His To Shatter

by Haley Pearce

  The words that Girard had accidentally sent to my inbox ran ceaselessly through my mind: Looks like I found a way to take care of that pesky American citizenship. It’s not ideal, but it’ll do for now. And every time that those two sentences wormed through my thoughts, they stung with equal measure. Repetition did not dull the cutting shame that I felt, the utter humiliation at having acted like such a romantic, blithering idiot. All my life, I’d been so careful to stay one step ahead of the men who might hurt me. But this time, I’d practically laid the trap myself. All Girard had to do was wait for me to fall right into the palm of his hand.

  What truly hurt, what really had me feeling despondent, was that I hadn’t seen this coming at all. From the moment I ran into Girard at that nightclub in Paris, reuniting with each other had seemed for the world like a dream. That’s not to say that I wasn’t suspicious, that I didn’t question the validity of our relationship to death and back. I spent long hours during the precious time we’d shared together going through every reason why Girard couldn’t possibly want me. I knew that I was ten years his junior, that people would think I was a gold digger, that he was far more attractive than I was, and that I had nothing to offer him in terms of social or professional merit.

  But still, he had insisted on seeing me, on making me his. Despite all evidence to the contrary, he told me that I was not only good enough, but too good for him. I hadn’t fallen for Girard for lack of trying to talk myself out of it. Even the first day we met, back in New York City, I’d convinced myself very quickly not to think of Girard ever again. He’d saved my life on the train that day, but even so I didn’t let myself entertain the possibility of fantasizing about him. Even then, I must have known the power he would have over me if I dared to let myself dwell on him. How could I ever have resisted him, when he reappeared before me in the flesh? He shone brighter than the sun—I should have known that looking at him directly would have blinded me, that getting too close would have burned me.

  I was so naive and so desperate for the affections of a man, a real man. For the span of our short time as a couple, Girard had made me forget about everything but the glory that was him. I forgot about the heartache my father had caused me as a child, the sting of his abandonment when I’d depended on him so fully. I forgot about the betrayal of my one and only boyfriend, and the shame I’d felt after a poorly thought-through one night stand. He made me forget that sex could be at once mundane and soul-crushing. He made me forget that he was far too good for me, that I was just a silly American girl in Paris with a too-trusting heart. Ashlee and Dara, my best friends, had tried to warn me. When I told them about his proposal, they had tried their hardest to get through to me, to knock some sense into me.

  The very thought of Girard’s proposal made me want to hide myself away for the rest of my natural life. How could I have thought that he was serious? That his wanting to marry would have anything to do with love? He needed a quick American citizenship. Ours would have been a marriage of convenience. How could I not have seen that?

  But that wasn’t fair to me. Of course I couldn’t have seen Girard’s betrayal coming. He’d never been anything but a perfect gentleman to me. More than that, he’s never treated me as anything less than an equal, as someone he could trust with his deepest secrets and desires. We’d talked about everything together, laid out our pasts for the other to see in full. I’d told him everything there was to know about me, and he did the same. I’d opened myself to him in every possible way, even—especially—where my body was concerned.

  Girard had made love to me in a way that I could never have imagined. I’d put myself entirely in his hands, submitted wholly to let him know just how much I trusted him. And he’d taken me, worshipped me in his domination. For the first time in my life, I’d known pleasure from a man. And oh, there had been pleasure. But more than pleasure, there had been connection. There had been something shared between us...or at least, I thought that there had been. Could he really have been acting that whole time? Playing the passionate paramour while really he was just securing my trust so that I’d agree to marry him on the fly? When had he first thought that marrying me would be a worthwhile investment? When was it that he started playing me?

  It was impossible to say. His act was so seamless, so convincing, that I had no way of knowing what was true between us and what wasn’t. I had to second guess every little thing, and that task was just too overwhelming to face. It was far easier to shut down from the world entirely.

