Page 51

CHAPTER 51

BE HR

MARGAUX

Your eyes change to little black beads.

A shadow falls across your face.

The kindness has faded.

I don’t recognize you anymore.

All I know is your rage is directed at me.

You are large and I am small.

I feel the hatred emanating from your body.

And I know it existed before we met.

Little impulse control.

Dysregulation.

Projecting your behaviors onto me.

You’re the one with no drivers license…

so you tell people I drive blackout drunk.

You’re the one who seven individuals filed restraining orders against…

yet you say I’m the problem because I’m—‘too controlling’.

If control is setting boundaries to protect my space and my peace…

If control is expecting my partner to:

- get out of bed in the morning

- provide for us

- follow through on his word

- be honest

then I’m guilty as charged—controlling AF.

Lock me up and throw away the key and leave me alone,

Controlly McControllerson.

I wear the title with pride.

I talk to people when he’s not watching. Not because there’s anything wrong with what I’m saying, but because I know he’ll twist it. He reads malice into the most benign interactions, like I’m a puppet master orchestrating some grand betrayal behind his back.

Unlike him, these aren’t people I slept with right before meeting him—hell, I hadn’t slept with anyone for five years before we met. These are female friends, gay male friends— his family . But that doesn’t matter to him.

He only wants me for himself. He has to be my everything.

It’s suffocating, especially since the standard he sets for me doesn’t apply to him. Sure, he blocked that clingy girl, but I’m not stupid. Social media leaves a thousand doors open. And don’t even get me started on ‘deleting’ contacts—they live forever in the cloud.

It doesn’t stop there. He interprets my every move as a slight against him.

If I wake up, it’s to annoy him, because he doesn’t want to be up.

If I cook, it’s to spite him by leaving a mess in the kitchen.

If I watch TV, it’s to intentionally piss him off with the content.

He makes it sound like I’m calculated, scheming, trying to get one over on him.

In his mind, I’m a villain, scheming to undermine him at every turn.

But that’s not who I am. It’s never been who I am. Even my worst exes didn’t accuse me of this kind of manipulation.

The way he describes me makes me feel like he’s twisting me into a mirror of himself. And worst of all, I know people will believe him. He’s too charming when he wants to be, too good at glossing over the details and weaving a narrative that paints him as the victim.

This has to stop.

“You were so cruel to me,” Timmy says, his tone dripping with self-pity. “Calling me a loser.”

I look down, ashamed. “I’m sorry. That was mean of me. But I do think you need to do better.”

“You really need to choose your words and think about how you respond to things,” he says, condescension practically oozing from his pores. “You’ve done HR. You need to be more HR.”

My jaw drops.

Did he really just say that?

“Excuse me?” I say, my voice low, trying to keep a lid on my temper—but it’s really fucking hard right now. I’m about to lose my shit if he’s saying what I think he is. “What did you just say?”

“Well,” he says smugly, “you must be professional at work, especially in HR. And you should do that now.”

Oh. Hell. No.

“You want me to apply my HR skills to our relationship ?” My voice is rising, and I don’t care. “ Are you fucking kidding me? Do you know how absurd that sounds? If I were applying HR policies, I’d have fired you on day one! Serious misconduct! Assaulting another employee! Misrepresentation of facts! Lying on your resumé! Zero tolerance! Investigation complete—termination with no severance!”

He blinks at me, confused. “I just meant you should be professional and calm.”

“When you’re poking at me, insulting me, criticizing and screaming at me, I’m supposed to stay calm and take it?” I yell.

“Jesus, you’re sooo dramatic.” He rolls his eyes, his indifference like gasoline on my fire.

My whole body is tingling, my pulse pounding in my temples. For a moment, I wonder if this is what will kill me—an aneurysm brought on by Timmy’s bullshit.