I wasted three years of my life with a loser. Three precious years I’ll never get back. Even by my standards, what happened with Joseph was bad.

I don’t know why I have such bad luck with men. It’s not that I’m hideous and nobody wants me.

I have long, silky chestnut hair and almond-shaped green eyes, both of which get me regular compliments. I wish I was taller, but I’ve been told I have a proportional body.

Yes, I’ve put on a little bit of weight over summer holiday, but I can still fit into my clothes, although I’ll admit they’re a little tight.

I do get some male attention, but . . . I don’t know, I’m just not into the men who like me, and the men I like aren’t into me.

My mom says I’m too picky. She says when she was my age, she was already pregnant with me. She’s always been very domestic, my mom. And competitive.

She probably would’ve had more children if it weren’t for her endometriosis, which she got not long after giving birth to me. She tells me she cried and wailed in her doctor’s office he told her the disease had gotten so bad a hysterectomy was medically necessary.

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 is enough, for now.