~I~

I met my first husband when I was just five years old.

My dad was a math teacher at the local high school, but back then, he loved throwing Christmas parties for his students. In our area, so many of his students were left home alone around the holidays. It was his way of making them feel seen. I remember he would decorate our entire house—lights on the outside with Santa and his reindeer on the roof, a huge Christmas tree in the front picture window, mistletoe in every doorway, and pine garlands everywhere. There was even an entire Christmas village set up on the bathroom counter.

When I was five, there was this one guy. He was tall with wavy brown hair and a winning smile. He played games with me and picked me for his team when they played Pictionary or Scattergories. We hung out all night. He even hugged me when he left, promising to see me again soon.

I spent the weeks after our initial meeting planning our wedding. I acted it out between my Barbie and Ken, dreaming of the perfect dress, the flowers, the first dance.

I never did see him again though.

It was like he died.

I don’t even remember his name. Maybe it was Michael. Or David. Or some other name popular in the 80s.

 

~II~

Jason was my second husband. We met in third grade in Miss Thomas’s class. He sat up front at the Strawberry Banana table. I was banished to the back at the Watermelon Crush table. We were like Romeo and Juliet, pushed apart by fate and circumstances. I used to watch him. He had blond hair, glasses, and an easy smile that kind of reminded me of the first husband’s smile. It was like we were meant to be.

On the playground, we ran after each other, playing a rousing game of cooties.

“You can’t catch me!” I’d yell, and then run just a little slower. He was cute but not very fast.

His family moved before Christmas even rolled around.

Another husband dead to me, just like that.

 

~III~

I lost three husbands in seventh grade to fickle hearts and weak wills.

Ray was my lab partner in Science. He was everything you’d expect in a nerd—quiet, a little too smart, awkward in every single social situation, thick glasses on his face, a mouth full of metal—but he was absolute perfection to my 12-year-old heart. That is, until the next project came along a month later and we switched partners.

I’m not sure he even remembered me.

I know he had no idea how I felt.

I wonder now, looking back, if I was only in love with being in love?

 

IVan made me forget all about that lab partner, what’s-his-name. He was the exact opposite—super sporty (I think he played soccer, but I never actually saw him play), perfect hair gelled beautifully, “eyes like the sea after a storm,” to quote my all-time favorite movie, The Princess Bride, whose first love died then came back to life like some sort of zombie then died again and lived again, but I digress.

He was my first real kiss. Without tongue. Because tongue kissing is gross when you’re only barely 13. At least I thought so. I remember his lips were chapped. I thought it would be a really wet experience but somehow, his kiss was dry. He pecked me on the lips, then scurried backward like we were in some sort of strange and twisted soccer match and he was that kid that “plays soccer” but hates touching the ball.

I don’t think he liked our kiss much, which is fine, because it wasn’t my favorite thing either.

He melted into the masses of students after that moment, and I never saw him again oddly. The class we had together came to an end. He didn’t sit with me at lunch. Even the hallways were devoid of his presence like he’d never existed at all.

Is that a real death? Maybe, I don’t really know.

 

Victor was the charmer, which is totally fitting since they (who’s “they” anyway?) say, “third time’s a charm.” He wasn’t actually that pretty to look at. Can guys be pretty? I think they can. His jokes always fell flat too. And he had too many secrets. I don’t know what I saw in the guy, to be honest—especially since he had four of us girls as his “girlfriend” at once!

Finding out about Amber and Molly and Julia was total devastation for me.

At first, I was mad at them, but then I realized they weren’t the problem. They were victims too. Like me. So we hatched a plan to do away with Victor.

It’s probably not smart to write out what we actually did. You know, in case this falls into the wrong hands.

But we never did see Victor at school again.

 

~VI~

I swore off guys for the rest of middle school and most of high school after that lying snake broke my heart.

But all the girls I dated were too dramatic. A relationship only has room for one drama queen, and I’m not ashamed to admit that it’s always going to be me.

Keith came to school for the first time right before Christmas break in my senior year. Before that, he was homeschooled. I still don’t get why his mom sent him to public school for the last six months, but at the time, I was really glad she did. He was sweet and sensitive and a little awkward. When he smiled, there was this dimple on his right cheek that you could sink a basket in. It was beautiful. Oh man, and that man-bun! It might be pretty normal to see now, but in the 90s? Totally original and strange. I loved it. His hair was completely virgin—not an ounce of dye had ever hit those luscious locks and it showed. It was smooth, thick, full, softer than soft. I’d spend hours running my hands through it. Sometimes, he’d fall asleep watching a movie with me like that.

So when we graduated and were both old enough to get married, it seemed like the logical next step. I mean, why not?

Marriage was harder than we expected.

He had all of these “Victor moments” that made me want to scream. I went from loving him endlessly to being driven absolutely batty by him. I say this in hopes of excusing what came next.

I discovered, accidentally in my own estimation, that throwing things at Keith made him shut up faster when he was being annoying. At first, I was only throwing soft things like pillows and slippers. But it was an easy transition to shoes, books, even knives once.

And when throwing things didn’t work on its own anymore, coupling it with derogatory names like “bitch” and “slick dick” did the trick. Add a jab at his education and his mental capacity, and it wasn’t long before he barely spoke at all.

In fact, he stopped getting out of bed some days.

I should have seen the signs.

But I didn’t.

Or maybe I did, and I just didn’t care.

Did I want it to happen?

Either way, I found him hanging from a necktie or something in our hall closet. The very closet I’d forbidden him to open months earlier.

The irony wasn’t lost.

He left me a note telling me how depressed he’d become, blaming himself for how things went.

He didn’t mention the abuse.

Neither did I.

 

~VII~

It took eight years, but eventually, I found someone to love again.

Eddie rode a Harley and swept me off my feet after our first date. We met online through a dating app, actually. But even though I knew after our first date that I wanted him to be my husband, we dated for almost a year before he proposed.

Eddie liked being in control. And if I wanted to see this thing through, I knew I had to let him think he was for a while. I kept quiet and acted sweet through our whole dating relationship. I’d learned how to be the person others wanted me to be.

The façade cracked two nights after the honeymoon ended.

It started small, really. Just a name here and there. But it grew. It wasn’t my fault. If he hadn’t fought me, if he’d just agreed to do things the way I wanted them done, it never would have happened.

There are two ways to do things in life: my way and the wrong way. We’d been doing them the wrong way long enough.

It was my turn.

It took some convincing, but Eddie finally let me take the lead on the motorcycle. I didn’t even have a motorcycle permit, but somehow he was okay with it. He really should have stuck to his guns on this one. Looking back, I should have let him have that one thing. It was so small, really, in the grand scheme of things, but no. I had to be in charge of everything.

And that’s why it happened.

We crashed.

The bike slammed down on its side, sliding across the asphalt and crashing into a tree on the side of an old country road. It was drizzling, and the roads were still slick with oil. At least, that’s what I’m telling myself now. It’s the excuse the police gave when they looked over the scene.

I’ve been in the hospital over a week now. I’ve had several skin grafts. Some are infected. I was unconscious for days. They’ve jumped my heart once already. It doesn’t look like I’ll recover, hence this letter. Eddie’s walked away with a few scratches and a broken arm. But I’m done, I think.

Looking back over my life, it’s obvious that I was more in love with love than anyone I attached myself to. People suffered at my hands. And now it’s my turn.

This is—