Two of Us, Then You

The one where Jacob does his research

So although everything in that situation ended fine it left me rattled. The fact that I knew so little about Ethan - what he looks like where he went, concerned me.

So I knew I had to take matters into my own hands. I know by doing this that I run the risk of seriously upsetting Troye. This is exactly what he told me not to do, but I have to. I have to know, I have to be aware. I have to be able to see Ethan and recognize him. Isn't it dangerous not to be able to do that? I don't have a choice.

My chance comes on Tuesday, while Troye is in an afternoon class. It's his last class this week, so I won't have another time to do it. Rain's sleeping in his stroller, so I'm sitting with my Chromebook in the library. Almost nobody is around. I go to Google and type in an entry; Ethan McFlynn UCLA and hit enter. I click into a few Facebook and Instagram accounts that don't help - random middle aged guys, some that have no posts or just one obscure picture of who knows what, until I finally find one profile that might fit.

Ethan Mason McFlynn

Went to Newport Harbor High School

Attends UCLA

Works at Football Player

His profile picture is him and some cute little blonde slice all over each other. He's actually really attractive, which I find unsettling. I guess I was picturing some misshapen hag, but now I realize that's a stupid mistake that most people make - thinking all sexual predators are old or ugly. They're not, they're normal, they're attractive, they're smart. They're just like us. And that's scary.

I glance at Rain to make sure he's still sleeping soundly and I've got time, and then start to scroll through the pictures. I assume, since I'm not friends with him on the site, that a lot of the pictures are hidden, but I can see enough. A lot of them are with the football team, all geared, probably pre or post game. The others are mostly him with the same blonde girl draped all over him, hands everywhere. She's pretty, but in a sort of trashy conventional way. Most of the captions run along the same lines as my baby girl, I love u 👅 or gonna put a ring on this baby luv one day xx. I find myself feeling more and more disgusted by this person. Clearly this girl believes in what they have - that's not to say I haven't used people the same way, but if I'm being honest, I think deep down, Amelia knew. If she didn't know from the beginning, she found out pretty quick. Amelia was like, a good friend. We never had the same sort of vibe that regular couples did, and I sure as hell never showed her off on social media like that or promised any sort of a future. Not when I knew she could never do that for me. But Ethan is here, going to every length to keep himself under covers, leading on some poor girl and putting up a front while he goes around behind everyone's backs and running hands all over boys - my boy. I don't even feel jealousy, that's not it, just deep aching sorrow, for my sweet Troye, having to endure this over and over again. Having to live under this sick person. It makes me want to vomit, actually. It feels too real now. I could have walked past this person, Ethan, before, I don't even know how many times. Could have picked up something he dropped or given him a pen or any matter of things. Having a face to put to the name, it makes it worse. I thought I would feel better about it, more prepared, but instead I just want to go find Troye and hold him, kiss him, make him know how very very much I love him and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, he doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve any of this.

When Rain starts to wake up, I pull myself out of the pits of my sleuthing and pack up my stuff. It's time to go back to the apartment. I need air anyways, everything feels a little dizzy and wrong. I hate thinking about it. Ethan. I want to hurt him for hurting Troye, an urge I've never had before. Everyone threatens things jokingly or in passing, but in that moment I truly believe I could have gone and beaten Ethan within an inch of his life and not felt an ounce of guilt for the rest of mine.