Page 26 of Watching Ames

After almost an hour, a noise from the front of the apartment interrupted my painting, and I paused my music as I called out. “Hello?”

I moved a little closer to the door, regretting it when a shape suddenly entered my sight. I let out a small scream, heart rate ratcheting until my eyes finally took in the familiar face.

“Peter!” I laughed a little as I took a deep breath, finally realizing that I didn’t open the door for him, narrowing my eyes in confusion as I asked, “How’d you get in?”

“Penny dropped me off. Didn’t want to worry about the paparazzi.” Since Peter’s father was a senator, he had occasionally made headlines when he was younger, stumbling drunk out of bars. Since then, his interns were usually responsible for picking him up and helping him sneak out of establishments more subtly than an underpaid Uber driver. Since Penny had the infamous revolving key to my apartment, it made sense that she’d unlock the door for him since she was used to sneaking in and leaving notes while I was sleeping.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I admitted, hand still to my chest as I waited for my heart rate to fully slow.

“You like that though, don’t you?” Peter stepped into the bedroom, his words slightly slurring as I got a better look at him. His eyes were glassy and bloodshot, struggling to focus on me as he staggered closer.

He was drunker than I’d ever seen him. He wasn’t usually a big drinker, sipping at wine or beers at events but rarely ever getting past tipsy. His drunken state was unexpected and threw me off balance. I didn’t like not knowing what to expect with drunk Peter, especially since we were already on precarious ground. I didn’t even attempt to start the breakup conversation, instead listening to the nerves churning in my gut like warning signs as Peter’s face grew colder by the minute.

“Peter, what are you doing?” I asked, forcing out a nervous chuckle as I tried not to panic at the look in his eyes as he shut the bedroom door behind him. He pulled his shirt out of his pants, the tails wrinkled from where they had been tucked into his waistband all day. The motion didn’t worry me as much as the dead look in his eyes as he stepped closer, his hands lashing out much too fast for how drunk he seemed.

His fingers latched onto my wrists, pulling my arms above my head in a harsh motion that pulled at the muscles in my shoulders. He flipped me around, twisting my shoulders and pushing at my back until my face was pressed roughly against the wall.

“This is what you want, isn’t it?” His words were harsh as they whispered in my ear, the sour smell of the alcohol he’d been drinking gagging me, and my panic ratcheted up as I realized he was referencing our fight from months ago.

* * *

I had returned homeafter a late night working at the studio, running so late to meet Peter that Penny had to drive over to my apartment to let him in. I came home to find Peter already sitting on my couch and flipping through a book I’d been reading. It was a romance novel, one with dark themes and a few detailed sex scenes. When I went to look over his shoulder, I saw that he was reading a particularly graphic scene, the author describing how the heroine was being chased through the forest, her pulse beating faster and thighs getting damp at the idea of the hero catching her and having his way with her. The next couple of pages involved exactly that, written in explicit detail.

“Why do people read this?” The question itself hadn’t been particularly harsh, his eyes still turned toward the book so I couldn’t read his expression.

“Because it’s fun and sexy. Some people view it like porn.” I explained in the simplest terms I could think of, struggling to articulate all the reasons people enjoyed romance novels, the empowerment that came from reading about men written by women for women just as important as the sexual component.

“And you like stuff like this?” He pointed at the page, where the hero caught the heroine, ripping off her clothes just before he held her down and fucked her.

“I mean, I don’t hate the idea,” I admitted with a small laugh, which faded fast when I saw Peter’s lip curl in disgust.

“You’re telling me this shit turns you on?” He didn’t give me the chance to answer, seeing the admission in my eyes as I felt my shoulders slump in preparation of the brutal words I knew would come next. “You’re disgusting.”

Even though I was prepared through years of harsh criticism by Peter, his words shaping what I wore and what I did, they still hit just as hard as they were meant to. The words of his attack flew through my ears like oil, clogging them so fully I knew I’d remember the words alongside the disgust and judgment in his eyes.

It wasn’t as if I didn’t know these types of inclinations were frowned upon. Society made that fairly clear, when mainstream romance in books and movies usually ended with missionary sex and maybe some light spanking, if they were feeling particularly spicy. There was a reason these types of books were often sold with “discreet” covers, because people were ashamed of having others know what they’re into. The types of sexual preferences your college friends didn’t talk about at brunch but rather made jokes about at parties. It had always been somewhat of a sore spot for me, something I wouldn’t readily share with a partner. Something I hadn’t shared with Peter, until now, when him finding my book had forced my hand.

But despite knowing all this, I didn’t expect that level of judgment from Peter, not when he was the one I’d been sleeping with for the past two years. We hadn’t delved far into kinks before, but Peter had his fair share of a sexual past. He would tell me raunchy stories of his coworkers’ sex lives, and never seemed to judge when he heard stories of friends who went to sex clubs or had threesomes.

“I can’t even look at you,” he had spit at me as he headed out the door, slamming it behind him in a way that felt so final. Up until he breezed back into my life a few weeks ago.

* * *

We hadn’t talkedabout the fight, though I suspected that it was part of the reason we hadn’t had sex since his return back into my life. And the same thing he had thrown in my face and been disgusted by was now…what? An excuse to force me into something I wasn’t asking for?

And for the first time in a while, I got mad. I allowed the anger I was constantly suppressing to bubble up, overwhelming me until I was seething with it, enraged over so many things in my life. At Bex, for leaving me without a word and ignoring my phone calls. At Alex, for surprising me with a house before even trying to ask me on a date. At myself, for allowing everyone to continue to walk over me, without standing up for myself and supporting myself the way I had everyone else for years.

But most of all, at Peter, for not feeling an ounce of guilt as he fumbled his belt buckle and tore at my clothes with drunken fingers despite my firm rejections and attempts to wiggle from beneath him. Toward Peter, who was trying to rape me, which I knew he’d likely excuse tomorrow as me “liking it rough” based on a single scene from a book I read.

I thought of the sneer on Peter’s face when he judged my book, the disapproving frown he gave my piercings and the clothes I wore that he didn’t like, him berating me when I got clay on his suit, all of the memories surging through my body until I bucked up against him, slamming the back of my head into his face.

He stumbled away from me in jerky movements, falling onto one knee and knocking over the tray of paint, splattering us both as his hands went to the blood dripping out of his nose. I pushed away from the wall as quickly as I could, taking advantage of Peter’s surprise to turn toward the door, knowing that even on uneven footing, Peter drunk and stumbling, I didn’t stand a chance against his larger frame and width.

I sprinted out of the room, ripping the door open and running through the apartment barefoot. His outraged bellow behind me, coupled with the sounds of the door slamming against what I assumed was my bedroom wall, only spurred me on faster. The only thoughts running through my mind were of getting out of my apartment and away from Peter, my feet barely able to slow long enough to grab my car keys off the hook to the left of the front door, where they always sat.

I flew down the stairs, scared to stop at my neighbors’ doors for fear they wouldn’t answer before Peter reached me or they would ignore me, not wanting to get involved. There were too many horror stories like mine, where bystanders and police were all too willing to blame the victim, and I knew that Peter’s father had been decidedly pro-police in his most recent re-election campaign, which meant my claims would likely fall on deaf ears if the police even bothered to arrive.

So I didn’t stop until I was in my car, turning the key and praying that I wouldn’t succumb to the classic horror-movie trope of my car failing to start, almost sobbing with relief when the engine turned over. I pulled out of my parking spot and started driving, my fingers refusing to relax from their white-knuckled grip until I pulled over into a brightly-lit fast food restaurant far enough from my apartment that I felt safe to stop for a moment.

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