I sat on my terrace and watched the slow, late-night life of the city nine stories below. The November air chilled me, but I welcomed its purity and simplicity. Mouse slept in the bed—his dark, muscular body strewn across the mattress amid a tangle of sheets. He would keep stretching in all directions until he felt me next to him. Even his subconscious fed his controlling behavior.

I had that itchy feeling you get in a relationship that has more negative points than positive ones. I loved Mouse, but I couldn’t take his obsessive controlling and name-calling anymore. I had started to believe it—that no one else could ever love me, that I was stupid, that I was only good for sex. He constantly told me that I was nothing special, that my drive to work out only meant I was average, and that my blond hair was the most attractive feature about me. But I also felt empty without him. I couldn’t face that emptiness.

On the sidewalk below me, a woman rushed out the door of a bar, laughing. The door burst open again, and man stumbled out, shouting, “I’ll arm wrestle you for it! Hey, give me that.” I couldn’t see what she held, but I thought of Tyler. What if Mouse was wrong? What if someone else could love me? What if Tyler could? Tyler and his sweet e-mails, his strong arms. I shook the idea off and curled up on the couch with Quentin, Mangus, and my burgundy chenille blanket. I had already made up my mind to leave again before Mouse woke up.

Tyler had another e-mail waiting for me.