I prepared myself for our next meeting. I ran, jumped, pushed up, pulled down, punched, and practiced until I knew I was invincible.

The moment arrived. I knew he’d be there.

I walked onto the porch, filled with our mutual acquaintances and my now-former friends. He was leaning against the door frame, chatting up one of the new girls. I could smell his expensive cologne; he always wore too much. The laughter died, the cigarettes sat poised in the air, as everyone turned to see. He straightened and his nostrils flared as he took in my short skirt, painted eyes, and steel-toed boots.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

I flew into action, swinging for his face, aiming for the treacherous mouth and the deceitful eyes. In a matter of seconds, I leveled him, humiliating him in front of all of the people who had chosen him over me.

Or, at least, that’s what I dreamed of as my breath came in gasps, my muscles screamed in protest, and I tried desperately to sweat the ache out of my naive, foolish heart.