Squeak

Sophia

Jezebel

By Wednesday, everyone was aware of my split from Erik, and because I couldn't shake Tucker no matter how hard I tried, they assumed we were a couple. I hated my classmates more than I did before. They were fickle and vain. To them, it didn't matter if you were a good person or if you did the right thing. All that mattered was that you wore the right clothes and toted a bag more expensive than a family of six's monthly food budget. That was what was required to earn dignity and respect from them. They were all lost, and I had zero hopes they'd change once they crossed the stage. Their poor qualities would follow them well into adulthood—society was doomed.

I sound like Erik...I miss him.

I was pathetic. I missed that lunatic as soon as he pulled out of my driveway with all of his belongings and Muffin's head and his poop. I almost threw up when I donned industrial cleaning gloves and dug the filth out of the toilet. You could call me unhinged, maybe even claim I did too much, but I was sending Erik a message: I could out-crazy him if I wanted to, and there were consequences to his actions.

While I missed him tremendously, the first night without Erik King was needed. I finally had the house to myself since my father's departure, and it was relaxing. I didn't have to hear Erik cursing vile words at the computer monitor from his game room. I didn't have to listen to his Devil music, and I didn't have to wrestle him for the covers.

In an attempt to get back in my good graces, Erik sent a pizza and a frappe to the house Tuesday night. I dined on my treats in bed, with a face mask on, while watching a true crime show Erik got me hooked on. It was nice; I could breathe, but as soon as the lights went out, I was tossing and turning because my partner in crime was missing in action.

The next morning, I was dumbfounded when my empty lunchbox sat on the kitchen counter. Erik always fixed my lunch for school, and he left inspiring notes. The last one he sent me said, "You'll never find a man better than me."

I certainly could, but did I want to?

Heck no.

As ridiculous as it sounded, Erik Anderson King had a love language: Acts of Service. He was extremely giving and would give me the clothes off his back if I asked. Was he as rough as a cat's tongue? Absolutely, but if you plugged your fingers in your ears, he was marriage material. He paid the bills, was home every night, was affectionate, cooked and cleaned occasionally, and listened and resolved my problems. Did he complain sometimes? Yes, he did, but he was only wasting his breath because we both knew he would do whatever I wanted anyway.

I almost called a truce and allowed him to come home on Wednesday when I found a replica of Muffin on the front porch with a handwritten letter from the demon himself.

Jezebel Shae King,

I was selfish, and I took things too far. You should forgive me. Muffin Jr. concurs. I won't touch your stuffies ever again. You looked hot today. Tell Fucker you still belong to me and to keep his hands to himself if he wants to continue playing ball.

The only man who could ever make you happy,

Erik Anderson King

He started so well...

I looked up from a poster I was in charge of designing for Homecoming when a basket was gently set on the circulation desk.

"Squeak."

"Erik."

"I'm coming home today."

"You're not," I rebutted.

"I am. My shit is already packed in my truck."

"I don't want you."

"That's a fucking lie, and you know it. You should see the pathetic looks you shoot me in the hallway when you call yourself ignoring me. At this point, you're punishing yourself."