by Nikki Chase
Maybe that’s why she wants me to get married and pop out babies ASAP. I’m only twenty-one, but that also means my mom’s been waiting for twenty-one years to have another baby in the family.
That’s one of the big reasons why I stayed with Joseph for so long, actually: because my mom liked him. She still does, which kind of makes me angry.
I mean, she’s my mom; she’s supposed to be on my side.
I could forgive her when I was still with Joseph, because I didn’t tell her what he was like. But now that she knows, I’m having trouble understanding why she still wants me to be with him.
In short, Joseph was incredibly insecure and controlling.
The long version could take forever, but let me list off a small sample of his most grievous offenses:
We went clubbing and I drank too much. I got lightheaded and asked him to drive me home, so he did. But I wished I’d taken a cab instead because he berated me for ruining his night out the whole way home.
During a vacation in a nearby coastal town, I got my period and he sulked for the entire three-day trip like it was my fault we couldn’t go snorkeling or have sex. I remember sitting on the beach with the water lapping at me, wishing a shark would smell my blood and wander over to take a bite. Anything would’ve been better than listening to Joseph’s incessant complaints.
We bickered all the time, over the smallest things. He used to yell at me, grab my wrist so I couldn’t escape stressful situations (I’ve never liked conflicts), and punch the wall. He was careful never to show his mean side in public, though.
Whenever I tried to break up with him (and I did try—many times), he subjected me to multiple hours of him crying and pleading for yet another chance. A few times, he even slapped himself in the face, again and again, until I capitulated.
So he didn’t cheat on me or anything, but he was like a spoiled kid. He didn’t take good care of his toy—me—but when he thought he was going to lose the toy, he threw tantrums until he got his way.
Hey, maybe that’s why my mom likes Joseph so much. He’s basically a big baby, and she’s always wanted more babies.
It’s been one month since the last time I told Joseph it was over. Still, he continues to harass me, asking me to move back into our old shared rental house, trying to lure me with the stuff I left behind.
It’s laughable, really. I’m not going back there to pick up my ratty T-shirt. Not when there’s a good chance it’s just an excuse to rope me into yet another one of his dramatic outbursts.
So yeah, in summary, I’ve learned a lot from my first serious relationship.
The scariest lesson of all, though? Apparently, I’m a terrible judge of character.
When I first met Joseph, I thought I’d hit the jackpot on my first try.
He was kind, funny, and smart. At the young age of twenty-six, he was a successful lawyer, too. He courted me with freshly-cut roses, candle-lit dinners, and long walks on the beach.
It took less than three months for me to move in with him, and my mom couldn’t have been happier. She was already buying pregnancy kits and flipping through baby-name books.
Looking back, my mom’s excitement made me feel trapped and claustrophobic. Maybe that should’ve been a red flag, a big, flashing sign telling me I should’ve moved back out right away.
But if I start thinking that way, there’d be no end to it.
Maybe I shouldn’t have moved in, in the first place. Maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to enter an exclusive relationship with Joseph. Maybe I shouldn’t have accepted the cosmopolitan he bought me at Feral, the bar where we first met.
It’s hard not to have regrets, though, because I’m paying for every single one of those mistakes now.
Joseph’s been blowing up my phone at all hours, bombarding me with text messages and phone calls. I’ve blocked his number, but he keeps trying with different numbers—by borrowing other people’s phones, by using cheap Skype numbers, and even by using payphones.
Lately, I’ve been turning off my phone at night because otherwise I’d never sleep through the night. I’ve also disabled the doorbell because sometimes he just appears on my doorstep, demanding to be let inside.
I dread the day he shows up at the high school where I teach. Feels like it’s just a matter of time until that happens.
Joseph’s texts have been getting more and more unhinged. I get the feeling he’s just going to get even worse.
Like an experienced storm chaser, I recognize the signs before disaster actually strikes. That’s just one of the useless skills I’ve gained after three years of walking on eggshells, trying not to upset him in any way.
I pick up my phone from my desk to read the text messages I got earlier today.
Joseph: I’m coming home early from work today
Joseph: I remember when I used to run errands for you on a day like this
Joseph: Like when I bought some Spanish textbooks for you
Joseph: Or when I filled up your gas tank
Joseph: Or when I got you flowers on the way home
I roll my eyes. It’s been years since he last bought me flowers.
I scan the classroom to check that all my students are working on the test I’m giving them today. Most of them are still hunched over their little desks, writing furiously. For a moment, I wonder if future generations are going to be horrified when they find out just how unergonomic school desks and chairs used to be.
I turn my attention back to my phone. The next few messages from Joseph were sent a couple of hours after those initial ones, and they have a completely different tone.
Joseph: I spent so much money on you
Joseph: I really love you and you’re just throwing everything away
Joseph: Didn’t I give you enough?
Joseph: What about the $3k I spent on that dress you liked so much?
Joseph: Or the $1.5k shoes you wore to meet my parents?
