I met Gunner when I was a sophomore in college, working at the library on the NYU campus, and he was a senior. He and his friends used to cause a ruckus by talking, sticking books on the wrong shelves, and making my job ten times harder. When he wanted to check out a book, he stared me down like a wolf sizing up his meal while I acted as if I were unaffected by his stares, as if my heart didn’t want to jump out of my chest and into his hands.

When he spoke, I melted like butter back then.

“I’d like to check out a book, Rainbow.”

“Are you hungry? I’ll take you out to eat.”

“Why don’t you speak, Rainbow? Are you mute?”

“I love the rainbow socks, Rainbow.”

It was my taste for bright colors for my clothing that earned me the nickname he gave me. When I did my homework in the study hall, he’d sit next to me and babble about his day. Sometimes, I’d smile when he said something funny. And other days, he’d do his homework in silence.

I wasn’t allowed to talk, look, or act like he existed—or any man for that matter. My ex was a narcissistic prick and verbally abused me when I didn’t follow his tightrope of unrealistic rules. I paid the price by getting shoved, slapped, and—when he had a really bad day—punched. I have the battle scars on my stomach and back to prove it. It was hard leaving him because he gaslighted me constantly and told me it was my fault he pounded on me until I believed him.

Gunner’s presence tugs at the strings of my stitched-together heart.

I hate him for making me feel a burning candle.

I hate myself for wanting him because my brain knows logically we wouldn’t work.

“Get the lead out of your ass and get my coffee.”

I want to flip him the bird and tell him to shove his attitude up his butthole, but instead, I stand from my oak desk shaped like an L, clutch my pink floral purse I bought at the thrift store, and leave the tiny room. Our two offices are the only ones on the top floor, which I enjoy since I don’t want to listen to gossip or deal with people wanting to talk to me.

I rush to the private elevators, step inside, and tap the first-floor button. Classical music booms through the speakers, and I tap my feet on the carpet as the elevator descends.