Page 103 of Terms of Exposure
Garrett: Candace.
Garrett: Candace answer me.
Garrett: I swear to god if you're fucking someone else.
Garrett: After everything I've done for you.
Garrett: You ungrateful bitch.
Garrett: I'm sorry. I didn't mean that.
Garrett: Please. I love you. I'm just scared of losing you.
Garrett: Pick up the phone.
Garrett: PICK UP THE FUCKING PHONE.
Garrett: I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. Please.
The messages blurred together.
Love, rage, remorse. Rinse and repeat.
My phone trembled against my palm.
He's escalating.A small voice whispered.This is how it starts.
Memories surfaced unbidden. The ones I'd buried so deep I'd almost convinced myself they weren't real.
That night at the club two years ago. I'd gone to get us drinks andthe bartender was slammed, so I'd waited. A guy next to me had struck up a conversation—something harmless about the music, the crowd. I'd laughed at a joke. Nothing more.
But Garrett had seen.
Later, in the hotel room, he'd pinned me to the bed. His weight crushing the air from my lungs while he screamed in my face.Whore. Slut.
I'd tried to explain. Tried to apologize for something I hadn't done.
He hadn't listened.
He'd fucked me instead.
It took me years to admit what it was.
Rape.
Hard and angry, his fingers digging bruises into my hips while I cried and begged him to stop.
And afterward—afterward he'd held me so gently. Kissed my tears away. Told me he was sorry, that he just loved me so much it made him crazy.
I'd believed him.
God help me, I'd believed him.
And then the night I'd come home late from Emma's apartment. We'd been watching movies, lost track of time. My phone had died.
Garrett had been waiting in the dark.
You love her more than me, he'd spat.You'd rather be with her than me. Is that it? Am I not enough for you?
