My family kept warning me about Lenald, but I trusted the man who remembered every small thing that mattered to me. Then, on our wedding night, he did something that stunned me. Once I understood why, I knew I had to do something drastic, even if it meant losing someone I loved.
I met Lenald in a grocery store checkout line when I was 25.
The bottom of my shopping bag split open, sending apples, a bottle of water, and three chocolate bars across the floor.
A man in heavy black boots crouched to help.
I was 25.
Silver rings covered his fingers, and tattoos disappeared beneath his sleeves.
I snatched up a chocolate bar.
“Please pretend you didn’t see the emergency chocolate.”
He collected the other two.
“Three emergencies?”
I snatched up a chocolate bar.
I laughed.
He had dark eyeliner, shoulder-length black hair, and my last apple in his hand.
Twenty minutes later, we were still talking in the parking lot.
“Can I buy you coffee sometime?” he asked.
“Do goths drink coffee?”
We were still talking.
“Only if it’s dark enough.”
I gave him my number.
Coffee became dinner, then weekends when we stayed up until two talking about our childhoods and the lives we wanted.
I gave him my number.
Lenald was 36, loved old horror movies and antique jewelry, and called himself a “true goth.”
He wore black even in July.
He also remembered I hated onions, warmed my side of the bed in winter, and once drove across town at midnight because I’d mentioned wanting ice cream.
My family concentrated on how he looked.
He called himself a “true goth.”
After our first dinner together, Mom pulled me aside.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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