“He’s a man and he’ll behave like a man. You lead him on like that, what do you think he’s going to do?”

“Is that what you really think of me?” she asked, taking hold of her anger.

“What am I supposed to think of you? Letting him touch you like that, embarrassing me in front of my friends.”

“I’m an embarrassment,” Sara echoed. “Okay.”

She got up from the bed and went to the wardrobe, grabbing a backpack from the floor, pulling clothes from the hangers.

“What are you doing?” Damien asked, his angry tone now tainted with fear.

“I’m going to Amanda’s place,” she said. “I’ll sleep on her couch.”

He rose from the bed, crossed the room to her, arms outstretched.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know what you meant,” Sara said, stuffing clothes into the backpack.

His hands gripped her upper arms, and she shrugged them off.

“Don’t,” she said.

He forced his body between hers and the wardrobe, his arms around her, pulling her in close. She tried to struggle, but he was too strong, too heavy to push away.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his lips pressed against her ear, his voice dropping low and whispery, thickening with sadness and regret. “I didn’t mean it. I swear to God, I didn’t. It’s just I love you so much. Seeing another man touching you, it’s . . . I couldn’t bear to lose you. I’m nothing without you.”

He rocked her from side to side, taking her balance, taking her anger.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Forgive me. Please.”

And he whispered into her ear how much he loved her, needed her, couldn’t be without her. She believed him, and she stayed.

The following morning, a bouquet arrived for her at the office, and everyone asked what the occasion was before she could read the note. Forgive me, the note had said. When her workmates pressed her, she had said, Nothing, just some flowers, feeling the sting of defeat, the humiliation of surrender.

So that became the way of things. An innocent act turned sinful, his anger pouring on her until she went to leave, then apologies and love and flowers and promises. It might have been a male workmate of hers who texted too often, or a friend of his who leaned in too close to her at a party. Another explosion of anger and accusations, another attempt to leave, another gush of love and apology. Each time his explosion was more fierce than the last, her threat to leave more half-hearted, the apology and love more shrill. And each time, another friend lost, the circle of people she knew by name diminishing little by little, their orbits drifting from hers almost without her noticing.