  I have no idea how Ashlee and Dara managed to get me off the plane and back to our apartment. At some point, I remember our friend Kyle showing up to help me get upstairs and into my bedroom. Some homecoming. I could tell how much time had gone by once I was back home at last. Thank god it was still August—fall semester classes didn’t start until after Labor Day. But for all I cared, school could go ahead and start without me. I didn’t have the will to think about heading back to class, much less to make the effort of attending. All I wanted to do was stay in bed, sleep, and let my mind be numb.

  But my mind had other ideas. As the shock of Girard’s message began to wear away, a barrage of memories and impressions began to make their way back into my thoughts. I could no longer lay silently, letting the minutes slip away into hours, then days. Whether I liked it or not, there was nothing I could do to keep my mind away from Girard. I knew that eventually, I would have to deal with what had happened between us.

  It was late into the night when I finally swung my eyes toward my bedside clock. The red neon digits blared 3:00am at my sensitive eyes. With great effort, I managed to push myself away from the scrawny mattress of my twin bed. It was hard not to remember the sumptuous comfort of Girard’s bedroom, the cloud-like sheets and blankets that had swaddled us as we made love, the crackling fireplace that had cast long shadows of our writhing, twisting bodies across the wooden walls.

  “Stop it,” I muttered aloud to myself. My voice was raspy, escaping from my throat in an ungainly croak. How long had it been since I’d arrived home, since I’d last spoken out loud? Part of me was too afraid to ask. With a deep, pulsing dread, I moved toward my luggage, piled in a heap beside my door. I dropped to my knees beside the pile and dug through my purse until I found my cell phone. It was still mercifully turned off from the flight, but I knew I had to face the rest of the world sooner or later. With a pounding heart, I turned the device back on.

  In an instant, a cacophony of beeps and rings erupted from my phone. I muffled it as best I could against my chest, lest the ruckus wake up my roommates. I’d be ready to talk to them eventually, but not yet. Not until I could process what had happened to me. I waited for the ringtone symphony to fade away before I peered down at the face of my phone. It was better to see what the damage was than ignore it, I knew, but my fingers still trembled as I began to scroll through the backlog of texts and calls I’d missed.

  “Oh my god...” I whispered. The first thing I saw in the jumble was the date. I’d been lying in bed for two full days, dead to the world. But that wasn’t even the most shocking thing on my phone’s screen. There were fifty text messages waiting to be read, and twenty voice mails to boot. One look told me that ninety percent of all these attempts at contact were from Girard. Did I really have the strength of mind to look back through the history of his reaching out? I had to. I had to figure out where he stood with everything that had happened. I scrolled down to the first unread text message and began to read through.

  2:34pm GIRARD: Did you land safely my dear?

  3:06pm GIRARD: Call me when you get back to your apartment.

  3:48pm GIRARD: I just got off the phone with the airline. I was worried, but they said for flight landed over an hour ago. Is everything OK?

  5:29pm GIRARD: Madison, please do call the minute you get this. I’m sure you’re just wrapped up in the homecoming spree, but I don’t like not knowing where you are.

  10:02pm GIRARD: Did something happen on the flight, Madison? I’m v
ery worried.

  2:42am GIRARD: Have I done something wrong? Please call me, Madison.

  5:30am GIRARD: I really can’t take this. I really can’t.

  I stopped reading, overwhelmed with guilt and anger. What was I supposed to make of all this? Was he actually worried about me, or was he just worried about losing his opportunity at an easy green card? How could I even know what was true and what was a boldfaced lie, when it came from him? This sea of communication was certainly convincing, or it would have been if I hadn’t received a certain other email from him first. He must have had no idea that I’d seen his little message. Well, he’d put me through enough—I didn’t have any moral qualms about leaving him dangling on the hook for just a little while longer. He certainly deserved it for leading me on the way he had. Thinking about his manipulation, his convincing stream of lies, was still too overwhelming. Just considering the scope of his deceit made my heart ache; getting into the specifics of it all would send me back over the edge of despair.

