My infatuation with Evan Pierce began forcefully, after that second encounter with the pink feather boa and the snap bracelet.
At least at first, our interactions were primarily fun and flirtacious. Evan introduced me to slacklining in the park. He invited me on a grab-a-date to Gameworks. We sang karaoke weekly. We participated in social functions at his fraternity.
But soon, I became a version of myself I didn’t recognize.
I became someone who monitored her phone near-constantly, waiting for texts from Evan which would arrive on a considerably less-frequent basis. Who spent hours crafting responses that showed interest, but just the right amount. Someone who checked, and then double-checked, these messages with Sasha for reassurance before sending. Someone who meticulously applied make-up, having set aside hours to do so, in preparation for an adventure with Evan, or even the possibility of one (never a “date,” to be sure). Someone who tried on every article of clothing in the closet before settling on an outfit. Who felt unsteady and delirious before seeing him—no appetite, nervous, shaky.
I simultaneously loved and hated this power Evan seemed to have over me. I craved the fluttery feeling in my stomach and the way my heart raced when I saw him. But I soon lost all sense of control and self-respect, and my mental health waned.
By this time, I was responding to Evan’s requests for company at a moment’s notice. I would join him at his apartment for movie nights after which he would open the door and usher me out into the cold, dark night to walk home alone. I was changing my physical appearance for him, too: maintaining those jutting hip bones that he told me he loved, minimizing my body hair to please him.
To his credit, Evan did make it clear to me that he wasn’t looking for a “girlfriend.” Even so, he was manipulative, giving me just enough attention and flattery to keep me close enough to reach, just enough refusal and abandonment to keep me at bay.
I made excuses for all of Evan’s behavior, to myself and to my friends. They raised red flags, and I looked away.
And then, one day, Evan and I coordinated a group of five for an evening of ice-skating. I was excited. I imagined holding hands with him, skating around the rink and falling and laughing and drinking hot chocolate. But the group dwindled; friends bailed, until the only three remaining were Evan, Sasha, and me. I relayed the news to Sasha.
“Well I don’t want to come then. I’d be the third wheel,” she said.
My intuition told me that, as much as I wanted to have him to myself for that many hours, Evan would somehow find a way out. And he did. After all, he had proven he would avoid any semi-official date with only me.
So I directed my frustration at the person I felt safe with: Sasha. I was furious that her decision would cost me what I thought was love and joy and fun.
But Sasha, with the wisdom that only an outsider’s perspective could bring, spoke the truth.
“Allie, you deserve someone who wants to spend time with just you. Get mad at Evan, not me,” she said.
So I did.
Not that night, or even the next day. Gradually, though, over the following weeks and months and years, my anger burned. Evan treated me poorly.
But enduring the disrespect was my choice. And I could make a different choice.
So I did.
