Page 28 of The Art of Dying

“Trust me, ultimatums don’t work. Just tell him how you feel and let him know you’re no longer going to accept it. If he keeps doing it… that’s on him. You just have to be prepared to actually end it if he won’t respect your wishes.”

“I don’t want to… but I will,” she said. “You know, Mason was a total piece of shit, but you sure learned a lot from loving him. Silver lining, I guess.” The printer buzzed, and Alecia held up the paper. “Portable chest in the ER.” She pushed open the door to the hall, and I sat alone, remembering all the times I’d begged the same things of Mason, and just how hard those lessons were to learn.

The first half of my relationship with Mason seemed perfect. He was everything I thought I wanted: funny, good-looking, affectionate, attentive, tall, the life of the party, always. All my friends in Nashville loved being around him. Mason even helped with housework before we ever lived together. He’d told me about an ex-girlfriend who’d cheated on him and broke his heart, and because he knew how devastating it was, he would never do the same. But gradually, all the endearing things that had made me fall in love with him came to a stop.

A month after our first date, he initiated conversations about moving back to Massachusetts, but he’d always include me in his plans. We both made arrangements for me to move, I’d informed my friends and family, my boss, but right before we were supposed to leave, suddenly he wasn’t sure. At first, he said his parents didn’t think it was a good idea for us to move in together before we were married, then he said if I was going to come back with him, I’d need to pay the full rent for the first six months so he could get back on his feet after spending all his savings in Nashville trying to get a record deal.

Mason loved talking in circles, and the excuses were exhausting. The way he spoke to me and the things he said made me believe he didn’t want me, so I gave him an out. Mason took it. The breakup only lasted a week, but during that time, he’d added dozens of new numbers to his little black book, and started conversations with women he’d dated, slept with, and pursued before me, in addition to complete strangers.

When we reconciled, the women never went away. Mason had gone from someone I could trust to always tell me the truth, to me never knowing which part was true and which was the lie. He stopped taking me on dates—stopped being seen with me anywhere he might run into a woman he knew, but insisted it had nothing to do with the new female friendships he’d made. Late night phone calls continued even after I moved to Quincy, and when I’d express my concern, it was always turned around on me. He’d say that I was just insecure, they were just friends, I was controlling, and he gave me the exact same excuse Lucas had given Alecia—it would make him look stupid if he didn’t return their calls.

Then, I got a job and made friends in Quincy. The stories kept coming, giving me a clearer picture of Mason’s true character, and I learned that the women Mason said were just friends were ex-girlfriends and friends-with-benefits. Women he’d said were chasing him and he’d never dated or slept with, turned out to be women he was begging to see, some of them he’d slept with in the past. The new female friends who’d asked for his number later confessed that he’d been the one initiating the exchange of contact information, to strike up conversations, and made plans to meet. By then, though, I’d begun to hesitate even bringing up my concerns or feelings, because I’d always be the one apologizing. Once, when I’d gone back home to Nashville to wrap up some loose ends, Mason met friends at Ody’s. Upon my return, I’d learned he’d flirted with a woman all night and then gotten her number. When I confronted him about it, his excuse was that I hadn’t been nice to him while I was gone. Then the ugly, undeniable truths came to light. There was no line Mason wouldn’t cross. The man who I’d thought had integrity, who was respected at his job and in his hometown, was sleeping with married women, engaged women, and had lied about just being friends so he could continue conversations with them without question.

That’s when I’d had enough. He’d deceived me. He’d pretended to be someone else to get me to fall in love with him, and the man I was with was someone I didn’t recognize. When I called him out on it all and refused to back down, he lost his temper in a way I’d never seen before. I called it a night, undressed, and stepped into the shower. Before I knew what was happening, he took a fist full of my hair and jerked me backward.

Out of pure instinct, I slapped him. It worked. He snapped out of his anger, but he went to his friends and family and whined to them about how I’d slapped him, conveniently leaving out that it was a reaction.

Once I stopped allowing him to lie, to disrespect me and hurt me, his behavior only got worse. My new home was ground zero for World War Three. I woke up one morning to Mason’s belongings—and some of mine—gone, glass on the floor and in my hair, bruises around my neck, a bite mark on my shoulder, the phone smashed to pieces, and the memory of allowing him to violate me one last time so he wouldn’t kill us both like he’d promised if I didn’t. All I could do was sit in the floor and cry from the overwhelming relief I felt that he was finally gone.

The bruises healed, but what was broken inside took a lot longer.

“Hi, babe,” Kitsch said from the doorway. He was holding a rolled-up paper bag of takeout with a sweet grin on his face.

“Hi,” I said, hugging him tight, suddenly feeling so much gratitude.

Kitsch was patient when I hesitated to trust. If he was wrong, he’d say so without somehow making it my fault. He made sure there was no question that he was committed to me, and never gave me a reason to think he was interested in other women. I wasn’t a secret; he was proud to introduce me to his friends and anyone else we came across. He could live his life in the open because he was a man of integrity. He had nothing to cover up or hide from. Kitsch gave me hope and a reason to open my heart again.

“What?” he asked, his eyes dancing between mine.

“I just… thank you.”

“It’s just lunch, beautiful,” he said, taking the bag to the break room. “Figured you’d be hungry.”

Alecia pushed through the swinging door with a sigh. “Oof, the kids always get to me. I think he has RSV.”

“It’s the one thing I hate about this job,” I said. “Well, and Nita.”

We laughed, something we both needed in the moment.

The break room phone rang, and Alecia rushed over. After a hushed conversation, she returned with eyes full of tears and a sheepish grin on her face. “He said he hasn’t been doing a good job of making my feelings a priority and he’ll do better. He said I was right, I mean more to him than her feelings. He’s going to call her one last time to make it clear to not contact him again.”

“That’s huge, Alecia. I mean, big gesture.”

“Melissa?” Kitsch asked. He looked like he’d just gotten a whiff of something rancid.

She sighed. “He’s so getting laid tonight. How’s things, Kitsch?”

He smiled at me. “Perfect, so far.”

“You brought her lunch again today? She’s getting spoiled.”

“Nah,” he said, kicking at the floor in an awe shucks manner. “Can’t spoil that girl enough if you ask me.”

“When do you leave?” she asked.

Both of our faces fell. “Two days,” we said in unison.

“Well, babe, I’d better let you get back to it. See you later.” He kissed my forehead and left the way he came.

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