Levin

I’m leaving today, but I should’ve left yesterday.

My bags are packed and loaded haphazardly in the backseat and trunk of my rental car which is parked down the street.

I’m sitting on my bed wringing my hands in nervous anticipation as the shower spews water from the bathroom, then slows to a trickle as it shuts off.

My plan to leave him is complicated, not unlike my fiancé. He isn’t good at letting people go.

The diamond on my ring finger feels heavy—almost as weighted as his proposal.

The reason for leaving is decidedly divergent from why most people leave their significant other. There’s no cheating that I know about. He didn’t physically hit me. Yet, his abuse is the worst form—slow and painful.

It crept up on me little by little—snide comments that got under my skin or a suggestion here and there that wasn’t a suggestion but a loaded recommendation.

According to him, my ass could be rounder or my stomach could be flatter. He doesn’t call me ‘fat,’ he just plants the seed that I can use improvement.

So, he hired me a personal trainer.

He wants my hair longer. It’s not growing fast enough. He insists on extensions. The copper-colored, chin-length hair is now past my shoulders.

The Target and Old Navy brand clothing I used to wear, he throws out. For the masses, he says I need to be ‘unique.’ My clothes are selected by him. He says my wardrobe is a reflection of him.

Boobs? He wants them bigger. He’s always pointing out women who have boobs he considers the ‘perfect’ size. I put my foot down and refuse to get plastic surgery. He pushes but finally recants… because now he wants a baby.

That isn’t the worst part. All of this is superficial.

I discovered he was involved in my best friend’s murder.

Each minute with Alec is torture. My nights are a restless combination of tossing and turning and staring at the clock, the red numbers a reminder of each passing minute I’m under his thumb.

When he looks at me, my heart palpitations seem to boom like a loudspeaker announcing my intentions to leave. Does he know I know? How much longer can I pretend before this secret eats me alive, and I put my own life at risk?

Eric’s will had put me in a tailspin. He cut Alec out entirely. I’m the sole beneficiary, only my spouse and children will have access to the money.

It’s made me question if Alec loves me or is looking for deep pockets.

I’m impatient as I wait for him to get out of the shower and finish grooming his body.

If you asked him, he would tell you in no uncertain terms that he’s a work of art with a gorgeous topography. Alec’s jet-black hair matches his eyes, and some would argue his soul.

I was scared to live with him, yet more terrified to leave him.

Until today.

All I could think about was Eric McGrath, my childhood best friend and Alec’s business partner, who suddenly passed a year ago. The police said suicide. Eric was found hanging in his bedroom closet, his belt wrapped around his neck. That story hadn’t seemed plausible. Eric hadn’t seemed depressed when I had spoken to him a few days before his death.

It wasn’t until Eric’s death that I met Alec in person at his funeral. If you ask me, a great place to meet your soulmate! Eric and Alec had been business partners in a real estate development company.

I shake my head in disgust as I think back to the funeral, and the way Alec had sat and stared at the closed casket, a look of pretend disbelief on his face. The pure evil of him as he sat with Eric’s parents and looked devastated, thick tears sliding down his cheeks.

Eric’s parents introduced me to Alec, crumpled tissues in hand. Alec and I had crossed paths once or twice via FaceTime or when I called Eric’s office to chat, but I had moved overseas to Europe to do some backpacking and soul-searching and had been a virtual stranger for the year before his death.

But now, the only stranger in the house is Alec Durant, my fiancé.