The way I ignored my instinct not to trust him. He slept over, and in the morning, when I was off to work, I yanked him out of bed.  "Let’s go," I said.  But he begged to sleep a little longer.  "I’ll lock up," he promised.  And I didn’t trust it.  I said okay, anyway.  When I came home, everything was the same.  Nothing was missing.  He continued to help me pack up my things.  I made up some boxes, turning them from flat boards into taped boxes, empty, stacked, each one on top of the next.  I had just finished sealing a loaded box and needed a new one.  When I reached for it, I thought it was strange there was a random DVD of mine tucked away.  Hmm.  I returned it to the unsealed box of my DVDs, the one I refused to close because I needed my movies, two new ones each night.  Once I unpacked at the new place, I realized half my DVDs were missing, and a box of my favorite boots.  A brown beaded bracelet.  And a miniature MP3 player I’d just spent $300 on, the one he’d said he was going to pack for me.  And the worst of it, when I confronted him, he denied it.  Brought me some second-rate Pump Up The Volume shit DVDs, "’cause I’ve seen how upset you’ve been over your missing DVDs."  And I confronted him again, and he denied it, quite shocked I had the nerve to accuse him when here he’d given me some of his own movies.  What’s a guy doing with Crazy/Beautiful?  Who’s DVDs did he give me anyway, and where had he put mine.  I still think about it, coming up with imaginary plans to bust him.  How I’ll stalk him down in his neighborhood, "so funny bumping into you!  Do you mind if I just come in and get a sip of water.  So parched."  Cough.  Cough.  Then I’d ask for a tour, looking for my DVDs, the cops waiting outside.  Except I’ll bet he doesn’t live where he said he’d bought an apartment.  I bet he doesn’t have a daughter.  I get sick to my stomach thinking how taken I got.  And the whole time, I just thought something was off about him because he didn’t seem very bright.  Meanwhile, I was the idiot. I haven’t forgiven him or myself, despite knowing I’ll never again, I hope, ignore such an instinct. 

Old journal entries.  I’m bothered because they were written at the start, and I stayed anyway.  Ignoring signs.  The obvious.  Each time thinking something down the line would change.  All the things I complained about in the beginning have remained exactly the same. As I’m sure I have done.  Remained the same, same habits and fears, just older, with more lines, fat, and fewer good clothes.

Why they hated me.  They wouldn’t say.  She still won’t.  Girls at camp.  Friend number 1.
The pearl and diamond earrings in my jewelry box.  The diamonds from my first engagement ring.  The pearls from the trip you took with her.
The way we never gave us a real try.   
How I went into premature labor.
That man who picked me up from Sports of The Future.  Who was he, and why did you send him? You say you don’t remember, but I don’t believe you.  I don’t know what bothers me more, not believing or the memory of you sending in a stranger to pick me up.  I was terrified I was going to be kidnapped.  So we devised a code word only we knew, and if someone was to pick me up, they’d need it.  You never sent anyone else.
The way I treated you.
What we did once we locked the door.
I wonder if when we die, if there is some montage tunnel, if we get to see all of our life’s mysteries revealed: all the things that went missing shown.  My STEPHANIE nameplate with the diamond S, gone.  My diamond earrings.  I would like to know where everything I’ve ever lost has gone.  Except for love.  I don’t need to see that.