Part 1I’m Done Pampering Him, Time to Get Rich

My relationship with Asher was a classic older woman, younger man pairing.

When he was a bright eyed freshman, I was a senior about to graduate. By his junior year, I’d already been working for two years.

A younger boyfriend brought boundless energy—from our private moments to daily life. Once, after working until 11 p.m., I dragged myself home only for him to excitedly suggest a miles long hike to watch New Year’s fireworks. Another time, following a month of dizzying business travel, he insisted we go rave at a music festival all night.

I couldn’t do it. I told him I was too tired and just wanted to sleep.

His face fell, his voice turning threatening. “We haven’t seen each other in a month, and this is your attitude?”

Then the ultimatum: “Fine. We’re done. Go wherever you want.”

Logically, I knew he was just angry and I should apologize.

But I stood silent for a long moment, then hailed a cab.

“Then let’s break up,” I whispered.

It turns out, when you’re pushed past exhaustion, what you thought was love doesn’t seem so important anymore.

* * *

The air outside the airport terminal was biting cold.

I stood by the curb for nearly twenty minutes before a cab finally pulled over.

The driver took one look at my pale face and asked if I needed to go to the hospital.

I just shook my head, my hands trembling as I fumbled for my painkillers.

No water. I just choked them down dry.

Period pain tore through my nerves, a vicious, tearing thing.

Waves of blackness swam at the edges of my vision.

I glanced at my phone. Not a single missed call.

Asher had told me to fend for myself, and he meant it, leaving me stranded on the side of the road.

I could still see the ugly look on his face as he left.

After I’d said we should break up, he stared at me for a long moment, then gave a bitter twist of his lips.

“Fine. Just don’t you come to regret this.”

He was right. I did regret it.

I regretted agreeing to let him pick me up, only to be kicked out of his car halfway home.

If I had just gotten a cab right after landing, I’d be in my pajamas by now, tucked warm and safe in my bed.

Instead, here I was, battered by the freezing wind for half an hour, luggage in hand, so cold I felt like I was going to freeze on the spot.

Who wouldn’t regret that?