Hi readers! Just FYI, this story structure has been altered and the character’s names have been updated since it’s original publishing.
» Mr. Money = Manny
» Mr. Right = Rob
» Mr. Mariposa = Mateo

INSPIRED BY TRUE EVENTS. CHARACTERS AND EVENTS HAVE BEEN ALTERED FOR STORYLINE PURPOSES.

✋🏼 TRIGGER WARNING: INTIMATE PARTNER VIOLENCE: SOME PASSAGES DESCRIBING VIOLENCE BETWEEN INTIMATE PARTNERS MAY BE UPSETTING FOR SOME READERS. PLEASE PROCEED WITH CAUTION.

✻ CHAPTER 7 ✻

I can’t believe I’m standing at the bus station in downtown Arcata on a Friday night, waiting for bitch-ass Rob to get here from LA. This rotten and dreadful day is finally here. My weak ass boundaries got me all fucked up. I am upset that I allowed someone, him in particular, to swindle me into a deal I had no business accepting. But that’s always been his style. Manipulative and cunning with a devilish smile. I let his smooth talking trick me into letting him live with me in remote-ass Humboldt County for the Summer after one beautiful spring weekend we spent together.

A little voice in my mind mocks me and whispers, ” Yes, Rob, you can stay here for the Summer and show me that you’re not a terrible person. “

I only agreed to this deal after a passionate exchange of you know what. The deal? He would live with me in Arcata for the Summer, get a job, help with rent, and eventually find his own apartment and continue living in Arcata. It sounds doable. We’re isolated from our families and away from shared friends; it’s a chance to start fresh. What could go wrong?

The voice chimes in again: Everything; everything could go wrong.

Since I agreed to that proposition, my stomach has been turning into itself. I can’t sleep, I can’t breathe, and I can’t get out of this, no matter how hard I try. Why did I give Rob another chance? Did I think 12 weeks of Summer would be like the weekend we spent together in the Spring? Did I believe this would erase the years of emotional abuse and replace them with happy memories? I knew this was a bad idea from the beginning, but when I shared my doubts, he pushed his agenda until they were no more.

Now here I am, waiting at the fucking bus stop, pretending to be okay with what’s going down. I plug in my earbuds, and “Sometimes” by No Doubt starts playing. I kept this song on repeat last Summer before our previous breakup. I was so miserable. Shit—is that going to be me again? Fuck.

“From now on, I will behave, 
but in the back of my mind, 
I will be enslaved.”

– No Doubt

I can pretend to be happy. I can do this. I can get through this Summer and never agree to do this again. I’ll think of this as a parting adventure, our last hurrah before he and I go our separate ways. This time for good. It’s just 12 weeks. And he’s better now. Yes, he’s a lot better than he used to be, and I’m different now, too. This won’t be like the other times. No, no, I won’t let it. This time will be different.

It’s not going to be like Roswell. No, never again.

Roswell was one of those days you wish never happened. It was a small portion of time and space that still feels like an eternity. I never came back the same. That’s the day I learned that the people you love the most are the ones who will break your heart in the worst ways. That’s where I learned how quickly Rob could turn on me, the one he said he loved the most.

I visited him one Summer in Roswell, New Mexico, while he lived with his uncle. One lazy afternoon after we fooled around, he leaned over his bedside table, grabbed his shotgun, slowly brought the rib up to his eye level, aimed the barrel toward me, and rested his finger on the trigger. I froze, still naked and still flushed from the minutes before. Tears flooded my eyes.

Surely, he’s joking?

I laughed after what seemed like an eternity of unwavering eye contact. “You’re joking, right?” I asked casually, trying to appear unbothered by the shotgun staring at me in the face. I tried not to move, afraid of what behavior that might set off.

“Rob, please put the gun down. Please?” I pleaded with tear-filled eyes, but he never spoke a word out loud. He kept his stance, eyes fixed on me and his finger edging the trigger. 

I panicked. “Help!” I shouted nervously, hoping his uncle would hear me.

He put the gun down quickly and covered my mouth with his hand to stop me from shouting.

“Shh, shh, it’s fine, it’s fine. You’re fine,” Rob whispered. I was just joking,” he explained. “We’re fine.” He hugged me, and I remained frozen, unsure how to feel.

“Okay,” I softly responded and nodded my head in agreement.

But I was not okay. I imagined my death would be a messy one, a tragic one, an early one. I imagined my poor mother crying over my dead body, thinking of her late husband’s double homicide attempt, and wondering why she couldn’t protect me. Asking God out loud, Why me, why again? I imagined the guilt would overwhelm Rob, and he’d ultimately take his life, too.