Joseph: I can’t believe I thought you were the one
Joseph: You’re nothing but a gold digger
Anger boils within me, making me shake like I’m about to erupt. But there’s an entire class of sophomores in front of me right now, and they’re quietly working on a test. A meltdown is not a good idea right now.
As their teacher, I’m supposed to be a good role model. A good role model doesn’t slam her desk and yell about what an asshole her ex-boyfriend is.
I probably shouldn’t be a teacher in the first place, but this is not the time to think about that. I don’t have any brain power left to worry about my career path.
My wrath flows down my arms and into my fingers. My thumbs are frozen over the phone screen, ready to deny the accusations that have been leveled against me.
I mean, what kind of a gold digger never asks for anything? I clearly remember telling Joseph those gifts were too expensive and I didn’t need them, but he didn’t listen. He said he was making good money and he wanted to spend it on me.
I start to type.
Ava: If I knew those gifts came with strings, I would’ve
Would’ve what? Thrown them in his face? Burned them to a crisp?
My thumbs hover over the keyboard on the little screen. As I consider my options, I scan the classroom full of young, impressionable minds.
Maybe I should strive to be a better person. I have a shiny, new job. It’s the perfect time to reinvent myself.
Also, it’s probably not a good idea to let myself be dragged into an argument. I shouldn’t stoop down to Joseph’s level.
Rise above, I tell myself.
I decide on a shorter, less angry message.
Ava: I’ll pay you back.
I don’t normally put a period at the end of my text message. I know it’s a small, passive-aggressive gesture Joseph will probably miss, but it feels good to type it out and send it.
That little dot also helps me stop myself from sending another message—something immature like “screw you.”
But this i
s enough, for now.
Ava
“Have a good weekend, Miss G,” a blonde girl says, grinning at me as she slings a backpack over one shoulder and exits the classroom.
“You guys have a good weekend, too.” I grab the stack of test papers and square them up against the wooden surface of my big desk, making loud tapping sounds.
“Got a hot date tonight, Miss G?” asks Ryan, a cheeky male student who’s asked me out twice already.
“Yep,” I say.
Technically, I do have something to do tonight. I’m having dinner downtown with my parents. That counts, right?
Okay, maybe not. But I’m not about to admit my lame plan to Ryan, especially when it looks like he’d be eager to rectify the situation.
My life’s not perfect, but I don’t think being imprisoned for inappropriate behavior with one of my students is going to improve it.
“Oh man, I thought you broke up with your boyfriend,” he says.
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t mean I’m going to be sitting at home eating ice cream all weekend. My life’s brimming with excitement.”
“Okay. I’ll try my luck with Miss L.” He laughs and shrugs as he walks away to meet his friends outside, who are waiting to give him consolatory pats on the back..
“Miss Lake?” I ask.
Jessica Lake has stunning red hair, full lips, and big doe eyes. I’m almost flattered that this boy is picking me over her, but then I realize how pathetic it is to get excited about that.
“Yeah,” Ryan says, stopping in his tracks and looking back over his shoulder. “Wait a minute. Are you changing your mind, Miss G?”
“No,” I say, laughing.
“Oh, too bad. There’s this article online that says a girl’s more likely to go out with you if you make her jealous,” Ryan says.
“Yeah, the people who write those articles, they have no idea how to get girls either. They just pretend they do so they can sell advertising space.”
“Oh.”
“And not to burst your bubble, but I doubt you’ll get a different answer from Miss Lake,” I say as I put the stack of test papers into my bag. “I mean, have you seen her boyfriend? Tough competition.”
As the group of boys at the doorway laugh, Ryan goes, “Well, can’t hurt to try.”
“Good luck. Let me know how it goes.” I give him a grin.
These kids are alright, I think to myself as I hear their footsteps going down the hallway outside.
I get along just fine with my students, and based on what my colleagues tell me, the faculty likes my work, too.
There are parts of teaching that I like.
It’s a privilege to have the power to shape impressionable young minds. I can turn these innocent kids into whatever I want, theoretically, if I’m good enough at my job. That’s pretty cool.
On top of that, my parents approve of my profession. They think it’s a good career path for a woman. They tell me it’s good practice for when I have my own kids in the future. It’s supposed to make me more nurturing.
I don’t know about that, though. I like my students, but I treat them more like peers than kids. I’m only twenty-one myself, so they’re not much younger than me.
I mean, I care about them, and I want them to do well. I get excited imagining them growing up and doing things in the world, using the knowledge that I equip them with.
Still, I can’t help but wonder if I would’ve chosen a different path for myself if it weren’t for my parents.
Now that I’m living on my own and only see my parents about once a week, it’s hard to remember why their opinions mattered so much.
But things were really different just a few short years ago when I was a high school kid myself, picking a major out of an overwhelming number of options.
My parents have never been supportive of any decision that veers even slightly from what they consider to be normal.
