Page 57 of The Friend Game

It’s a pretty good plan, I think.

And the best part is, I’ve already submitted Caroline’s drawing. I sent an email to the director of the Desert Sunrise exhibit asking if, given some complicated extenuating circumstances, they might consider accepting some of our submissions early and lo and behold they said yes!

So overall I’m feeling pretty positive and upbeat when I walk into my classroom Monday morning. A feeling that quickly disappears when I spot the man sitting at my desk, poking around in my drawers like he owns the place. I’m so shocked to see him I drop the box of random items I brought for the kids to use as paintbrushes. Forks, sponges,corks, feathers, and more go rolling across the floor, but I ignore them all as I gape at Marshall.

My ex.

The man who destroyed my confidence on both a personal and artistic level.

The man who took away my self-worth and turned me into something cheap and easy to discard.

The man we don’t talk about.

But now he’s here. In my classroom.

And there are forks on the floor and a bright orange feather is stuck to my tights.

Not to mention Luke is supposed to be here in ten minutes. What if he comes early?

Cold fear grips me at the thought.

I need to say something instead of just standing here in my pile of random upcycled items. Maybe open with,you need to leave. Keep things simple.

But of course—both because I’m me, and, because, as mentioned, this man stole my confidence—what I actually say is, “Marshall. What are you doing here?”

Those are not exactly fighting words.

Marshall stops rummaging in my drawers and grins cockily at me. I fight the basic human instinct to smile back. He doesn’t get my smile. Nope.

“I came to see you, of course,” he replies. “We have some things to discuss.”

“We have nothing to discuss.” There, that was good. Would’ve been better if I hadn’t just caught sight of a red feather stuck to my chest. Surreptitiously I try to brush it away.

No luck. Darn static cling.

“On the contrary,” he says in his self-assured, I-run-the-world voice. The one I used to practically faint over. “We have much to discuss. If not here, then perhaps at dinner. I’d love to take you out.”

We have much to discuss,I mimic his formal speech in my head. Not to be mean, but to keep my guard in place. Marshall was always a very smooth operator. He managed to lie to me for almost six months. I can’t let him get even the slimmest foothold on my emotions. I may be working on forgiving him in the name of Jesus, but that doesn’t mean I want him anywhere near my life.

“I don’t think so,” I reply.

“Hannah,” he sighs, “please don’t be so overdramatic.”

“Overdramatic?” I repeat dubiously. “I’m not being overdramatic.” And I’m not. No matter how he wants to spin the situation; I may be freaking out on the inside, but externally I am the picture of calm. It’s like my therapist said, don’t let the people in your life gaslight you. If the reality of the situation doesn’t line up to what they’re saying, take ownership of the truth. Hold it close and don’t let go.

Okay, fine. That wasn’t my therapist. But I totally would’ve gone to therapy after our breakup—if I could have afforded it. But I couldn’t. So instead I got a book from the library about gaslighting in relationships.

Well. I read an Instagram post on the subject, anyway.

So I’m basically an expert.

“It’s not overdramatic to not want to talk to an ex-boyfriend who you broke up with because you found out that,” I lower my voice, barely able to say the words out loud, “he wasengaged.”

“Engaged isn’t married.”

“You were in a serious relationship with someone else, Marshall,” I hiss back. “Because of your lies I was the other woman. I am not a cheater, Marshall.”

“Oh right,” for the first time his calm veneer cracks, his voice turning mocking as his lips dip into a sneer “because of your Christian values.”

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