My Lucky Boyfriend

1

Just as the train began to pull out, my boyfriend, Walt Hussain, suddenly turned to me, cupped my face in his hands, and, looking straight into my eyes, said something with all the strength he had.

"I'm so lucky."

"Why say that all of a sudden?" I asked, smiling.

"I've sunk this low, probably won't ever bounce back, and yet, you're still here. You're willing to face everything with me. Greta, I'm just so damn lucky to be your boyfriend!"

Walt rarely spoke this openly, this earnestly. I looked closely at his face, which was marred by fresh bruises – a swollen eye, a split lip, and a couple of missing teeth.

Last night, the debt collectors had found him. If I hadn't scraped together my last few thousand dollars to cover the interest for the day, he'd probably be in the hospital right now.

My boyfriend, Walt Hussain – once a math prodigy, a teenage genius who'd entered a top university at fifteen, the pride of his teachers and the envy of his peers – had spiraled down to a gambler, drowning in debt and owing hundreds of thousands to loan sharks.

A bright star that had once soared across the sky, now sinking into the muck.

I looked at his face, bruises and all. Beneath the wounds, it was a striking face, a face that might make anyone hesitate to leave him.

If it weren't for that face, someone as detached as me might never have stayed with him for this long.

The train pulled into the station, and a middle-aged man's face flashed by the window.

Thin lips, defined features, and the same somber eyes – uncannily similar to Walt's.

Walt's body tensed as he looked out the window, his swollen eye widening in shock.

"That's my dad... he came to pick us up. He'll help me. He's going to help me..."

As we stepped off the train, Walt gripped my hand tightly, pulling me along as he approached his father.

The man who could have been Walt's older twin didn't even glance at his son, his gaze instead fixed intently on me.

I couldn't suppress a bitter smile. He recognized me, of course.

That first night with Walt, he held me close as we lay watching a movie together. Out of nowhere, he turned and asked, "Who was your first?" The movie was at a critical scene, so I brushed off the question.

But now, I could finally answer him. My first? It was his father, Erik Hussain.

When I was 14, I endured eight months of sexual abuse from him.

He destroyed me. Now, I was going to destroy him.

I wanted him to see his once-brilliant son brought down to the lowest point, crushed and broken.

With that thought, I tightened my grip on Walt's arm and, with a playful smile, said, "Having a boyfriend like you... I think I'm the lucky one."

2

Ten years had passed since those dark, despairing days.

I rarely speak of what happened a decade ago, but the pain it caused remained etched deep in my bones, a scar that would never fade.

It was my second year of middle school. After a severe illness, my grades – which had once been at the top of my class – plummeted, especially in math. My father, worried about my future, hired a private math tutor.

That person was Erik Hussain.

The first time I saw Erik was in a dim, cramped restaurant booth. Following my dad's directions after class, I walked into the barely lit room and found him raising a glass to Erik in thanks.

My dad, trying to appear grateful, was almost pleading with Erik to take me on as a student at a discount, considering our family's difficult financial situation.

"Greta, come here and show Mr. Hussain your last semester's grades."

Dad pulled me by my backpack strap, guiding me over to Erik. I kept my eyes down, catching the faint scent of jasmine cologne from him.

"She's shy and doesn't talk much, but she's always done well in school," my dad added.

Nervously, I opened my backpack to pull out my report card, but in my rush, something fell out, landing at Erik's feet.

It was my very first lipstick, something I'd secretly taken from my stepmother's vanity.

Without a word, Erik picked it up, keeping it in his hand without a reaction. Even with my gaze lowered, I could feel his eyes sweep over me.

Later, I'd learn he agreed to tutor me for half his usual fee.

At some point during the meal, when my father wasn't looking, Erik slipped the lipstick back into my hand.

Gentle, almost flirtatious, leaving no trace.

Maybe, even then, he had already marked me, a reserved yet mature girl, as his prey.

But Erik didn't reveal his true nature immediately. At first, I thought he was simply a careful, dedicated teacher.

So, when my math grades improved slightly in that first month, and he gave me a soft smile, tapping my nose with his finger, I felt no discomfort.

Yet it was as if he'd opened a dangerous door. He leaned in, testing my boundaries, little by little.

He would place his hand on my shoulder as he taught.

He'd lean close, whispering explanations in my ear.

His hand would rest on the top of my head before sliding slowly down my back.

Sometimes, he'd stand close and casually wrap his arm around my waist.

When I started feeling uncomfortable with these touches and tried to move away, he'd fly into a rage over a problem I'd solved incorrectly.

He'd accuse me of being careless, call me stupid, say I was wasting his efforts and was the worst student he'd ever taught.

I didn't know, back then, that this was his way of controlling me. Humiliated and ashamed, I would break down in tears.

He'd approach me, grip my chin with one hand and press the other to the back of my head, the scent of jasmine thick around us as he forced a kiss on me.

"This is to comfort you," he'd say when I pushed him away in terror. "I won't do it again."

But of course, he didn't stop. Instead, he used all sorts of reasons that left me powerless to reject his touch.

Until that stormy summer evening, when the sky cracked with lightning, Erik grabbed me from behind, his hands slipping under my skirt.