The relief of breaking up with him

I wasn’t ready to leave him yet, but I knew I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life in the projects. Walking away from the parties and everything I knew wasn’t easy. But I had a way out: a scholarship. A chance to get away from the neighborhood, the fake friends, and the girls who smiled in my face while waiting for their turn with him. When you grow up where we did, a guy like him can look like everything you’ve ever wanted. A little freedom. A little money. A little love. After his short stay in juvie, though, I made myself a promise: I wasn’t going to spend my life dragging my ass—and my kids—to a prison just to visit him. He had a good side. He was there for me when being home with my family was unbearable because of the endless fighting between my parents. That was part of what made leaving so hard. But he loved that neighborhood and everything that came with it. The easy money. The women. The parties, Monday through Saturday. He was the prince of those projects, and I was just one of his favorites I couldn’t make him leave a life he loved. And I couldn’t keep pretending it was the life I wanted. So I made a plan. I studied harder and stayed up later. The more time I spent with my books, the less time I spent with him, getting hurt by all the little things I tried to ignore. The way he shut off his phone whenever we were together. The flirty smile he gave any girl who tried to catch his eye, even with me standing right beside him. One night, after a long shift waiting tables, I called and asked him to pick me up. I was exhausted, and I still had homework to finish. He said he couldn’t. He was out of town visiting family. “Call me when you get home,” he told me. I was walking to the bus stop when one of his best friends pulled up and offered me a ride. On the way home, my boyfriend called him. I could hear every word. He was at a party, telling his friend to come through because the place was full of women. Except he didn’t say “women.” The word he used started with a P. Then he hung up. I didn’t say a word for the rest of the ride. I just sat there, crying quietly, trying to wipe away the tears as fast as they fell. His friend kept glancing at me with this look of pity. Maybe he didn’t mean it that way, but all I could see was: *Too nice. Too stupid.* I cried for two days. Didn’t even open my books. All that homework waiting for me, and the only thing I could write was a promise on a blank sheet of paper: *I will leave you.*