Hanging out a third-story window and that damn breadmaker

Looking back, I see things so differently.

I don't blame her. Not really. I can imagine how she hurt. I imagine what it was like reading some of my friend's letters to me. His words still make my lip quiver as I read them. And I was the recipient of them — imagine if you were the person that pledged your life to this person, and those words weren't being said to you? Crushing. Absolutely crushing.

Remembering that day is really hard for me. I've tried to block out so many things.

It was late in the afternoon that day when my friend scooped me up from the office for a drive. This wasn't an uncommon occurrence. Nowadays, I saw him at least three days a week. Sometimes we'd grab lunch, others, we'd just go for a drive and talk.

On this day, I remember him pulling up to the back parking lot of my office. As I swung the door to his cab open, I gripped the bar beside the door to haul myself into his pick-up and glanced over to see him attempting to suppress a grin that was bursting to spread across his face. His ears were already red. Every time we'd meet up, he'd look at me like that. Even on a day I didn't feel great, he looked at me like he did the first time he saw me. He always made me feel like I was in an evening gown, sauntering down a marble staircase. It was infectious.

After buckling in, he shifted the truck into gear and reached over for my hand. The conversation was pretty light and routine. He brought up some stories he knew I was working on and complimented a few of my photographs that made it to the front page. I asked him about work and he told me of some funny traffic stops and issues with co-workers. As always, I'd ask him if he was happy and reminded him that he was the only one in control of that. He'd tell me that I made him happy and thought I appreciated it, it always put my stomach in knots. I knew I couldn't be the source of someone's happiness — even in my state of mind, I knew that.

As we were turning a corner, his face went white. His wife saw him. And then she saw me. I felt like I was wearing a giant red "A." Her hands were flailing in the air as she tailgated him. He used a couple of side roads to drop me off at the office beside my car. I managed to get back into my car before she pulled up alongside him slapping his truck and yelling as he hopped out. Then she came to my window. I kept my eyes forward as she slammed her hands on my window repeatedly. I'm absolute garbage.

In truth, nothing physical had happened beside the occasional kiss, but there was no denying that everything that happened was wrong.

I started my car and drove off, parking in my back parking lot at the office. I went inside, shaking a bit, and slid behind my desk. There was no way I was getting any work done now, but I had to collect myself until I could drive back to Worcester. I was certainly not in any kind of rational mindset. He's going to find out. She's going to tell him. I don't know how, but she's going to tell him. He's going to freak out. He's going to hurt me. He's going to ... was this the last time I'm going to ever see my friend?

I drove home with my stomach in my throat.

Here's where things get a bit fuzzy. I know that I brought home dinner. I didn't eat much. I usually hid my phone anyways, because I wasn't allowed to talk or text without him losing his mind, but I made a point to try and distract him from his. I just had a bad feeling. When he went to the bathroom, I checked my phone: my friend's wife sent me a message via social media telling me all kinds of things, including that she showed my boyfriend the correspondence between me and her husband. I'm going to die. I've got to figure out how I can sign into his account and delete the message immediately.

When he got out of the bathroom, I stopped him immediately. Panicked. I have to tell him. He'll lose his shit either way. But I also really don't want to hurt him.

I tried blocking his path and he shoved me. He didn't know what this was about and didn't care. He was just going to find out, so I just blurted it out.

"My friend, XXXXXXXX, kissed me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please. Please don't ... His wife ..."

"I'm sure you did, Emily."

As soon as he logged onto the computer in the living room, he clicked on her message. As he read the intimate messages my friend had written to me, he started to message his wife back and thanked her.

I was pacing around behind him, trying to anticipate his reaction.

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. It's nothing. I swear— "

"Well, at least he's better looking than I am. You did good there," he said as he began looking through his profile on social media. "You fucking slut."

I couldn't apologize with any more sincerity if I tried. I was sorry. I didn't want him to hurt. But I really did love every minute I had with my friend. What if my boyfriend decides to use (drugs) now? What if he does something stupid? It will be all my fault.

I tried to put my hand on his shoulder and he flung it off. At this point, he started questioning me about my friend's size and any sexual details I'd provide. No matter how much I denied, he continued to tell me what was wrong with my body. He would name an area of my body and tell me how undesirable it was, growing increasingly louder as he did.

I couldn't stop shaking. I had cried so much that tears had soaked the collar of my shirt.

I'm not sure if he cared what my answers were either way. I found myself begging, despite not knowing what I was begging for. I was terrified of him even when he wasn't mad. I never knew when he was going to come after me or break something.

Somehow I ended up on the floor in the kitchen. I was ashamed. I was pathetic. I felt powerless. What I hadn't realized was that before I'd gotten home, he used drugs, so despite this news, I might have been in for an eventful night anyways.

As I lay there, curled up on the floor, I felt his hands grab my legs, right above my ankles, and dragged me across the floor. Initially, my eyes were closed, but as I realized he'd dragged me over to the window, I started to scream. I didn't even recognize my scream. I was completely terror-stricken. He grabbed me and started shoving me out the window. As I pleaded for him to stop, I noticed that he stood there with no emotion. He stared at my legs blankly.

I shrieked so loud out the window of our third-story apartment; begging, pleading for anyone to help me. No one ever came. Not the neighbors. And not the people walking on the streets. No one was going to ever come to my rescue.

I began to flail, gripping a decorative cord I had purchased to tie the curtains back. Suddenly, he reacted, yelling at me and calling me names as I had apparently hit him with one of my swinging limbs.

Crawling back to the other side of the kitchen, afraid that he might try again, I stood there shaking and begging for him to forgive me. I tucked myself in the corner of the room, my right hand gripping my left arm and my right hand gripping my left arm. "Please. I'll do anything. Please. I'm sorry. Please. Don't. I'm sorry. Whatever you need. Let me make this right. Please," I said, wishing I was dead. "I'll never talk to him again. I've already deleted my account ... "

I knew what I did was wrong, but why was I fighting to stay with this person? He doesn't love me. He doesn't care about all I do for him or for us. But, I can't have him die. Maybe if I push just a little harder, he'll stop. Maybe then he'll love ...

My thoughts were interrupted to a cashier asking whether I'd be paying cash or credit.

Whenever we fought, even when the circumstances may not have been deemed my fault, it was my duty to buy himself something so he'd stop. I was conditioned to be like this. It was so second nature that, despite how petrified I had just been a little less than a half-hour ago, here I was, cashing out in Walmart. The only person that made me feel validated, like myself, is being erased from my life.

He hung me out a window and I bought him a fucking bread maker.