It was a bleak evening in January, and I was waiting in the parking lot. I watched my boyfriend, Damon, walk to his car, rubbing his palms together. His breaths condensed into fog.
As he turned his key in the ignition, I started my own engine. Damon drove out of the parking lot and I pursued him at a distance. When he turned onto the highway, I followed suit.
Going after him, I expected to feel nauseous. I’d been suffering from jitters and palpitations all day. But in fact, as I tailed him, I felt surprisingly collected.
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Damon had been lying to me for months. Now I was taking back control. Finally, I was about to discover the truth.
I know you’ll tell me spying and snooping have no place in a healthy, loving relationship. You’re right — but my relationship with Damon was neither healthy nor loving. Spying on him was drastic, but it gave me the information I needed to know.
For that reason, I don’t regret it.
How our relationship began.
I met Damon outside a club in early November 2016. His mesmerising hazel eyes were the first thing I noticed about him.
He asked for a lighter and then for my name. I was buzzing from I-don’t-know-how-many apple martinis, which made me chattier than usual. Before long, we were exchanging life stories. I felt a sense of achievement every time I said something that made him laugh.
That night — a Friday night — we ended up back at my place. In bed, Damon kissed my breasts, my stomach, my inner thighs. My physical insecurities dissipated. "You’re gorgeous," he breathed, and I believed him.
In the morning, he made me blueberry pancakes drizzled with maple syrup. We spent our entire Saturday alternating between making love and watching films.
I ran his clothes through the washer and dryer while he strutted around my place naked. By Sunday, he was calling me his girlfriend, and the title made my chest swell with pride.
By Monday, he became more evasive.
But then Monday morning rolled around. It was 6.30am. Damon said he had to be back at work.