I remembered all the times he said he would kill himself if I left him. I now understood that he meant business; he would see his threats through. I was not safe with him anymore, but I couldn’t let him know that because he’d make it into a thing. He made everything into a thing. Everything was always all or nothing with Rob. Amazingly wonderful or terribly awful. If I wouldn’t be with him, then life wasn’t worth living.

The Greyhound bus pulls in, and I muster the courage to don a convincing smile. He’s buying it. He smiles back, and I wonder why I fell for him in the first place. His smile doesn’t do anything for me anymore. There’s no light in his eyes and no charm to his smile. I continue to smile, pretending I’m excited about this journey when I’m loathing every minute, hoping an act of God tears him out of my life.

I know I know—God doesn’t usually do no Captain-Save-A-Hoe shit. I have to be Captain Save A Hoe. I have to save myself. I got myself into this mess, and I will get myself out of it—somehow, eventually. If the last 6 months have taught me anything, it’s that I don’t have to take anyone’s shit anymore. I can leave him, and I’ll be just fine.

The voice whispers harshly to me: He’s in your territory now. You have the upper hand here.

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Rob settled right in, blissfully unaware of how much I despised him being in my dwelling. I put on my best mask, and he did, too. We pretended not to have the history we had. Instead, we joked, smoked, and hoped each minute that passed wouldn’t cause a storm. Twelve weeks of this didn’t seem so bad at the end of the day. He was still my friend, after all.

We spent the week exploring Arcata; we walked the plaza, our neighborhood, and around the school. We had no car, so we couldn’t visit the beach like we did during his last visit, but we got around fine on our feet. The summer weather was good, and we didn’t have to worry about the rain. We ate at local eateries. He paid with money he saved for his stay; it wasn’t enough to help with rent, but enough to keep us fed. These were the things I loved most about our relationship; exploring, eating, and just hanging out.

I also loved doing those things with Manny. Every corner Rob and I turned, I had my eyes peeled for him, wondering if he was eating in town or hanging out with friends at the brewery close to my apartment. I wondered which one of our mutuals would tell him first about seeing me with another guy. My heart ached thinking about him.

I tried to keep communication to a minimum, but Manny was unwavering. He sent me texts all day and night, appealing to me not to give up on him. He wanted to see me, hold me, kiss me; he wanted to show me what true love felt like. My clandestine lover championed me, and I was privately rooting for him.

Only Rob had to believe he was my only lover. 

Almost exactly one year ago, Rob raged over a late-night text I got from a friend whose number I hadn’t yet saved. Before I could explain anything, he’d smashed my cell phone, hurled me across the room, and accused me of seeing other people.

I still get chills from that night. 

“This is what sluts deserve!” he roared at me as he tore off my clothes hastily and angrily, the same clothes I meticulously chose for this particular date night, the night I’d planned, excited and hopeful we would get back together. He shoved me into a near-dead street and shouted terrible things, none of which I’ll ever remember again. But I remember covering what little I could with my small hands, explaining the situation, and pleading with him to stop the madness.

Eventually, he did. Realizing that he’d overreacted, he sobbed like a child who’d done something regrettable. He begged me to cradle him, and I did, like a mother would, hanging onto every breath like it could be my last.

It was the worst night of my life.

I hated silencing my phone at home, but it was the only way to keep me safe. Manny didn’t know any better; he was a hopeless romantic who shot his shot no matter the stakes. He was hopelessly devoted to me, and I was sold; I needed to make room for him. I didn’t want to spend another night in bed with Rob, thinking and dreaming about Manny.

Every cell in my body ached for Manny and tightened with Rob. I knew I had to get rid of Rob, but how? I tried hard to find a concrete reason to shut Rob out of my life again, like a big fight or a scandal that would separate us. Still, he kept surprising me by being genuinely vulnerable and kind. It had only been ten days, but this caring and easygoing side of Rob was refreshing. I felt like he was really changing. But when the following week arrived, he insisted on walking me to work out of the blue, and that dreadful feeling suddenly crept back in.

Manny works where I work. Does Rob know?

Here I was, playing by his rules, supporting his values, and validating him to avoid another one of his “fits.” I was exactly who he wanted me to be, not who I wanted to be; that’s the person Manny knew. I had learned to spread my wings and fly, but here I was, tying my wings for someone I half-love and half-hate.

I wanted to break free, and I wanted to choose Manny.

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