of love and potential—to where we are now.
Nat’s phone dings again and she reaches for it, darkness covering her face. “Who is it, Nat?” I ask this time, putting Ben out of my mind.
“Declan,” she admits, her eyes rising up over her phone to come to mine. “He’s been texting all day.”
“What’s he saying?”
“That he’s sorry. Begging me to forgive him, begging me to come home.”
“How did you reply?”
“I haven’t. Not yet.”
“Good,” I say, reaching for a bed pillow from the floor and pulling a pillowcase over it. “Good for you, Nat. That’s the best way to handle it, I think.” Not yet. That worries me. There is a part of me scared that she will go back to him, even after all he’s done to her. “You can block him. Then you won’t see when he texts.”
I lay the pillow at the head of the bed. “I know. The thing is,” she begins, her discomfort palpable. I move to the window, drawing the curtains together as she says, “it made him mad when I didn’t reply. It enraged him actually. The tone of his texts goes from begging forgiveness to threatening and mean.”
“Can I see?” I ask, turning back to Nat as she hands me her phone.
I’m so sorry for the other night baby. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It’s been killing me all day. I feel terrible about what happened. Please come home. Let me make it up to you. It will never happen again.
I love you. I will go to therapy if that’s what you want. I will do anything for you.
We can go to therapy together. Marriage counseling. It would be good for us. We can get back to the way we used to be.
I can’t stop thinking about you, baby. I’m nothing without you. I can’t eat, I can’t sleep. I keep fucking things up at work because I can’t focus on anything. All I can think about is you.
Please answer me Nat. Please don’t shut me out.
Where are you, Nat?
Where the fuck are you?
You are nothing without me. You’ll regret this.
You fucking bitch. ANSWER ME DAMNIT.
As I stand there with her phone in my hands, the phone pings. Another text message arrives, one that makes my skin crawl.
I will find you, it says. I will bring you home where you belong and once I do, I will never let you leave. I’ll lock you in a room if I have to. You are mine, Nat. Never forget that. I own you. Nothing can keep us apart.
“What does it say?” Nat asks. I say nothing. There are no words. She asks again, “What is he saying this time?”
In an instant, I hold down on the text message to delete it.
“Meghan?” she asks, realizing what I’ve done.
“Nothing you need to see.”
I look slowly up from the phone to find a tear move down Nat’s cheek. I reach for her hand, promising her, “You’re safe here, Nat. He won’t find you here.”
But even I have trouble believing that.
Later, in my own room with the door closed, I reach for the string to lower the blinds on my window before changing out of my clothes and into my pajamas. My bedroom, like Sienna’s next door, sits on the side of the apartment that faces west. Our view from the third floor skims over the roof of the two flat next door and onto the street, which is nowhere near as good as having a view of the skyline or lake, but still feels fortuitous for the sunlight and privacy.
