The Unhappy Life with the Abusive Boyfriend

I am delighted by the numbers; they are impressive. Day after day, more and more subscribers join us. My best friend, Callie, and I run a newsletter on a social media platform, Digital Future. The newsletter, Gen Z Online, is simple, colorful, and fun, covering lifestyle, motivation, pop culture, and green living. We already have a few thousand paying subscribers. Callie and I have been friends since we were teens. We met because of our families: my grandma is one of the powerful matriarchs of Seattle, and Callie’s family was in Grandma’s circle of friends. Grandma, unlike Mom and me, is an extrovert. She loves to invite her friends into her home. Black and white entrepreneurs, doctors, and lawyers visit her on Sunday afternoons for tea or luncheon. She attends galas and charity events. She is interested in our city’s politics. Grandma and Mom are glad that Callie and I are friends. She is a confident, motivated, smart girl. And they worry that I might be lonely. I was homeschooled, I have online degrees, I am an introvert. But a handful of people are important in my life. Family and friends matter. Callie and I started experimenting with the Internet when we were fifteen. We added fun photos and videos to our i********: feeds. We were thrilled when we had our first visitors. One by one, we learned that we needed our unique visuals and voice to keep interest alive. Then we found Digital Future, a platform where we could add stories. And readers tuned in. We had more than 1,000 paying subscribers by the time we became eighteen. We got our online degrees in management, writing, and entrepreneurship. My phone starts vibrating. I look at the display. Callie text-messaged me. I open her message. See you at The Orchid Jungle tonight at six! Sure, I text back. # When I enter The Orchid Jungle, a discreetly luxurious cafe filled with electric purple and yellow orchids, I spot Callie in three seconds. She has espresso skin and natural hair in a cheerful caramel shade, and she is wearing a pale mint top and teal pants, all cotton and linen, summery, highlighting her petite, athletic body. She is with Julia, one of our friends, a nice-looking white girl with a bright pink bob, she is wearing a lemon-green ensemble. I am in neon pink: cargo pants and a tee. We clash with the cafe’s pleasant pastels: pale yellow, soft blue, light pink. I walk up to my girls. “Hi, Sennia.” “Hi, Callie, Julia. How’s it going?” I am sitting down next to them, they have already ordered me lemonade. “I’ve painted this,” Julia holds up a smartphone, taps it, and shows me photos of her latest creative works. She is a digital artist, and, for a hobby, she paints beautiful pictures. This time, a turquoise ocean and lush green palm trees. “It’s beautiful,” I say. I also create digital art, but I am not nearly as skilled as Julia. She went to an art school. “Can you send us photos of your paintings?” Callie asks her. “They’re totally original. Could we use them in our articles? It may even attract new guests to your website.” Julia is pleased. “We should paint together, do you have time this weekend?” Since Julia loves to paint, and Callie and I are interested, we sometimes get together and paint. We are messing around with tube paints. Callie’s pictures are nice. Mine, too. Julia’s are artworks. “Then we have a painting class on Saturday,” Callie agrees. A young man is approaching us, he stops in front of our table. He is about our age, we are twenty-four. He is white. Tall, athletic, and handsome, with a strong jawline, a square jaw. He has brilliant blue eyes and a confident, friendly smile, perfect, white teeth. A trendy crew cut. He is smartly dressed, wearing well-cut Gucci pants and a beige D&G tee. “Hi, ladies. I’m Jake Logan. We’ve met before, I saw you at the fundraising gala two weeks ago.” He is staring at Callie. “May I sit down? I’ve ordered you some coffee.” Callie is glowing. A waitress appears with our coffees. We were there at the fundraising gala for medical research, in the Olympic Ballroom of the Edgewater Hotel, with the chandeliers and the amazing waterfront view. I cannot remember seeing him there. I have been with Callie and Julia, then with local Black politicians and doctors, Grandma’s old friends. Grandma has been running a local newspaper, Seattle Noir, for decades. There were about two hundred guests at the gala. Jake Logan could have been there. I just have not noticed him. He is already sitting down in a pastel green upholstered chair at our table. “I’m an entrepreneur, I just moved here from L.A.,” he says with easy confidence. “Are you interested in medical research?” Julia asks. He laughs. “No, no way. I’m not into medicine. I work with crypto. I’m just networking here. I’m new in town, I need new friends, okay? Next week, I’ll go to a gala for eco-friendly crypto mining.” He waves a dismissive hand, signaling he is uninterested. “I hope I’ll see you there, ladies.” He is looking at Callie. She nods and smiles. “Absolutely,” she says. “Probably you’re interested in crypto?” he asks. “No,” Callie admits, and she looks at me. “Sennia and I are influencers. We have a newsletter.” “It’s a girl thing,” he sneers. “I’m sure you could do something better. I heard your father is a successful investor, right? You have opportunities most young people don’t have. You could invest in crypto, tech, real estate.” We are not into crypto or real estate, but we are no idiots. We both love our newsletter and put effort into it. And our work is meaningful. Readers give us feedback all the time: we are uplifting, we make a difference for them. I decide to let it go. “We like the newsletter well enough,” I say. “Hey, I’m just joking,” Jake says, still smiling. “No hard feelings, okay?” One cannot get angry with Mr. Charm. I nod with a small smile. But I am still wary of him, I cannot help it. I have this funny feeling about him. It is just my sixth sense. Jake turns back to Callie and asks her about her friends and hobbies. He discusses modern arts with Julia, she shows him her paintings and digital artwork on her cellphone. “These are amazing,” he smiles at Julia. “I have a friend in L.A, he has a gallery, sure as hell he’d be interested. And one of my friends owns a design studio, ColorArt, they do everything, movies, video games, marketing campaigns for Silicon Valley tech companies. I should mention you to him.” He talks about his life in L.A., he shares casual anecdotes about his entrepreneur friends. He mentions he needs to discover Seattle. “We should go to The Blast,” he suggests. “I’ve already been there.” It is an expensive, upscale bar within walking distance. We shake our heads, we rarely hit bars. “Come on, I invite you all,” he insists with a big smile. I feel uneasy, but my friends are interested. We walk out of The Orchid Jungle into the warm summer evening. The sky is turning from teal into deep evening blue. The Blast is an impressive place, with its brilliant golden lights and dark, gleaming paneling and wall decor. Two waiters approach us right away. “Mr. Logan, a delight to see you. Sadly, your favorite table is taken, but we have another nice spot. . .” Jake gives a hostile look to the elderly couple sitting at a table in the center. Then he shrugs and follows the waiter. “Could we get four Ron Zacapas, please?” The waiter is gliding away. “You like finer things,” I tell Jake. He smiles. “It hasn’t always been that way. I was a pizza delivery guy in college. My mom was a saleslady, dad was a car mechanic. They’re retired now.” Jake is still talking about his interest in new places in Seattle. “Would you like to show me around someday?” He looks at Callie, then Julia, then me. “Sure,” Callie volunteers happily. “Great! How about tomorrow? Around seven p.m.?” “Perfect,” Callie agrees. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes are bright, and her burgundy lips quirk upward in a cheerful grin. I have not seen her so electrified in a long time. We say goodbye to Jake sometime around ten, we walk out of the bar, he offers to drive Callie home in his large silver BMW SUV. Julia and I call an Uber. Belltown is illuminated by colorful artificial lights, the tree-lined, dark streets are vibrant and alive. #