  As I straightened up, the sight of myself in my bedroom mirror made me drop my phone in surprise. I looked like absolute hell. I walked slowly across the room, almost afraid to discover that the disheveled creature starting back was actually me. But there was no denying it, really. My face was pale, almost green-looking. The circles under my eyes were dark and heavy, and a glazed look had fallen across my eyes themselves. My hair hung in greasy tendrils across my face, and my cheeks were splotchy and swollen. The idea that someone like Girard could have been in love with me at all was suddenly laughable, and a slow, ironic smile crept across my face. I was such an idiot.

  An idiot who desperately needed a shower. I reasoned that the sound of running water wouldn’t be enough to wake my roommates, and so I started toward the bathroom. But a sharp beep from my phone stopped me mid-stride. I looked down to find a brand new text from Girard waiting for me. Against my better judgment, I opened up the message to see what he had to say for himself.

  3:04am GIRARD: I’ve just booked my ticket. I leave for New York in two hours.

  My blood ran cold as his words sunk in. He couldn’t come here! He was the last person on Earth that I wanted to see then, if ever again. I had to stop him before he came to my city. With quaking fingers, I finally typed in a response to the man who’d been my fiancé just days before.

  3:05am MADISON: Don’t come to New York. Please stop trying to contact me.

  I tried my best to walk casually into the bathroom, despite the fact that my heart was pounding against my chest like a hammer. As I closed the bathroom door behind me and flicked on the light, my phone began to ring. He was trying to call me. That simply would not do. I hit “ignore” on his call and fired off another text.

  3:06am MADISON: Again, please stop trying to contact me. I do not want to speak to you. I’d appreciate it if you left me alone.

  I turned on the water and held my hand beneath the stream, waiting for it to get warm. My phone beeped almost immediately after I put it down. Another text.

  3:07am GIRARD: Madison, what’s going on? What is this? I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for days. What’s happened?

  I could hear my blood pounding in my ears as it boiled with rage. How dare he be indignant with me? This whole charade had to end, right there and then. I wasn’t going to suffer any of his manufactured worry and heartache. All he really cared about was keeping me in his stable of lovers so that he could become an American citizen with less paperwork. Well, I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’d played me any longer. I opened up my email and located that single message that had driven a wedge between us, severed our relationship in two measly sentences. I forwarded the message to Girard’s phone and slammed my own down on the tile. The water had turned hot, burning hot—exactly as I wanted it. I was about to step into the stream when my phone beeped again. I glanced down at Girard’s latest message.

  3:09am GIRARD: What the fuck is this? I didn’t write this.

  My heart fluttered against my ribs for the briefest of moments, and I let myself hope that he was telling the truth. But the plain fact of his betrayal was there in writing, an no amount of backpedaling on his part was going to convince me of his innocence. He was just trying to cover up a badly executed lie. I wasn’t going to let myself fall for this French snake oil salesman again. However tempting it may have been to believe him, to chalk this whole thing up to a terrible misunderstanding and resume our fairytale life, it was impossible. Whatever had existed between us was tainted by his ulterior motives for good.

  Without responding, I shut my phone down once more and hopped into the shower. The hot water scorched my skin, ran in rivulets down my weary, sore body. I ran my fingers through my unkempt hair, glanced down at my body. I could see faint bruises scattered across my hips like constellations. It took me a moment to realize that they were actually Girard’s handprints on my skin. The sight of that souvenir, that branding, finally let loose the deluge of emotion that I’d kept dammed inside of me since reading that message.

  I sank to the floor of the shower as my salty tears mixed with the shower water. My legs could no longer support me as the full sorrow I felt at Girard’s callous betrayal hit me like a sledgehammer in the gut. I pulled my knees into my chest under the hot spray and wept uncontrollably, my pathetic moans and sobs drowned out by the sound of the water. How had I let myself be swept away by Girard’s act? How had I let myself get fooled so roundly, so exhaustively by this one person? I’d always sworn to keep my heart safe from just this kind of anguish, but the first attractive man who had paid me any notice knocked down all my defenses as if they were made of construction paper.

