Instead of asking me to move in with him, Patrick told me that he had met with a realtor and had already made an offer on a condo here. The condo was mine if I wanted it. It was just for me, not for the both of us. I was speechless. Then I was frightened. Then I was angry.
I knew he wanted to put me in some little nest where the temptations of the big city weren’t so close. This was clearly about possessiveness and control, masked behind the illusions of love and good intentions, but control nonetheless. I felt like he was more interested in stopping me from leaving him than he was in providing for me, not that I needed him to.
I made it very clear that I was not interested in living here—neither with him nor alone. I had worked too hard to make my way to Chicago, and besides, I needed ready access to the airport since I was flying in and out of the city a couple times a week for my job. Needless to say Patrick was hurt. He tried every argument, including what a good investment this would be and the title would be in my name only. On that score he was correct—I would have made a lot of money by taking the real estate and later selling it.
But it was out of the question for me at that time. I wanted to run away from the whole scene and he knew that he was close to losing me at that point, so he backed down. He also lost his earnest money—a tidy little sum of $8,000.00.
We had dinner at a little French seafood bistro and I ordered escargot as an appetizer, an expensive glass of champagne, sea bass, and a wonderful lobster. It was my revenge, my way of gaining control back. He didn’t bat an eye.
After dinner, we went back to my apartment for dessert—let’s just say I gave him everything off my menu, and he was happy, at last.