Most of the junior year promposals were something akin to a prank. Cameron managed to access the frontend of Darien High’s website to smack the fated question in a neon green text box on the front page. Reed made the entire choir sing, “will you go to prom with me” as part of our warm-ups. Love and envy, Eros and hubris wafted through the halls. Some fantasized about their ideal promposal, some fervently plotted to top the other guys, and others quietly made their arrangements in the background.

The winner was Will, who used his privileges as a volunteer firefighter to drive a fire engine to school, park it outside his girlfriend’s classroom, tape a hand-painted banner to the cherry picker, and raise himself up to the second-floor window. Romeo not only ascended to Juliet’s balcony, but also made national news.

Initially, I found it all amusing because I was going to Prom with or without Roger. He was selectively grand in his affections; he often preferred to observe and comment on others’ behavior as though he was already writing his memoir. Naturally, when the Firetruck Incident happened, he had a diatribe prepared for our after-school walk, seething at the “conformists” who thought they could buy each other’s love with bombastic displays of affection. As though we were above that.

Behind the scenes, we were the soppiest romantics in our grade. The moment the final bell rang and the hallways cleared, we dropped all pretense and doused each other in love. 

Secrecy was paramount. For years, mockery trailed behind us as we struggled to maintain a healthy friendship. We were bullied for various arbitrary reasons: I was a teacher’s pet, outspoken, and unable to control the volume of my voice; he was awkward, standoffish, and slightly overweight. His friends regularly held “interventions” with him regarding our friendship, that it would lead to heartbreak, toxicity, or stagnation. They often cyberbullied me, or answered Roger’s phone when I called and promptly hung up. Roger pleaded with them to stop, but it was clear we could never just be friends.

So, only we enjoyed the satisfaction of finally getting together, of exchanging “told you so” between covert kisses. What started as a game, a casual “get-it-off-our-chests” situation escalated to love within a month. Now, five months in, we were inseparable.

And, in the wake of the Firetruck Incident, I began to succumb to dreams of my own promposal. Roger and I debated the merits of going to Prom, and decided that we might as well debut our relationship in style. Our battle plan was simple. If  anyone gave us a hard time, we were firm enough in both our friendship and budding romance that nothing could hurt us.

Two weeks into May, New England summer had swept in from the sea. Although the humidity had not quite set in, the heat itself was powerful enough. School days consisted of sweltering picnics during free periods, then rushing to air-conditioned study sessions for our exams. Prom was the only word on people’s lips: your dress, your date, your pre-prom celebration, your afterparty plans, whether your spray-tan appointment clashed with your hair appointment. The atmosphere was infectious, to the point where Roger and I found it increasingly difficult to restrain ourselves. Our hands “accidentally” slipped into one another between classes, a few glances were held too long in Spanish; it’s no wonder people started to notice.

On the tennis courts, a few girls asked me who my prom date was. Blushing in the direct sunlight, I said Roger’s name.

They flashed each other devilish looks from beneath their eyeliner and asked how he’d promposed. I shrugged and said, “not yet; we don’t need to.” Mom always advised me to be nonchalant, because rich kids thrived off information, and I tended to over-explain myself.

Unfortunately, whatever my answer, they knew exactly how to respond.

“Really? You deserve one.”

That idea of deserving better, of selling myself short for the sake of some guy, stuck my skin like a dart. During one after-school walk, Roger admitted that he’d considered surprising me at my locker with a guitar and playing some Jim Croce song. 

“I wouldn’t mind that,” I said with a light shove against his shoulder. We exited the school’s main entrance and were awash in the early afternoon heat.

“But it’s not a surprise anymore. Promposals have to be spontaneous. Have you seen the others’ bullshit?”

“I don’t think there’s a standard to hold yourself to.” As Mom’s red Subaru coasted up the driveway, my cheeks flushed.

“So, I should bring chocolates for your dad, pasta for your mom, and a big sign for you? Should I hire the Electric Light Orchestra?” He grinned, parroting a joke my dad made about how young men should ask for a parent’s blessing to date their daughter.

