Inside were five photographs, a series of bedroom shots, taken of Kristen and Cory. Black and white, both of them in stages of undress. I lowered myself to sitting, flipping through the shots, one by one, studying them.
She looked younger than I remembered, her smile hollow and fragile. Had she realized yet how out of control things had gotten? I tried to imagine what she must have been thinking the moment the shutter clicked, perhaps worrying where these photographs would end up. Knowing that refusing was not an option for her.
I pushed down the rage tumbling around inside of me—of what this meant, of how she must have suffered. Emotion wasn’t going to be useful, but these photographs would be.
I returned them to their envelope and replaced it behind the air popper, then sat back down, imagining what I could do with them.
In my pocket, my phone buzzed with a text. When I pulled it out, I found a message from Cal.
I never see you anymore. I miss our lunches.
I still worked the early morning shift at the Y, that money going toward slowly chipping away at my mother’s funeral debt, though my schedule barely overlapped with Cal’s now that I was taking classes. But I’d also been avoiding him, unwilling to bring Cal too far into my life with Cory, for fear Cal would say something that would expose me.
Busy with classes, I typed. Let’s catch up soon.
But I knew, with a flash of clarity, that we wouldn’t. That I would continue to keep a safe distance from my only friend and would end up losing him in the process.
I think that was the first time it really hit me. In order to do what I needed to do, I would have to cut myself off from anything real. Everything true.
***
Cory insisted on paying for everything—the household bills, groceries, nights out. Every now and then I’d offer to pitch in—no more than temperature-taking, looking for cracks in his generosity. But the reality was that it was easier for him to control me if he controlled the money.
I needed to flip that narrative.
We were at yet another bar with Nate when I saw an opportunity. We’d been there for several hours when Cory signaled he was finally ready to go home. He pulled his card from his wallet and handed it to me. “Pay while I use the restroom. Sign my name and tip $10.”
The mirror behind the bar was edged with Valentine’s Day hearts. In it, I watched Nate lean closer to a woman seated to my right, reaching out to twirl a piece of her hair.
“I have a boyfriend,” she said, pulling away.
“Let me get you another drink,” he said. “Just as friends.” He signaled the bartender for another round.
As the bartender passed me, I handed him Cory’s card. “Close it out for us please?” I asked.
I stared at the doorway leading to the men’s room, silently urging the bartender to hurry. When he returned, he placed two beers in front of Nate and his friend, then handed me Cory’s card and receipt.
I signed with a flourish and fit the card in my palm, waiting.
“I’m not going to drink that,” the woman next to me said.
“I’ll bet I can change your mind,” Nate responded.
“No means no,” I muttered under my breath, leaning my forearms on the bar and positioning my elbow a few inches away from her full beer.
When I saw Cory approaching, I let my elbow kick out as I turned to greet him, knocking the full glass over and spilling beer down the woman’s back, using the chaos to slide the card into my back pocket.
“I’m so sorry,” I said to her, reaching for some napkins.
“Jesus, Meg.” Cory snatched them out of my hand and quickly mopped up the mess, people shuffling their stools away from the large puddle now dripping onto the floor.