Why I'm Yours

by S. Moose

  Today’s graduation day, and I lack the excitement I should be feeling from my accomplishments. It's all pointless now, as if I no longer have a purpose.

  Standing in front of my mirror in my bra and panties, then I turn around and stare at my cap and gown and the dress my mom bought me last month. The clothes I should be wearing are lying on my bed. It should give me joy. It should make me smile.

  I have the shoes, necklace, and earrings to match—things my mother’s splurge provided. She had to work extra hours at the diner and bank to save enough money for these.

  A pang of regret hits me. My mother took today off, so she could see me walk across the stage, but I won’t be there. She’ll never get to see me in my cap and gown, walking across the stage with a smile while holding my diploma. We won’t take pictures together or do anything to celebrate my accomplishments.

  Aimee left a few hours ago. I told her I had some more things to do, and I’d meet her there. My phone’s been going off for the past thirty minutes. Graduation starts in thirty minutes.

  I sit down on my bedroom floor and hug my knees to my chest. The tears have dried, but the heaving from my chest still takes over my body. I’m not sure what to do. I can’t bring this to my mother or anyone else. Zane’s rich, and he would bury me in court. I’ve seen too many crime shows to know that he would have his ruthless lawyers digging into my past and make me out to be a gold digger. He’s going to get away with this, and I’m left with feeling hopeless. I’ll never get justice.

  Nothing.

  Boston’s not where I need to be. Even though I’ve been here my whole life, deep inside, I know it’s not home, and it will never be home again.

  When I get up from my bedroom floor, I throw on a pair of yoga pants and a shirt before I grab my suitcase and bags from the closet and pack everything I can. There’s about three hundred dollars in my purse, so I leave it on the counter for Aimee to cover rent. I also leave a simple note, telling her how sorry I am. When I get to where I’m going, I’ll get a new bed and small furniture.

  My phone goes off, and I look at the text message.

  Mom: Sweetheart, is everything okay? I don’t see you.

  I know I should answer her and let her know I won’t be there. Maybe she can get to the diner and work the dinner shift.

  My fingers trace the letters on my phone, and I let out a deep breath, hoping this doesn’t kill her.

  Me: I’m not there. I’m sorry I can’t be the daughter you want. I’m sorry for wasting your time. Hopefully, you can work the dinner shift. When I find a new job, I’ll send you some money. I love you so much, Mama. But I have to leave. I have to start a new life outside of Boston. I’m not sure where I’m going. Please don’t worry. I’m going to be fine. I love you so much.

  After I press send, I turn off my phone and walk out of the apartment I’ve shared with Aimee, and I don’t look back.

  4

  Reagan

  Three Years Later

  Chicago will never get boring. Each night, I could eat at a new restaurant and see a new show and never do the same thing twice. At night, it feels like a completely new world to me. The lights glimmer for miles, reflecting off Lake Michigan, and it feels almost magical. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I’m able to sit peacefully and focus on the beauty of something without the darkness threatening to taint it. I love being a part of something so big. It’s the best kind of adventure with so many possibilities.

  Part of me misses my old life in Boston, especially my mom, but I’m thankful I have Aimee here with me. She’s my saving grace, my motivator, and the greatest friend anyone could ever hope for. She might still be sketchy on the true events of that night three years ago, but I believe, in some way, she knows my pain. She doesn’t ask anymore. She accepts that I need to keep it buried away.

  After leaving Boston, I took a bus to Atlanta, quickly got a job at a diner, and rented the room next door with two other women. I spiraled out of control, and hit an all-time low. I was letting that sick son of a bitch win. Not only had he taken my sense of safety, but he’d also taken my life, too. I isolated myself, refusing to go out and meet people. My roommates thought I was weird, but they left me alone. I remained tucked away, only leaving to go to and from work. I always made sure I was safe. If I worked the late shifts, then I’d ask for an escort to my car. My coworkers at the diner tried being my friends, but I pushed them away. I just got lost in the memories of that night, and they consumed me. Everything I did, every move I made, was a ripple effect of that night.