I frowned, “Can you not be facetious for once? If you know it’ll make me happy, do it. Whatever it is.” He stiffened and opened his arms for a proper hug. I wrapped one arm around his neck, patted his back, then sped to my mom’s car. 

That night, I went to my friend’s Sweet 16 ball in the center of Stamford. My resentment melted away in the dance floor’s pulsating lights as I watched other couples swing each other around to Pitbull’s “Give Me Everything”. I envied their feckless moves, their grins, how open they allowed themselves to be. For all his pontification and intellectual posturing, Roger was just as clueless about relationships as me. Who was I to raise yet another boundary to fully embracing our relationship? If we were to survive, we had to be shamelessly, authentically us.

Emboldened by this epiphany, I sent an apology text to Roger once I got home.

His response was succinct: No, it was warranted. If you need me, I’m nearby.

Before I could ask what he meant, a single guitar riff sliced through the night. The  opening chords of “You Shook Me All Night Long” played from somewhere down the street. I didn’t think much of it and changed into a pair of thick, baggy sweatpants and an old choir tour shirt. The song continued, and halfway through the first verse the volume abruptly rose high enough to wake up the entire street. Whoever loved that song wasn’t just passing by.

I ran downstairs and opened the door to find a petrified Roger. His chest heaved beneath a hastily-fastened tie and sweat brimmed beneath his bangs. In one hand was a box of orzo—a pasta my mom never used—and in the other an enormous can of tomato sauce. 

 “Hi. Will you go to Prom with me?” he choked.

Across the street, Roger’s three best friends stood in the flatbed of a pickup truck, waving lighters in the air as AC/DC boomed louder than the approaching train. Stunned, I realized his friends actually went along with this. They wanted us to be happy. 

After Prom Roger and I would be visible, official, something to scrutinize.

But maybe the game was over and our classmates would get bored. Maybe we were already free. I wondered whether I was ready for the next step.

We erupted into laughter, and with a shake of his head Roger called himself John Hughes. Sweeping him into an embrace, I said yes.

My phone vibrates against my hip. 

I’m willing to come even at midnight.

I reiterate that I’m busy writing thank-you cards for my graduation gifts, and am still jetlagged after the flight from Ireland. To soften the rejection, I joke that he can wait a day; we’ll see each other at Drew’s party tomorrow.

Another vibration, in step with the rattling air conditioner upstairs. 

I can even come until sunrise. I just need to see you. For many reasons. But the most important one is I feel incomplete.

Incomplete. In the pit of my chest is a tugging, burning sensation so overwhelming it’s almost divine. It could capsize ships, raze civilizations, drown islands; yet it’s my catastrophe to endure. As far as everyone else knows, our relationship fell apart after graduation.

And that misconception is fine because the truth is so much worse.

I type out variations of “Come over. Let’s go for a drive. Let’s talk. Let’s heal like we always have.” As though whatever passes between us will ever be that simple again.

 His persistent violation of my consent began after Prom. Every attempt to say no, explain I wasn’t ready, was met with moping demands for intimacy or to quell his loneliness. Only after he realized he had gone too far would the pressure subside. Our physical and emotional intimacy were balanced once again. The cycle would restart a month or so later, until it reached a point where no apologies sufficed. I launched summer break with a trip to Ireland, leaving him with the conditions of a pause, a break, but not a complete split.

So he doesn’t get to see me tonight. I have stated my position; he must learn to take no for an answer.

Another vibration.

If you need me I’ll be right outside your house.

I read and reread that line, study every pixel. It’s not the fact that he could be bluffing; it’s the precise wording of that message that sends a violent current through me. Right outside. As in, the driveway? The front door? This is a fireside horror, where the meat of the story is not the attack itself but the suspense as the killer approaches.

I creep upstairs to my parents’ bedroom, where I can get a good look at the driveway from the top floor. I crawl from the door to one of the windows, pausing only to give my dog a wave and prevent a round of barks. His head cocks to the side, then lowers back onto my mom’s shin.

