the memories back into their mental box and shove them away.
I'm clearly not over it. Not ready to entirely move on. Still, there's some progress. I think even Jerry—my former therapist—would agree.
Former because we ended up sleeping together and it took me longer than it should to realize how unhealthy that was. He took advantage of me during a low point in my life, and I let him, because I was in too much pain to say no to something that looked enough like love.
His true colors bled into our relationship slowly and by then it was too late. I was already under his thumb.
I don't even cry every night anymore. Not about my brother and not about my therapist/love/ex/asshole.
But when my phone bings, the familiar panic sends a surge of unneeded adrenaline through my bloodstream and my heart quickens as I swallow back bile.
Because I know it's Jerry.
And I'm not wrong.
I'd love to be wrong. Just once.
Please, babe. Give me another chance. We're perfect together. I love you. Isn't that enough?
I squeeze away the tears forming in my eyes as I look around for something to anchor me to the present moment. The silver door knob. The Ansel Adams print hanging in the hall. The spider crawling in the corner of the ceiling. I breathe in. Breathe out. In through the nose for two counts, out through the mouth four counts. I am safe. Whole. One with all. I am safe. Whole. One with all.
As my body settles and my mind calms, I continue my breathing until the panic abates.
It's getting easier to recover from these unexpected contacts. I screenshot the exchange, put it in the file I created specifically for this, and block the number. Again.
The gesture is beginning to feel pointless. He just finds a new number. I think he's got a year's worth of burner phones for the sole purpose of harassing me daily. I've already deleted all my social media and gone dark in every way that I can. My phone number is unlisted and I change it every three months. I would move if I could, but I haven't been able to afford it since Adam died. The authorities are fairly useless. Which leaves me on my own to deal with my ex.
So here we are.
I drop the phone into my bag and let myself out of my apartment, which involves unlocking four separate deadbolts I insisted my landlord install for me. I take a few moments to lock up, suck in my breath, and turn to face my future.
The subway this time of night is shockingly less crowded than I would have expected, much to my relief. Rush hour is long past, but still, New York is overcrowded at any time, day or night. Yet our train is only moderately full, mostly of people who look to be heading out for a good time or coming home from one.
I find a seat as far from everyone else as I can, pull out my sketchbook and pencils, and look around for the perfect subject.
I'm about to settle on a beautiful older male couple holding hands and talking quietly with their heads close together when I see him.
My body's response to him is physical, visceral and immediate. It takes me a moment to remember how to breathe. It's as if all the oxygen has been sucked from me, and when it returns I gasp, then cough to cover up the sound.
He hasn't noticed me—the god-like specimen across the train—and I'd like to keep it that way.
Never have I seen someone so perfect, so symmetrical, so angular in all the right ways, so handsome but also devilishly sexy at the same time. I feel a tightening in my gut as I study him, an awakening of something dormant within, something I haven't felt in a very long time. I shove that feeling aside and focus on the art as my fingers work quickly to sketch his form.
He's tall, maybe 6'4" or 6'5", broad shouldered, tapered waist, all wrapped in a suit that looks custom-tailored just for his body. His dark hair is wild, falls past his collar and compliments his forest green eyes, and I have to look away quickly before he catches me staring. A viral energy emanates from him and he fills the train with a kind of magic that belies his expensive suit.
The woman to his left can't take her eyes off of him, and is practically straining to get closer even as