When I was nine and wanted to pick up skateboarding, they freaked out because I was starting to act like a boy. They made me see a shrink.
When I was fourteen, I cried for days because the popular girls thought my shoes were stupid and made fun of me. My parents had me committed into a mental hospital for a few days, saying I had suicidal thoughts.
So maybe I have to admit that I picked this job because of my parents? That sounds lame, though. It makes me feel so damn weak.
But then again, considering the things my parents have put me through whenever I wanted to do anything out of the ordinary . . . I don’t know.
I can always start over, though. It’s not too late. That’s how I usually console myself.
I’m young enough to get another degree and start on a completely different career path. My parents paid for my education degree, so I don’t even have any student loans to pay off.
On the other hand, I don’t really know what I want.
I’ve lived here in Ashbourne my whole life. Everyone I know is here. I’ve rarely seen the world outside. I want to, but it seems scary to do it on my own.
“Hey, Ava, got any plans tonight?” asks another male voice—an adult, this time. I twist to see Tony at the doorway.
As usual, his blond hair is slicked back with a few stray strands falling over his forehead, threatening to poke him in his bright blue eyes.
He’s wearing a crisp white shirt, a navy-blue knit vest over it, and a black blazer on top of that. Oh, and he’s also wearing a pair of green pants and a blow tie. That outfit shouldn’t work, but somehow he’s pulling it off.
“Dinner with my parents,” I answer honestly. I’m okay with my co-workers thinking I’m uncool.
Tony laughs. “Ditch them.”
“I can’t. They’re not the kind of people I can just ditch. They’re the kind of people who are going to make me pay if I do that.”
“Sorry.” Tony grimaces. “Childhood must’ve been rough, huh?”
“Pretty much.” I shoot Tony a grin.
“I’m meeting Jessica for dinner, and I thought you might want to come.”
“Aww . . . You wanted me to come with you?” I ask.
Nice. I just got an invite from the cool teachers. This second high-school experience is shaping up to be better than my first one. After the way Joseph isolated me from my old friends, I’m in desperate need of new ones.
“Yeah, of course. We’re the only young teachers in the school. We need to stick together against the old farts,” he says.
“I’ll take a rain check.” Quickly, I add, “Please ask me some other time, though. I swear I really do have a plan tonight.”
“Of course,” Tony says. “I’ve been telling my husband all about you and he’s excited to meet you.”
“Oh, he’s coming, too?” I ask.
“Yeah. And Jessica’s boyfriend, too.”
Actually, even though they call it “dinner,” the weekly meal with my parents starts at six and I’m usually home pretty early in the night.
“I was thinking of joining you if you’re going for drinks after dinner, but now I don’t know . . . I don’t want to be the fifth wheel.”
I can’t say this to Tony because it’s potentially offensive . . . but if his husband will be there, it’s going to be tricky for me to tag along with them.
If I go, I’ll have to be careful not to let my parents know about us hanging out together. Also, I’ll have to sneak around behind their backs and make sure there are no photos posted on social media where my parents can stumble upon them.
Like I said, my parents don’t tolerate anything outside the norm.
“You won’t be the fifth wheel. We’re friendly and super inclusive, I promise,” Tony says with a teasing smile. “But unfortunately, there won’t be drinks. Greg and I have to go home before our babysitter’s curfew.”
“Ah, too bad. Maybe some other time.”
“Yeah. We’ll make it happen,” Tony says before he gives me a small wave and disappears into the throng of loud students in the hall, who are laug
hing, cheering, and high-fiving one another.
It’s the weekend, and everybody’s having fun—everybody, that is, except for me.
Mason
I fucking love running my own business, especially when the money’s flowing in like water, now that it’s taking off.
One big perk? I can be home early for Thanksgiving—almost two whole months early.
And because my business partners are my brothers, all of us are home in Ashbourne right now—well, three of us, at least.
The twins are coming tomorrow because it’s Friday and there are some clients they want to meet in person before the weekend.
We’ve been working our asses off for years, and finally the business is stable enough for us to let our staff handle it for a while. The last few holiday seasons, our parents had to visit us in the city because we couldn’t get away from work.
Ah, it feels like old times.
Well, maybe not exactly like old times.
As my brothers and I step out of my red, convertible Porsche in downtown Ashbourne, all eyes are on us.
To be fair, we’ve always drawn some attention because the ladies have always loved us (and most of us love the ladies back).
Right now, though, it’s not just the ladies who are staring at us. And they’re not just paying attention to the way we look but also at the things we have—like my luxury car, Ollie’s shiny watch, and Liam’s expensive camera.
Another thing that’s different from the old times? We’re not sleeping in our old bedrooms in the house we grew up in. Instead, the twins and Ollie are staying with Mom, while Liam and I are with Dad.
Like our parents, we’ve split up, but we’re still kind of together.
My life’s going perfectly to plan. It’s always been my dream to start and build a successful business; I just didn’t know how to get here.
