Chapter 1—He Who Will Not Be Named

“Amber! Amber!” Grant calls out, but I don’t stop walking. I can’t. If I do, I will break down. Already, my fingers are trembling and my lips are quivering. My heart is breaking and I can do nothing to stop it. I gave him my heart and he has handed it back to me—in shreds. Grant—if that is even his name—and I have been dating for a year now. I trusted him with my life. I loved him more than I could possibly dream of loving myself. Perhaps, it is why I ignored the signs—those small tells that showed he was lying; his sudden anger whenever I tried to get to know him or his family; his aggression whenever I asked why he wouldn’t introduce me to them; his agitation whenever I paid a surprise visit. A single tear slides down my cheek and I wipe it off furiously. My fault. My mistake. Grant catches up to me and grabs my hand. “Amber, please hear me out—“ I yank my hand from his grip. “Don’t touch me!” I say, jerking my head toward his apartment. “Go finish what you started with her. I apologize for interrupting.” I’m crying now and I can tell I look horrible because he cringes when he looks at me, brown eyes shuttering. “I can explain—“ I laugh harshly and walk away from him. He doesn’t stop me this time. Good. Because he has nothing he could possibly say to erase what I have seen and heard. I heard their moans and grunts first. It was supposed to be a surprise visit. I’d brought him a cake to celebrate our first anniversary, but it fell out of my hands just as my smile fell when I saw him hammering into another woman like an animal who hasn’t been fed in years. You get what I mean. Oh, and she'd called him Steve when she moaned loud enough to bring the house down, right before I made my presence known. Steve. My boyfriend’s name is Steve. Perhaps he lied to her the way he did me. My life is laughable, really. Climbing into a taxi, I weep for the whole ride home, and I don’t stop even after I’m home. I can’t seem to. It seems like a tap has been turned on, never to be turned off again. I go through our texts and my gallery. It dawns on me that I barely have any of his photos. The few that make up my gallery are pictures of his side profile or the back of his head. He rarely stood for pictures, and understanding makes a new onslaught of emotions attack me. Typing a break-up message isn’t nearly as hard as expected when one is consumed with anger. Thumbs flying and vision blurred with tears, words form on my screen—not nearly enough to convey the hurt I feel inside but more than enough to express my anger. "I hope a car runs you over. I hope you die. Maybe this hurt will go away then. In case you’re asking, this is over, Grant. Steve. I hope I never see your lying cheating ass again. Fuck you." Yeah. That pretty much sums up the hate burning within. Usually, I don’t swear, but there are special cases that push me to the extreme. Grant/Steve is a special case. Know what? Let’s call him Grant/Steve from now on. Not that it matters anymore. I won’t speak his name ever again. I consider calling my best friend, July, but I know she’s busy with school and He Who Will Not Be Named isn’t worth dragging her from class. My gaze shoots to the kitchen door and I let out a ragged sigh. Definitely not in the mood to bake either. Exhaustion creeps into my bones, nothing like I have felt since leaving my parents’ home. Tears start to flow down my cheeks again and miserable hiccups follow. I’m grateful no one else is here to witness this. Messy is an understatement for what I look like when I cry—my eyes and face swell; my lips and nose redden; my red hair gets plastered to my head; and my freckles stand out like sprinkles on cupcakes. Pain shoots through my head when I push up from my tear-drenched pillow, but it pales in comparison to the pain in my heart. I should never have trusted him. Had it been so bad to wish for him to be the one? Had it been so bad to crave unconditional love and affection? Can no man give me that? At some point, dusk darkens the atmosphere and it is then that I make the decision not to cry anymore. To solidify that thought, I get off the bed to change clothes and clean myself up. Maybe I should stay home and cry the night away. Instead, I head for the club downtown in hopes of drowning my sorrows in a few shots of whiskey.