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Fuck him. Fuck men, all of them.
I turned on the shower, scalding hot, and stepped right into the stream. Buried my face in the water so that when I finally let go and began to cry, my hot tears would blend into the stream rushing over my face.
I hate this. I hate feeling this way again. I thought I’d found someone different at last, but he’s just like all the other assholes in New York City. He didn’t care about me, he just wanted to fuck me. As soon as he got what he wanted, he was probably off chatting up other girls with the same pickup lines, the same stupid lines he used to lure me in and make me fall for him.
I know it’s only been a few days, but somehow our connection felt deeper, more real. Finding out that he’s just like all the other guys I’ve been with—just like that creepy stalker he punched in the face—it feels so much worse than any other shitty date. Because I’d started to actually fall for him. I’d started to actually believe there might be decent guys out there, and that maybe, finally, I’d found one.
Why do guys always do this to me?Why do they always use me, take advantage of me, play with my emotions. And why do they do it to other women to? I bet this ex of Zayne’s isn’t even crazy. I bet she was just a normal girl he seduced and used and jerked around until she got sick of his shit and decided to get even.
My stomach sinks even farther. I just wish she hadn’t decided to get even by posting my naked photo everywhere.
Then again, was that her? What if he’d been lying again? What if that was him… But why?
My head hurts, along with everything else. I can’t take this.
I shut off the shower now that I’ve sufficiently scrubbed myself clean of him. Then I turn my phone off airplane mode and watch with listless eyes as the dozens upon dozens of creepy sexts pour in. I skim past those notifications, keeping my eyes peeled for any messages from my friends.
Nothing yet. But then again, they’re at work, doing their jobs, like normal, productive adults. They’re where I should be. Where I can’t be right now, thanks to this asshole creepfest who I thought actually had feelings for me.
I open our group chat and message them both.
He’s just another NYC asshole player. Should’ve known.
Then I close the window. I can’t even wait for my friends’ replies right now. I’m too exhausted. I fall asleep to the sound of my shower dripping in the distance, and outside, the faint rumble of construction equipment from somewhere up the street. A suitably depressing soundtrack for my suitably depressing life.
* * *
I’m in a hot tub. I’m in a nice bathing suit, tight-fitting, exposed in all the right places. It’s sexy as hell, and I know it. I’m shifting in the water, showing it off for the guy with me. Zayne. His gaze travels over my body, hungry as ever, and I feel a pulse deep inside me that responds to the hunger in his eyes. I want him the way he wants me. I always do.
He beckons me and I curve toward him, unable to move away. I slide right into his arms, and he grabs me, strong and possessive, just the way I like. But that grip shifts. Turns painful as he shoves me away again. Presses me against the side of the hot tub, and leans in to sneer in my ear. “Did you think I found you attractive? You?” He laughs, and when I look down again, everything has changed. The hot tub isn’t a hot tub at all, it’s a mud pit, and I’m dressed in a horrible, ugly, sagging suit, one that exposes all my worst flaws. My stomach sticks out, my thighs are covered in cellulite, and I feel naked in the worst way. Exposed, put on display like a circus freak.
“How could I ever have been attracted to you? Did you honestly think I’d want this body?” Zayne shakes his head and pushes me away, into the mud. I land on my hands and knees and skid away from him. “You’re a slut, Clove. A disgusting, horrible slut. You deserve this. You deserve to be exposed to the world for what you really are.”
There’s some distant part of me, far away and trapped, that rebels against this. That wants to shout at him, No. I’mnot. But that part is locked deep down in my subconscious. I can’t unlock it, can’t make myself wake up. All I can do is cry and nod in agreement. Because look at me. I am pathetic. Gross. A slut. He’s right. I deserve this.
I wake up with tears on my cheeks and a pounding ache in my head that won’t subside. I groan and roll over to check my phone, an old habit that I’m going to need to kill fast if this keeps up. Because all I do is open it to find another scroll of texts, another torrent of abuse waiting for me. All those assholes saying the same thing that Zayne said in my dream. I deserve this. I’m disgusting, unattractive, a slut.
Notice how they call me gross and yet too promiscuous in the same sentence. Notice how I’m hot if I might bang them, but gross if I won’t, and if I do bang them, I’m easy and loose and a terrible slut anyway. Can’t win either way. You’re damned if you do and damned if you don’t.
I skip to my text thread, and my heart swells a little at the messages from Andy and Celeste. It’s all supportive, asking if I need to talk and if they can bring me over some wine. I squint at the time and sigh. It’s already 9pm—I slept most of the day away. I’ll probably be up all night sleepless now. And anyway, Andy and Celeste will be home by now or off having an adventure somewhere without me.
Don’t worry about me, guys, I’m fine. Just need some alone time to chill with reruns.
Tell Samantha we say hi, Celeste replies immediately. They know me too well. Sex and the City is always my go-to moping show.
But this time, I don’t even feel like I have the energy to turn that on. Instead, I put on some loud music and lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the last few days in my head.
All I can think about is how stupid I’ve been. How blind.
When the knock first sounds at my door, I ignore it, figuring it must be a delivery guy who got lost on the wrong floor. When it persists, I force myself to roll over and lever my body out of bed. Whoever it is has progressed to ringing the doorbell now, over and over.
I shuffle toward the door, rubbing sleep from my eyes. That’s when I hear his voice.
“Clove? Are you okay?”
My stomach churns, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to double over and heave from the sudden rush of anger, hurt, worry.
But of course, he doesn’t know that someone showed me his other profile. He doesn’t know that I know exactly who he is now. What kind of a lying, sneaking scumbag he is underneath his kind words and the front he puts on for the world.