  I stayed in Atlanta for a while, and felt uneasy, so I packed and left for South Carolina. I lived in my car for a week before I found a women's shelter. It was fine staying there at night for a little bit. Every night, whenever I closed my eyes, I saw him. I felt him. One night, I woke up a woman and her daughter from my screaming. She looked at me, saw the fear in my eyes, and told me about a facility nearby. The next morning, I checked myself in, and got the help I desperately needed.

  After almost a year, I landed in Chicago. And, for the first week, I explored what the city had to offer. I went for long walks along Lake Michigan and watched the sunrise from the Navy Pier. It was truly beautiful to see all the boats highlighted by the sun’s rays that glimmered over the water.

  I ate in little cafés and drank coffee with my toes in the sand. For the first time since it all happened, I felt safe. I felt like Chicago was my fresh start.

  My mother and I talk often, which helps ease the ache I feel for losing my connection with her in the process of moving. She might not agree with me being so far away, but I think she’s beginning to understand that starting over is what'll help me. Though she doesn’t know the details of that night and the actions that led me to where I am, she respects my privacy and choices. It’s why I love her so much. She’s always been supportive of me, and that hasn’t changed now that we’re thousands of miles apart.

  It’s a beautiful Saturday morning, and I’m enjoying the light breeze that blows in from the water surrounding the pier. I’ve done this very thing so many times that I can’t remember a time when I haven’t enjoyed this very spot. It never gets old, being here—overlooking the water, sipping a latte, and reading the newest edition of whatever gossip magazine I can get my hands on.

  So many people are moving about around me, rushing from point A to point B, completely lost in their need to hurry along. No one takes the time to stop and enjoy the view, but I see the joy in the little things. I find the beauty in it all even though I now feel as if I have seen it a million times. Each day is a whole new day.

  I’m finishing up reading an article when my phone buzzes on the table. I pick it up and see a message from Aimee.

  Aimee: Since you’re my best friend, can you come back home with an espresso for me?

  Me: Of course. Anything else?

  Aimee: No. But let’s go out for dinner tonight.

  Me: Okay. Sounds good. I’ll be home soon.

  Aimee: Okay, girl. Have fun!

  Me: Thank you!

  I place my phone back down on the table and look around the café. Everyone seems to be doing their own thing.

  Sometimes, being in crowds makes me nervous. I prefer being invisible and not gaining attention from others. The bright sun beating down warms my shoulders, as I remain tucked away from the busy crowds, enjoying my solitude. I’ve built a solid wall around me, so thick and impossible to penetrate that I think I might scare people. I’m no longer that sweet, approachable girl with a smile that could light up a room. I’m cold and distant, and I’m fine with that.

  Being this version of myself keeps me safe. My guard is always up.

  Since that night with Zane, I’ve taken steps to ensure that no one will ever hurt me again. My body is mine and mine alone. That will never be taken from me again. That night changed me. It brought out someone I never knew existed, an angry side. I’ve coped with what happened and accepted it, knowing that nothing I’d said or don
e could have ever changed it. But the nice girl inside me that once existed, the girl everyone loved, is gone. She’ll never come back. She can’t. I won’t allow it. Being nice brought me nothing but misery and pain. It made me vulnerable and the perfect target for a sick, sadist bastard who took what he wanted and left me helpless.

  Now, I spend every day watching and waiting for the first signs of people like him. For men who think women are easy targets. For any guy who feels they can outwit me. I will never again be that weak. Next time, I’ll fight back.

  I’ll fight with everything inside of me to ensure no man will ever take from me again. No man will ever make me feel helpless.

  The nightmares that used to keep me awake at night have shifted to more of dreams of revenge. Sometimes, I think if people could see inside my mind, they would be fearful. I’ve played that night over in my mind so many times, and never once have I left Zane’s apartment without seeking revenge.

