Chapter 4: Velvet Boxes and Vanishing Acts

Cold damp crept into my heart, spreading like mold.

Michael’s iPhone buzzed on the nightstand, the custom case from his sister peeking out. He paused, then picked up, voice softening for family.

"Michael?" his mom asked. "You want me to bring over some leftover lasagna? Aunt Carol made her lemon bars, you know. If you’re with friends, I’ll tell her to wait."

He shot me a look, or maybe he didn’t. His face showed that forced patience reserved for family.

"No need, Mom. I’ll be there soon. Traffic’s light."

The call ended. Michael turned back, fatigue written all over him.

"Ryan, tomorrow’s my birthday. If possible, I hope you can disappear for one day and give me some peace. Can you do that?"

Give me some peace, okay?

Can you stay away from me?

Sorry, I’m not interested in you.

...

I’d heard every version of rejection from Michael—polite, cold, disgusted. I’d always played it off, twisted his words, pretended they were invitations.

Until that night we landed in bed together by accident.

The apology I’d practiced died in my throat when I saw him the next morning—confused, ashamed, like he’d betrayed everything he believed.

I was an orphan, bounced through foster care, learned to fight for scraps. Nobody taught me how to love. I just knew what I wanted, I took.

So I played the victim, used tears I’d mastered in group homes, and refused his hush money. I asked to date him. Michael recoiled, disgusted, and went back to dodging me.

But I was relentless. Every time he avoided me, I threatened my own life. Cancer, car wrecks, whatever. I milked his guilt from that night, sent him photos—pills, bridges, knives. No matter where he was, he’d come running.

Every time he showed up, angry but there, was my happiest moment. My moral compass? Broken, or maybe I never had one.

All I knew: I threatened Michael to get him close. Every time, he fell for it. Decency I picked like a lock.