“Come for dinner,” Melissa said not long after I’d met her. We volunteered together teaching English as a Second Language to adults. Melissa had joined a couple years after I’d started and I was doubtful that she would last. She liked teaching, but stuck too much to the book to reach those students who were illiterate in their own language. Melissa was focused, firm bordering on strident, enamored of her own opinions, and bursting with unswerving self-confidence. None of which I shared. But, in the provincial city of Philadelphia, where outsiders weren’t readily accepted, my circle of friends was thin and I was eager to make new ones. So I said yes.
“Tell me about yourself,” Rick had said when I’d first met him. I didn’t, with some polite evasion. Dinner with Melissa was dinner with Rick at his house. She’d waxed and polished him to a brilliant shine, expecting me to fall in love with him on sight.
“Tell me everything about you.” I’d known him for half an hour and he was already probing into my life with what felt like a scalpel. It was too much too soon. I was uncomfortable and his leaning into my space, so much so that he was nearly hovering over my plate didn’t make me feel any better. I shifted in my chair, moved the plate a couple of inches away from him—lest he start feeding me like a child—and tried to act normal. I was a guest and well mannered.
“Come on, tell me about yourself.” I shut that down, again with polite evasion—a tactic I’d learned to protect myself from those who wanted to get too close without offending them or creating a scene, a disturbance, or calling even more unwanted attention to myself. It usually worked, in most social settings.
My closest and dearest friends will confirm that I open up slowly. And someone wanting to fast track that has always made me wary. But there was something underlying his character that had me wanting him to know as little about me as possible. It wasn’t anything I could identify. It was just instinct.
“I want to know all there is about you.” I felt like a lamb caught in an abattoir. My only thought was escape. Escape from conversation, from the evening, from the house, from him. There was something predatory about Rick. In truth, he was mostly well mannered, until he picked up his fork—he used it as a shovel, as he kept leaning into my space with little regard to the newness of our acquaintance. “I want to read the book of your life. Tell me your story,” he whispered in my ear.
I survived dinner without further incident by pulling Melissa into the conversation and making her the center of attention. Survival tactic. But it has its limits. “Call me when you get home.” He couldn’t be serious. We’d just met.
Melissa drove me home, a thirty-minute drive that seemed to take hours. She was intent on finding out what I thought of Rick. Once again, I found myself politely, but unenthusiastically, answering questions without actually giving answers and turning the conversation around so that I was the one asking questions. How could I tell her that her best friend came on way too strong and ate with the sophistication of a prison inmate?
Relieved to be back in my apartment, finally, and alone, I kicked off my shoes and changed into sweats and a t-shirt. I tried to shake off the feeling of slick yick crawling across my skin so I could feel normal again, so that I could feel my own equilibrium away from the intensity of my inner voice yelling danger. The phone rang and I picked it up wondering who could be calling so late.
“You didn’t call me to tell me you got home okay.” How did he get my number?? Melissa. Fuck. I don’t remember exactly how I responded or what I said. I was listening to my instinct and soul screaming, “Get out!” at a volume that overrode conversation. I must have passed it off with humor per my usual, and an “I don’t know you,” because he asked me out.
“Get to know me, then. Why don’t we see Pulp Fiction?” It had just come out and everyone was talking about it, but I have an aversion to violent films—and violence in general—so I answered truthfully. “I have absolutely no desire to see that film.” He took it personally and got angry. He didn’t suggest a different film, or bother to ask what I’d like to see. My rejection of the film was a rejection of him and he lit into me. His reaction took me by surprise. But, in the world of red flags, this was the gigantic, you-can’t-miss-it, red flag, on fucking fire. He was still irate when I hung up.
Two weeks later, I was at Alain’s party. Alain was French, a doctor, smart, funny, sweet, and beautiful. I was shy, quiet, had only a bachelor’s degree, and had a lowly secretarial job. A nobody. I knew Alain wasn’t interested, but he was kind and had invited me, so I went. I went by myself, which took some courage.
The party was nice—wine, cheese, and conversation—and a little scary as I tried to overcome my introverted, shy side to have easy small talk. It was difficult. Alain would check in with me occasionally, which was nice of him. Then, in walked Melissa and Rick. I kept my distance, as much as I could in a one bedroom apartment, but eventually found myself cornered by him. Rick had been waiting as I emerged from the bathroom. He maneuvered me into a room with no guests. The bedroom.
I’ve blocked out most of the events and almost all of what was said. But I remember he was livid because I’d ignored him. The louder he got, the more quiet I became. Confrontation was not going to go well in my favor.
Before I knew what was happening, he darted in close, took me by the shoulders and threw me hard against the wall. I kept my wits, but not my breath. He pinned me to the wall. His voice menaced, mirroring the anger and violence I saw in his eyes. He accused me of being cold, frigid. I was terrified. I really thought he would hit me. How the hell was I going to get myself out of this? I wanted to leave, but I didn’t want a scene. Good girls don’t create scenes, especially quiet, shy, well-mannered girls who are guests and at someone else’s party.
One of Alain’s friends stepped into the room. He sized up the situation and looked at me as Rick stepped away, and asked me if I was ok. I paused—a breath, a lifeline, but also an admission of shame and embarrassment, a scene, an unwelcome intrusion into a lovely party, Alain’s home—so I nodded slowly and said yes.
Physically, it was true. Emotionally, I was on the verge of tears and I was damned if I’d let that show. A few more minutes of verbal abuse and I escaped back into the fold of party goers, where there was safety in numbers.
I wanted to leave right away, but I was afraid that Rick would follow me out. I wouldn’t have the safety on the streets of Philly as I had at the party. Calling a cab seemed ridiculous as I lived only two blocks away. And when I noticed that Rick had left, I feared he’d be waiting for me—if he’d gotten my phone number from Melissa, might he also have my address? So, I overstayed my welcome at the party until nearly dawn and eventually got home safe.
Thankfully, I never saw Rick again. I never saw Melissa either, outside of our volunteer work. And I never saw Alain again. I was ashamed at having stayed too long at his party, and too shaken every time I remembered what had happened, to try developing a friendship.
“Are you okay?” It still echoes in my head. I said yes. It was my problem, my shame, and I would find my own way out of it, survivor that I am. So, I said yes.
What if I’d asked for help? What was the worst that could possibly have happened? No, I’m not okay. No, I shouldn’t have to deal with this alphahole. No, I’m not responsible for his fragile ego. Please call a cab, I want to go home. What if I’d said no? No, no, no. I. Am. Not. Okay.
©2024 Caitlyn Frost. All rights reserved.
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