Page 95 of All Our Nevers

Instead, he asks, quietly, “Is he here in Boston? Your ex? He’s back?”

My silence is answer enough.

“How long have you known?”

“Long enough.”

“What else has he done.” He asks the question like a statement, no question mark, and it’s a log tossed on the fire in my chest. If he’s going to push me, then this is war, and I’ve got an entire arsenal of rhetorical bullets up my sleeve. Not the least of which is shocking him into silence with brutal truth.

“Let’s see, first he texted me to tell me he’s back in town and wants to take me out again. Then he got a burner phone to text me from a second number, in case I had him blocked, obviously. Then he started messaging me on my social media accounts. Then he started leaving public comments on my social media accounts—all burner accounts, of course, but I knew it was him. And now he’s paying attention to my location, as you clearly saw. Oh, and I’ve seen him in person twice.”

That last one has Owen’s eyes widening, voice fighting not to shatter as he asks, “He’s following you?”

“No,” I reply. “I—I think it was coincidence. I saw him at Haymarket while I was grocery shopping and then at—” I cut myself off, not wanting to tell him that part yet. Not until I know what to do about it. So I just say, “—a restaurant.”

“I assume you’ve already filed a police report?” Owen asks

And I can’t help it. I laugh out loud, a manic edge slicing through the sound. It’s actually funny—that he can be so experienced in the law and at the DV shelter and still have no idea how things really are.

“The police aren’t gonna care. All I have is one text he sent me from his real number. Everything else is burner numbers and burner social media accounts. You think they’re going to start a criminal investigation because a slut who posts half-naked pictures on social media thinks a guy she used to have consensual sex with might be saying creepy things to her? They won’t give a fuck, my dude. I promise you that.”

“Well you have to do something. Start a police record now just in case it escalates. And a restraining order could—”

“No.” I start walking away.

“Amel—”

“I said no.” I spin back around to face him. “If I’m going to talk to you about this—if you’re going to be a party to this at all—you need to let me decide whether or not to report it. You need to respect my decision.”

“But what could it hurt?”

“You don’t think I reported what he did in college? Do you know how horrible that was, having representatives of the university—people I respected—dismiss me like a hysterical bitch? Barely make a note in their files and never do a thing about it? It was fucked up, and I won’t go through it again.”

“Well, we can’t just ignore it. You can’t just keep living alone in a first-floor apartment with windows right out onto the street, walking your dog alone at night when this fucking creep is keeping tabs on you. It’s not gonna happen. I won’t let it.”

“You actually don’t get a say in what I do. And if you’re gonna be just another controlling jackass about it then you can leave.”

“That’s a pretty broad definition of controlling.”

“It’s the standard definition, Owen, and if you don’t know that it’s a problem.”

I see his lawyer-brain kick into gear as his expression shifts into something stern, almost professionally detached. He asks, “What about addiction?”

“What?” I spit.

“Let’s say if Nolan, God forbid, became an alcoholic—would it be controlling of you to tell him to stop drinking?”

“What kind of strawman rhetorical tactic is that? That’s a completely different situation and you know it.”

“How so?”

“Because Nolan and I aren’t dating, for one.”

“Fine,” Owen paces away from me. “Same example. You’re dating someone with an alcohol problem. You’re telling me you’d just leave it alone?”

“Again, it’s not relevant. Addiction is an illness. If my partner had cancer or high cholesterol I would tell them to get treatment, just like I would with addiction.”

“And if they refused?”