  My favorite of those dreams are the ones that seem so explicit in detail. His cries of agony when I fight back. Leaving him writhing in pain as I walk away with my confidence intact.

  I pray often that, wherever he is now, he is miserable.

  My biggest fear is that he’ll hurt someone else. The guilt of that possibility lies heavy on my mind. In a way, it would be partially my fault, because I could have turned him in. I could have called the police and pressed changes. At times, I wish I had. Men like Zane deserve to be behind bars, getting exactly what took he from me in return.

  What I wouldn’t give to see him defeated and desperate for help as I walked away, laughing, knowing he was being tortured and degraded.

  One day, hopefully in this lifetime, I wish more than anything that he’ll pay dearly for the hell he put me through.

  5

  Drew

  “What the fuck do you mean, you don’t want him this weekend?” I hiss at my cold, heartless ex-wife. “He needs his mother, Jennifer.”

  She waves me off, dismissing the idea of spending time with our son. “Come on, Drew. Don’t be so dramatic. It’s only one weekend. I mean, it’s not like this fashion show comes to town every day.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose, pushing away the onset of a migraine, and let out a heavy, disgusted sigh. In the last few months, this is the fourth time she’s given me an excuse for her not wanting to be with Dawson. He’s a great kid, and he doesn’t give anyone a hard time. It fucking kills me that his own mother tosses him around like he doesn't mean anything and would rather do whatever the fuck she pleases.

  “Just tell him I’ll come by on Sunday and take him out for ice cream or whatever. Drew, you’re better at this than I am,” she whines as she presses her hand against my chest.

  I push it away and narrow my eyes at her. “Because you’ve never tried, Jennifer. He’s not a fucking accessory you toss away because it’s a new season. You’re his mother, for fuck’s sake. Do you want me to gain full custody?”

  She whips her head in my direction, her eyes tight with malice and anger. “Don’t threaten me, Drew. I will bury you.”

  “Do you honestly think a judge would grant you full custody? I will take this to court, Jennifer.”

  “Dad? Mommy?”

  We both turn around to see Dawson standing in the hallway, looking at us with perplexity and confusion.

  “Mommy, I have my bag packed like Dad wanted me to do. I brought my new pajamas and slippers, so we can have movie night in our jammies. Are you ready to go?”

  The innocence of his question fucking breaks me. He has barely spent any time with Jennifer since the divorce was finalized two years ago. Even when we were married, she’d make excuses and leave the house until he was in bed.

  I don’t know what the fuck I thought when I asked her to marry me. I was blindly in love and thought we were good together. Before we got married, we were together for two years, and things were almost damn near perfect. When I was brought on as CFO at my family’s company with my cousin, Remy, Jennifer stood by my side through the long hours and travel.

  The day we found out she was pregnant, I was excited for this new chapter of our lives. We had been married for less than a year when we found out the news. After Dawson turned two months, Jennifer did a one-eighty, and I thought it was partly because of postpartum depression. She didn’t want anything to do with Dawson and refused to breast-feed him. That bonding time most women experience with an infant was nonexistent between Jennifer and Dawson. It was heartbreaking really and not what I had expected our lives to be. I encouraged her to speak to her doctor and a therapist in hopes that they could help, and she did, but that didn’t last.

  I hired the best personal trainer when she begged me for one. She became obsessed with working out and getting her body back. It didn’t matter when I told her she was beautiful and sexy. Our sex life was near nonexistent between my long hours in the office and her insecurities. Whenever I touched her, she would cry and pushed me away. I cherished my wife and gave her the world. I cherished our son and made sure he was happy and healthy. My life was good, and I couldn’t have asked for more. I thought whatever Jennifer was going through would subside.

  After his third birthday, my eyes were opened, and I realized the woman I’d thought I loved and wanted to spend my life with wasn’t that woman at all. The real Jennifer came out, and I knew then that the woman I’d planned to grow old with was gone, and in her place was a coldhearted, selfish version I found I no longer loved with the depth I once had.

