Each of those men had claimed they loved me. They muttered it in the back seats of cars. Moaned it during sex. Tossed it over their shoulder on their way out the door. But now, years later, Nina’s in my head, making me wonder—even as I consider the flaw in her logic. Because the more I think of Brad’s “disrespect,” his “booty call” text—I miss your face—the more I remember how happy it made me. And wouldn’t disrespect feel horrible instead, the way it did when I was dumped before prom, pity-gifted a candle, abandoned at my sister’s wedding?
