LET THIS BE A LESSON SHE ASKED FOR
Chapter Soundtrack: “Control” – by Halsey
“Be careful with all the riffraff men around here,” my dad’s friend said with a certain look in his eye. He reached out and put his hands on the flat of my stomach and the curve of my hip while he spoke.
His hands were more problematic than his eyes because I couldn’t cut them off the way I wanted to. A gaze is easy enough to divert. I am careful to avoid eye contact with men because I know they are looking for signs of permission.
His hands on my body were a shock my mind struggled to rectify. It wasn’t like he had groped my tits or grabbed my ass. There was nothing blatantly sexual about his advance, which should have been a blessing— but it was a curse.
I had no proof that he had done anything wrong, and that’s exactly what my father said when I told him.
“He’s harmless, Amber. It’s no big deal. Don’t go making something out of nothing.”
It was my fault for standing too close, just as it would be my fault if nothing became something. I understand how things work in this world. I know better.
My dad depends on Roy to stay alive. Roy plows his driveway when the winter snow comes. Without his help, my dad couldn’t make it to dialysis. He’d be snowed in.
Roy has my phone number because my dad gave it to him. “If you need anything—anything at all—all you need to do is ask,” he texts me. He includes a red heart emoji.
I convince myself that my initial distress was an overreaction. Maybe he’s just a handsy guy. Maybe the way I think is the problem. Maybe he’s really a great guy, and I’m the kind of girl who wrongly accuses.
My dad and I live next door to a convicted rapist. Byron spent seventeen years in the pen for his crime, and still the locals blame her.
“From what I heard, she was a young little slut. It was consensual, but she was underage, so it became a crime.”
Byron’s case was tried by a jury. He was found guilty, and yet everyone here believes he is innocent.
“He got a bad deal. It wasn’t fair how they did him.”
Roy sends me texts every few days. Random texts that I don’t read into more than I should—
a YouTube video about a woman getting roofied by a sexual predator,
a TikTok video about women claiming to not need help from men,
while in reality their efforts are a disaster without them.
I begin to send him chapters I’ve written via text message. My choice isn’t personal, it’s removed. I’ve been sending recent chapters to everyone on my recent text thread list. Roy is one of the few people to reply when I do.
“I will see you soon,” he wrote one day.
“You will see me soon?” I replied. “Is there something happening that I’m not aware of?”
“I’m coming over to visit your dad,” he said.
“I won’t be home, but my dad will love to see you,” I replied.
When I made it clear I wasn’t available, Roy didn’t show up to see my dad like he’d promised.
“Good morning, Amber. I hope you slept well,” Roy wrote.
I stared at his text message like it was a nightmare unfolding, not sure how to answer.
Why does he care how I slept? Why does it matter?
“Are you guys going to breakfast in the morning?” he texted me instead of my dad.
“Yes, my dad will meet you for breakfast,” I replied.
“I’m buying you and your dad breakfast,” he said.
“You are awesome! I won’t be at breakfast. I’m staying home to work on my writing business,” I said.
He sends me a sad-face emoji.
His reaction makes me feel like I’m somehow responsible for managing his emotions, like I should feel bad about doing everything I can to avoid another close, in-person meeting.
“Why be sad? I am doing what I love,” I texted him.
“I’m not sad,” he replied. “Just looking forward to seeing your smiling face.”
Maybe Roy is not really a threat, I tell myself. Maybe I’m making something out of nothing.
My inner psyche warns me to heed the warning signs, while I grapple with my empathetic consciousness.
“Did you tell him not to touch you? Did you tell him no?”
I put myself on trial as defense, only to come away as the one who is guilty.
“He’s harmless, Amber,” my dad’s words echo.
I decide to ask him to become a paid subscriber.
“Hello, Roy. I slept well, thank you. I truly appreciate your kind words about my writing. You mentioned wanting to help if I ever needed it, so I wanted to share that I now offer a paid subscription for $5 a month. It helps me keep producing thoughtful, independent writing, and the income also allows me to focus on caring for my dad.”
He wrote back, “I will sign up for sure, girl.”
I sent him the link for payment, but he didn’t follow through. He did not sign up to become a paid subscriber. Instead, he sent me a text that read, “I will see you tomorrow.”
I ignored his text and stopped engaging.
A week went by.
“I’m going out to breakfast to meet Roy,” my dad said. “Do you want to come?”
I shook my head. “No,” I said.
A few hours later, I got a text from Roy. “I have a pie to drop off for you and your dad.”
“My dad went to meet you for breakfast,” I replied.
“Yes, I could send it home with your dad, but I want to pay you for my subscription.”
“Oh no!” I replied. “Were you not able to sign up via the link I sent you?”
“You just need to help me do it. I was just gonna give you the money for mine for a year to make it real easy,” he said, including a smile emoji.
“That totally works,” I said as my stomach turned in knots. “What time are you thinking?”
“When I leave here, I will stop and see ya. Your dad will probably stay here at the restaurant when I come by.”
I sat, looking down at my phone, feeling helplessly dumb. Roy didn’t care about my writing, nor did he really want to support my creative endeavors. He could have sent the money home with my dad, along with the pie he had tried to use as an excuse to gain entry. Signing up via the link was an easy thing to do. He didn’t need my help.
My writing is an open door to predators. It leaves me vulnerable and exposed.
When my dad came home, I told him what had happened with Roy.
“He gave me the pie, Amber,” he said. “Let this be a lesson. You shouldn’t have reached out to him in the first place.”
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