  I’d always thought of myself as strong, independent, and intelligent. But there I was, sobbing in the shower over some despicable man. I was no better than my pathetic pushover of a mother, who had weathered my father’s abuse, worn the bruises he’d given her as a badge of codependent honor. I understood her too well at that moment, as I glanced at the marks Girard had left on me in his passion. Despite the awful ordeal he was putting me through, I looked down at those bruises with pride. It was absolutely sick.

  “Maddie?” said a voice from beyond the bathroom door. It was Ashlee. “Maddie, are you OK?”

  I tried to answer that I was totally fine, perfectly OK. Instead, a mangled wail escaped my throat.

  “Maddie,” said Dara’s voice, “We’re coming in.”

  “No—” I said, but there they were. They ripped back the shower curtain and turned off the water, pulling me into a fluffy white towel and, of course, their waiting arms. I collapsed into them as a fresh wave of sobs broke over me. We sank as one to the bathroom floor, and stayed there until the sun rose. Not for one moment did they leave my side. Instead, with Dara’s fingers running through my hair and Ashlee’s cooing reassurances in my ear, they sat with me until the worst had passed.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Nineteen

  * * * * *

  Finally, my weeping began to subside, and I felt myself reemerging on the other side of my pain. I looked up at my friends’ patient faces. I could tell that they were swallowing ire and outrage, keeping their rage at Girard at bay as best they could. Dara smiled as I met her eyes.

  “I believe that this calls for all kinds of breakfast,” she said.

  “I second that motion,” Ashlee agreed.

  I sighed and nodded my head. It was as good a plan as any. With a great deal of help, I was able to get myself dry and together enough to venture out into the city. It was hardly 7am when Dara and Ashlee led me out into the New York City morning. The late summer smell of the air nearly sent me back into tears. I hadn’t realized how homesick I’d been for this city. I longed to stretch my legs, to tear off running through the river park and forget about everything that had happened to me. But for now, I needed to spill to Dara and Ashlee. And there was no better way to do that than over a stack of pancakes.

  We made our way up to the East Vi
llage and walked into our favorite Ukrainian diner. It was practically deserted this early in the morning, and we chose a table by the window. The waitress promptly brought us three steaming mugs of coffee, and I decided not to waste any time. I produced my phone, quickly dismissed the texts and calls that had accrued in the meantime, and pulled up Girard’s email. I placed the phone before Ashlee and Dara and watched as their jaws dropped in unison.

  “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Dara said.

  “That piece of shit. That lying cocksucker frog,” Ashlee spat. I couldn’t help but smile a little at their explosive indignation. Two more loyal friends there never were.

  “How did this get to you?” Dara asked.

  “He sent it to the wrong address,” I laughed wryly. “Typical, huh?”

  “That seems like a pretty major mistake to have gone unnoticed,” Ashlee said. “You’d think he’d have more experience lying, being a businessman and all.”

  “Did you tell him what you saw?” Dara asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “He told me it wasn’t him who sent it.”

  The waitress reappeared with three plates, heaped with breakfast food. My stomach rumbled mightily, and I realized that it had been days since I’d eaten. I tucked into my spread with vigor.

  “Did he say who sent it?” Ashlee asked as I put away my short stack.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “I stopped responding to his messages.”

  “Huh...” Dara said, picking at her waffle pensively.

  “What?” I demanded, spreading a dollop of butter across my pancakes.

  “It’s just...odd, is all,” Dara went on. “For some strange reason, I want to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  “You what?” I said, shocked out of my appetite.

  “I know, it’s not like me,” Dara said, “It just doesn’t make any sense. If he was looking for a visa wife, don’t you think he would have found one by now? No offense, but the man isn’t exactly lacking in options. Why would he use you like that?”