“Running circles in my mind; There’s an answer I can’t find; When did your heart let me go? I guess, some things, I’ll never know”

The storm door unexpectedly opens. He strolls in, holding his wallet, car keys, and cell phone. He's dressed as though he had just come from a pick-up game of basketball in Philadelphia in the 1980s. Dressed in dirty white athletic shorts, a charcoal gray sweatshirt with short sleeves and a t-shirt underneath, white gym socks, and sneakers without shoelaces, he walks toward me as if expecting a hug.

“GET AWAY FROM ME! GET AWAY FROM ME! GET OUT OF HERE!” I yell, excusing myself from my telephone call and abruptly hang up.

He changes direction and settles at the kitchen table. “NO. THIS IS MY HOUSE TOO. I NEED TO GET MY STUFF,” he shouts matching my tone.

“Not for long. I’m working to change that,” I say, coldly, referring to the buyout process I began the day before. “OK. Get your stuff and get out. And, by the way, we're done!”

“We need to talk. Can we talk?” His voice has come down a decibel.

“There’s nothing to say. Fifteen-year-old girl.” I walk toward the primary bedroom at the end of the hallway.

“I didn’t do it. It was a misunderstanding. I didn’t do anything,” he says, enunciating his words. He follows me.

“You did enough.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Because you were arrested. I heard what you did. I was read the police report.”

“I swear she wasn’t fifteen. That’s disgusting. I talked to her. She was an adult.”

“She was a cop. She told you everything you needed to know. And you still went.”

“I just wanted a massage with a happy ending. It was a fantasy. You said you went for a massage on Monday and it sounded nice.”

“And if you had been where you were supposed to be, at your work computer, none of this would have happened.”

“And, maybe if I could relax around you, I wouldn’t need an escort.”

My heart stopped. I don’t remember if the conversation continued, other than me telling him I wouldn’t stay at the house as long as he was here. He asked for the weekend to get his things together and find a place. I agreed.  

It wasn’t the first time he said something truly awful to me, but it was one of those statements that lives deep inside. At my core, I know it wasn’t about me and it was likely him projecting. It stings just the same. He never apologized for that sentiment, or the one from a decade ago.

We were on a cruise ship somewhere in the western Caribbean Sea in our cabin. Alone. I looked up at him staring into his deep dark eyes, lying naked beneath him. “You know,” he said, resigned. “I’m only with you until something better comes along.”

My breath caught in my throat. Raw. I was sure my heart stopped beating mid rhythm. I couldn’t focus and I turned my head as tears filled my eyes, unaware if this was real life. I rolled away from him and put on clothes. I left the room, running for an escape on the floating prison.

Over the years, I’ve asked him about that moment, hoping he remembers it and will tell me what prompted him to say such a vile sentence. Instead, he tells me I remember it wrong. It never happened. He would never say something like that.

After all, he’s the same person who has told others I’m the best writer he knows and I’m the best person he knows. Surely, he wouldn’t have said that.

When I asked him about the comment from the day he came home from jail, he said, “You misunderstood.”

There’s no apology. No anything. Just I misunderstood.