  Throughout the first three years of his life, she was hardly around, and when she was, it was for show. Her image was the world to her. Anything that might tarnish her name, she would immediately fix.

  When the divorce was announced, the tabloids went crazy, and everyone wanted interviews with us. Being the CFO to a multibillion-dollar corporation and marrying the daughter of country star, Jason Bryant, always put us in the eyes of the paparazzi.

  “Dawson, baby, Mommy has something very important to do tonight and tomorrow, so on Sunday, I’ll come over and take you out for ice cream. Does that sound fun?” she says, kneeling in front of him and barely holding his hand.

  I hear his broken sigh, and when he looks to me for help, I walk over to my innocent son, bend down to his level, and tell him we'll have fun this weekend. I lift him in my arms, and he rests his head on my shoulder.

  Jennifer lets out an exasperated sigh, squeezes Dawson’s hand, and then pats him on the head like a fucking puppy. “Mommy has to go, so have fun with your dad.”

  “Okay. Bye, Mommy.”

  “Kisses!”

  As soon as she walks out of my apartment, I bring Dawson to the kitchen, so we can make dinner and get ready for a Friday night in. I have to think of something to do with him to distract him from this situation.

  “I was thinking that tomorrow, we could—”

  “Am I a bad kid?” he asks.

  My stomach tenses, and I momentarily find it hard to breathe.

  “Did I do something wrong to make Mommy hate me?”

  Quickly, I put down the dishes, carry Dawson to the counter, and set him down, so we’re eye-to-eye.

  “Buddy, you didn’t do anything. You’re an amazing kid, the best. Your mom has a busy life, and she loves you. You’ll always have me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Thanks, Daddy.”

  “You never have to thank me. It’s you and me against the world, and we’re always a team. You’re my best friend, little man.”

  His frown shifts to a smile.

  Even though, on the inside, my heart is still breaking over the things Jennifer continues to miss, I’m thankful, too. I will always cherish the bond my son and I share. It keeps me focused and afloat. Dawson is and will always be my number one.

  I tell Dawson to watch TV for a little while, so I can get work done. Between work and Dawson, I don’t do much of anything else.

  This weekend, I was supposed to head to Las Vegas for Remy’s thirty-second birthd
ay. It would’ve been the first time since Dawson was born that I had a chance to do something other than work or spend time with him.

  Pulling out my phone, I send Remy a text to let him know what’s going on.

  Remy: Tell me you’re fucking kidding.

  Me: I’m sorry, man. Don’t worry. The hotel suite’s under my name and credit card. It’s been paid for. I’ll call the Bellagio and have them change the reservation to your name. They won’t give you guys any problems.

  Remy: I don’t give a shit about that. Dude, why the fuck do you let your bitch ex-wife do this shit?

  Me: What am I supposed to do? I’m all Dawson has.

  Remy: Shit, I know. Fucking sucks. Wish things were different. You should consider hiring a nanny.

  Me: I don’t need one. I’ve never needed one. Not going to start now.

  Remy: Maybe your parents can watch him.

  Me: Not asking. Sorry, man, but if I leave Dawson this weekend, he might feel like I abandoned him.

  Remy: I get it. Have fun with the little man. We’ll talk Tuesday when I go into the office. Have a good weekend, man. We’ll miss you.

  Me: Don’t have too much fun.

  Remy: I got ass and drinks on my mind. You already know I’m fucking shit up.

  Me: Ha-ha. Have fun. See you Tuesday.

  I put away my phone. I won’t lie. I’m disappointed I won’t be joining Remy and our friends in Vegas this weekend.

  I sigh and walk over to the bar to pour a glass of scotch. I take the first sip and let the burn of the amber liquid run down my throat. Then, I pour myself another glass and bring it to my desk. I log in to the computer to make sure everything in the company is fine and that there’s nothing that needs my immediate attention.

  “One more time,” Dawson says as he looks up at me with those innocent blue eyes of his. “Please.” He has the look down to a T. The look that, no matter how hard I try to resist it, I can’t.