He's The Boss

1

When I see it, everything gives way underneath me.

I crumple to the floor, my long, pale legs sticking out in whichever direction they please. My skirt poofs then settles, like a ballerina's tutu.

All around me, the apartment is a hollowed-out belly of what my life used to be. Shelves and drawers with little stain marks marking what they used to hold. The ghosts of appliances long gone.

Slowly, I begin to realize that the $0.00 figure I saw on the ATM earlier was no mistake. He took everything. Later, I'll find out that he even took my toothbrush.

This is not happening.

"You were always too trusting of people, Cait."

God, it's her again. She's sitting in the middle of my couch – once my and his couch, because we bought it together. I'd always thought that was the moment that sealed the deal between us. Forget engagement rings. Forget weddings. Forget kids. It's all about the couch.

I look over my mother, a petite, put-together woman. She's always kind of reminded me of a young Queen Elizabeth – prim and proper, with a presence you felt immediately when she entered the room. Like now.

Seeing her here, in her robin's egg-blue suit, with her hands clasped in her lap and her piercing gray eyes targeting me like missiles, awakens something inside me. Somehow, my legs prop themselves up, and I'm standing, looking down at her. It's supposed to be a psychological trick – giving yourself height makes it harder to feel intimidated by another person. But I don't think it works on a woman who's been dead for eight years.

"What are you going to do now?" she asks me.

"Nothing."

"Nothing? You're not going to try and find him?"

"Something tells me he's long gone by now."

"Go to the police then."

I scoff at that, eyes darting away for a moment and scanning the apartment.

I regret doing that. It physically hurts seeing what he's done to this place. To me.

"No," I mutter.

"Why not? You don't trust them to do a good job?"

"I don't trust them to care."

"Is that the real reason or are you just embarrassed?"

I feel myself go red. I know I shouldn't be embarrassed. I'm a victim. But that's just it. That's exactly what I don't want to be. A victim. Especially since I'm the one who trusted him. Who let him into my life.

Mom's right. I've never been a good judge of character. The men in my life have either been flings or cheaters. They say you attract what you put out, and it makes me wonder if deep down, I'm just not worth anything more.

"I just think it's a waste of time," I tell my mother, puffing out my chest defiantly.

"Don't stick your tits out at me."

Alright, deflate chest.

"You're a fucking Harper. You can't just sit back and take this lying down."

"It's done, Mom. Now, please leave."

"You need help."

"From you? There's nothing you can do for me."

"Then go to your father."

"No! Are you crazy! I wouldn't go to him even if I was out on the streets!"