My Life as a Doormat (in Three Acts) by Rene Gutteridge

six. Then the three. Then the four. The electronic sound of the phone ringing made my heart pound against my chest. After the fourth ring, I almost decided to stop the call. I could sneak away, and he would never have to know it was me. But right as I reached for the End Call button, Edward’s voice crackled through the speaker.
    â€œHello? Who is this?” he said groggily.
    I swallowed. It wasn’t too late to run. But hadn’t I suffered enough humiliation for one night? Edward was the cause of all of it. He should at least have to answer for it.
    â€œHello?” His voice had an edge to it now.
    â€œIt’s me,” I said.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œ Me. Leah.” I threw the wet hair out of my eyes.
    I could hear him breathing. Or maybe that was me. Somebody was breathing hard.
    â€œHello?” I said, moving my lips closer to the speaker box.
    â€œI heard you. It’s after nine.”
    â€œI know that.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    â€œIt’s raining out here. I’m freezing. Can you unlock the door?”
    â€œHold on.”
    I heard the door click. I opened it and approached the creaky excuse for an elevator. A well-dressed couple got off as the doors split. I avoided eye contact and hurried in, jamming my thumb into the Close Door button. Six floors up, the doors opened again and I walked to Edward’s apartment. I’d expected him to be waiting for me at his door, but it was closed and quiet.
    I knocked.
    Shuffling feet could be heard, then the two clicks of both his deadbolts. He opened the door. Behind him his apartment was dark, and he squinted at the hallway lights. After the shock of the glare, he looked at me like he’d just discovered the Loch Ness Monster.
    â€œAre you okay?” he asked, but I didn’t detect much sympathy in his voice.
    â€œI could use a towel.” I walked past him into his apartment and went to the bathroom. I grabbed a clean towel, neatly folded in the cabinet, and squeezed it around my hair. After I blotted my face dry, I found Edward in the living room, a single lamp clicked on. He was sitting down, watching me.
    â€œWhat’s going on?” he asked.
    â€œI’m here to ask you that same question.” I tried to make my voice bold, but it quivered. I chalked it up to being cold.
    â€œLeah, I’m not following, and frankly, it’s late and I need the sleep.”
    Late? That’s hilarious. It’s nine. Maybe you should offer to warm some milk for him.
    â€œYou have no clue why I’m here?” I asked.
    He blinked. He really looked confused, but I tried not to let that distract me.
    â€œYou stood me up tonight.”
    He blinked again. A worried expression flickered across his features.
    I threw up my hands. “For therapy.”
    â€œTherapy? What therapy?”
    â€œThe therapy you suggested we go to?” My voice was climbing like I might attempt a high-range opera song. And admittedly, I did end the sentence with a question in my voice, so Edward looked unsure whether he was supposed to answer or listen. I rolled my eyes.
    â€œThe conflict resolution class,” I finally said.
    â€œThat?” He opened his hands.
    â€œYes.” Of course that! What do you mean, that ? “Why didn’t you come?”
    Edward stood, his hands sliding down the front of his purple silk pajamas. “That was for you, not me.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œI wanted you to attend.”
    â€œNot the both of us?” The soprano in me was preparing for the finale.
    â€œI thought it might do you some good and therefore benefit both of us.”
    â€œMe? Why me?”
    He cocked his head to the side. “Leah, the thing is, you don’t handle conflict very well.”
    â€œWhat does that mean?”
    â€œIt’s just an observation I’ve made throughout our relationship. And this weekend was a perfect example. At the party, you were