Page 52 of Keep You Close

Then he’d told me that he ‘didn’t have all day’ to get me to come, and I could just figure that out on my own, if I wanted.

If I wanted.

As if sex wasn’t supposed to be something mutually enjoyed.

It was maybe the first time I learned that all that Joss cared about was, well, himself.

The thing was, I was young and naive. He was my first boyfriend. And I was, I thought, in love.

Over the next year, things continued on for us. Sneaking around because, I realize now as an adult, he knew what he was doing was wrong, and that if my mother found out how old he was, he could be in trouble.

The second I turned eighteen, though, I was moved out of my mother’s house, and into his.

That, of course, was when it really started to get bad.

The isolation was first.

My mother and I weren’t all that close at the time. She had also found herself a man, one who—once she was free of me—let her move in, which allowed her to work less.

But little by little, Joss ‘forgot’ to tell me that my mom had called or stopped by. Until we weren’t really even speaking anymore.

And then he came for my job.

“I make more than enough for the two of us. I’d rather have you here, taking care of the house. It’s a mess since you moved in.”

I’d quit my job, no questions asked.

And dedicated myself to keeping up the apartment. But no matter how much I swept, dusted, mopped, and straightened, he always found something out of place to mention.

“How did you not see this, Amy Jane?” he’d snap, tone sharp and disappointed, chipping away at that confidence he’d slowly but surely helped to build inside of me.

Food came next.

“Would it kill you to have a hot meal on the table for me when I get done with work?” he’d snapped. Although he’d never mentioned it before.

I found recipes and dedicated myself to having dinner ready for him every single night.

But the lasagne was never like his mom made. And the pasta noodles were too chewy and the meat was overcooked and For the love of God, how hard is it to make something halfway edible?

So I tried and tried and tried.

And failed to meet his expectations every single time.

I was an eighteen-year-old housewife—without the ring—crying on the bathroom floor every single night, pressing my face into a towel to muffle the sounds of my sobs because Joss hated crying.

It’s emotional manipulation, Amy Jane.

So, I cried alone, wiped up the evidence, went to bed, got up, and tried harder.

He’d whittled away at me in other ways, of course. My weight was a never-ending bone of contention, despite him supposedly ‘falling in love’ with me ‘at first sight’ back when I’d been at my heaviest.

“What is this?” he’d asked, grabbing a bit of flesh over my hip, jiggling it. Or he’d demanded I’d spin for him when I was naked and then grimace and tell me that my ass was too big, or the cellulite on the backs of my thighs was revolting.

“I’d always seen myself with a woman whose thighs didn’t touch,” he’d say when looking at a woman on the TV who fit his beauty standards.

My boobs, which never went anywhere no matter how much weight I lost for him, went from being something he used to praise me for, to something that made his lip curl, claiming I looked like a ‘slut’ in everything I wore because of them.

Eventually, he was so paranoid about anyone looking at me, that I was no longer allowed to wear dresses, tank tops, or sundresses.

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