Crisis #1 averted. Now onto #2. Once I reach the windowsill, I peer through the lace curtains. Across the street, I can see his figure in a light blue t-shirt, shifting from one foot to the other. 

I exhale a silent, shaky cry, even turning away from the curtains to keep them as still as possible.

An illuminated rectangle appears in front of his chest, and my phone vibrates again. My dad’s snoring halts, and I bolt out of the bedroom.

You there?

Huddled in the corner of the home office, tears sheet down my face. I’m a hypocrite; I always told him that whenever his home life became dangerous, or whenever he really needed support, he was welcome to stay at my house. Who am I to turn him away now? 

I glance up at photographs of a girl oblivious to the lawless power of a man in love. I earnestly believed that every life mattered and that care was due to all. Maybe that’s still true. But what I couldn’t understand at age four was that people can detect your empathy and exploit it. And sometimes those people love you.

My face flushes as I hyperventilate. Sweat soaks through my camisole. In a few minutes, my hands will start to tremble, followed by my entire body. Nausea will set in, then the chest pains, then all control will be lost. Panic rises quickly, almost exponentially, and it’s impossible to be rational. I might even open the front door.

Instead, I frantically scroll through my phone until I find the “BFF” contact, a.k.a. Cailin. She hasn’t dealt with the fallout of a long-term relationship yet, and I honestly don’t know how she can help. But anyone who knows Roger could take his side, or think I’m causing too much drama. My parents will kill him. Cailin’s known me for 11 years, through every possible low I’ve endured. Might as well add this one to the list.

I explain the situation to her, and can’t stop my voice from rising as I cry, “He  said he’ll wait all night. So he’ll be there when my parents go to work, when I might be sleeping. He knows how to get inside.”

Mom bursts into the office. I look at her, helpless, and fumble some words together about Roger coming to the house. Her eyes ignite, and I lead her to the bedroom window. That same blue rectangle has reached the top of our driveway, and I rush back into the home office. Mom tells my dad to stay in bed—God forbid he gets involved—and, in tandem with Cailin, talks me down. 

“Do you want me to tell him to leave?” Mom asks. I squeeze my eyes shut. 

“Michaela, this is emotional abuse,”

Cailin’s voice floats in my right ear. “This is an interrogation. Let your mom handle this; he doesn’t deserve to see you.”

I nod my head and Mom speeds down the stairs just as three knocks sound from below. I curl up in a ball and choke out more sobs, more babbling admissions of guilt. I don’t know what comes after this, what I should expect of the people I love. 

Mom’s nickname is The Chihuahua: petit, fierce, and unashamed to state her boundaries above others’. Although I can’t catch her exact words, her firm tone is a foil to Roger’s breathy, mournful pleas. I cling to my overheating phone, Cailin’s voice a buoy in this shipwrecked night. We breathe together, slowly, as I regain a sense of myself beyond him.

“You owe him nothing. He could have waited,” she repeats. “He’s pressuring you for an answer you can’t give.”

I nod, though my chest continues to tighten. Roger still loves me. He still believes there’s something worth saving. Look at the lengths he’s willing to go to prove it. He’s so convinced this is the correct thing to do, to cross my boundaries yet again until he gets what he wants. He was so obsessed with “resting on our laurels”, with checking off the list of sexual activity so he could tell his friends and stave off their judgment for another few months. And if I don’t say yes, will he learn? Or will he just hurt another girl until he gets what he wants?

And it’s still so easy to forgive him because to begrudge him is to lose years of work, connection, mistakes, joy, foolish arguments and ridiculous gestures like this. How is it all so trivial now?

Once the door slams downstairs, a gasp escapes my throat.

“What just happened?” Cailin asks. 

“He’s gone.” I reply. I peer over the bannister to find Mom lingering by the window, tilting her head as the sound of Roger’s footsteps fades into the night. The Chihuahua has become a Lioness.

I tell Cailin I’m going to bed. Before hanging up, she says, “Micky, you know I love you, right? There are people on your side too.” I’m struck by the bittersweet reminder that friends can love one another this much. A fresh tide of tears sweeps onto my cheeks, and I say yes.