What Love Isn’t

Chapter 13

February brought Valentine's Day and a new level of control.

Marcus showed up at my house with flowers and a jewelry box. Inside was a necklace—a delicate gold chain with a small pendant that said "Marcus" in script.

"So everyone knows you're mine," he said, fastening it around my neck.

It felt like a collar.

"It's beautiful," I lied.

"You'll wear it every day."

"Of course."

He took me to dinner at an expensive restaurant, the kind with cloth napkins and multiple forks. He was charming and attentive, holding my hand across the table and telling me how much he loved me.

Other couples looked at us and smiled. They probably thought we were the perfect young couple, so in love.

If only they knew.

After dinner, we went back to his apartment. I knew what was coming, but I was tired of fighting. So when he started undressing me, I didn't protest. When he pushed me onto the bed, I didn't resist. When he held me down and—

No. I couldn't think about it. If I thought about it, I'd have to call it what it was.

Rape.

But it couldn't be r**e. He was my boyfriend. I loved him. And people who love each other don't r**e each other.

Right?

The next day, I couldn't get out of bed. Everything hurt—my body, my heart, my soul. I felt broken in a way I couldn't explain.

Mom came to check on me. "Honey, are you sick?"

"Just cramps," I lied.

"Do you need anything? Ibuprofen? A heating pad?"

"No. I just need to sleep."

She kissed my forehead and left. I pulled the covers over my head and cried until I had no tears left.

My phone buzzed. Marcus: Last night was amazing. I love you so much.

I stared at that text for a long time. Then I typed back: Love you too.

Because what else could I say?