IRISH LOVESTORY - Stephanie

 

  copyright©2025

Stephanie

My black dress, once just another piece of fabric hanging in the closet, became the target of Jack’s unrestrained fury. Months of simmering tension erupted in violent hands, reducing it to shreds. Every quarrel, every petty pretext, was never about the surface issue—it was about power, about reminding me who would always have the last word. If I caught him in a lie, retaliation was inevitable. This time was no different. He made certain I understood.

When he was too drunk, too volatile, or simply too dangerous to reason with, I retreated into my small room—a fragile sanctuary carved from fear. He never objected. Let me vanish behind the door, he did, abandoning me to whatever fate awaited. But one night, I awoke to an unfamiliar glow spilling into the hall. Shadows flickered against the walls, and there he was, looming over me. Rifling through my phone, reading messages and calls as if he had the right to know everything. My heart thundered, yet I feigned sleep, lashes pressed tight, lips sealed by terror.

Jack’s violence became a storm with no horizon, a time bomb ticking louder each day. Explosions came closer, sharper, often sparked by figments of his imagination. I learned to move like glass on the edge of shattering—silent, careful—but no precautions could shield me. I craved every hour away from home. Drink blurred the edges of reality, softened his blows, dulled my resistance into apathetic haze.

It was during this descent that Grace arrived at O’Briens. Young, rough around the edges, unrefined. In Ireland, people like her were called Tinkers—rootless, uncultured. Grace was nothing special, except that unlike Jacinta, she wasn’t my superior. I oversaw her shifts, treated her with fairness, hoping to preserve some peace.

One afternoon, in a brief lull between tasks, Grace mentioned her closest friend: Stephanie, Jack’s first love. The name rang a bell, spoken by Jack once with bitterness. He had loved her deeply—until she betrayed him with Stan, his supposed best friend. Their history lingered like poison: smiles for appearances, but contempt simmering beneath every word.

At first, Stephanie was just a shadow, a ghost from long ago. Until she ignited the fire that would consume what little remained.

The first spark came when Grace, changing in the staff locker room, crossed paths with me. My contacts had vanished—every one, even Jack’s. I could hardly believe Grace capable, yet I remained vigilant. Soon, Jack began receiving messages. Stephanie had reached out.

“So now I see why Grace needed my number,” I said, voice edged with anger.

“She only wanted to ask something,” Jack shrugged. “Don’t mind her. She’s a fool. If she bothers you, I’ll talk to her.”

And just like that, the matter was dismissed. But it wasn’t. Stephanie had found her opening and clung to it. She wrote incessantly, called nightly. His phone buzzed at all hours. He carried it everywhere—even to the bathroom. A lock code barred my view. One night, he left it unattended. I snatched her number, resolved to confront her myself.

A war of words began, hidden from Jack. Stephanie’s messages dripped venom. She mocked me, labeled me an outsider, ridiculed my presence. When I pleaded with her to stop, she only sneered: he was grown, he could choose. And she was right. Still, I pressed on. She wielded insults with brazen, unapologetic skill, coveting a man who was no longer hers. Every stolen cigarette break at O’Briens became another skirmish. Each encounter left me raw, exhausted, tilting at shadows.

One day, in desperate rage, I phoned her. My words were sharp, but they did nothing. Jack, meanwhile, seemed amused—his ego fed by our conflict. I begged him to intervene, to silence her. He refused.

“Then tell her to leave you alone! Be firm!” I screamed.

“I wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot pole,” he said flatly. “Once, she was pretty. Not anymore. You’ve nothing to worry about.” And that was it. Indifference cutting deeper than any confession.

When it became unbearable, I obtained his call records from the operator. Each page confirmed my dread: long, intimate conversations, daily for months. I laid the evidence before him. He was startled at how I’d acquired it—his own carelessness had betrayed him. Yet even then, he chastised me for invading his privacy, never admitting the truth.

One evening, the weight of it all broke me. In the bathroom, I collapsed, sobbing. Jack approached, cupping my face. For a moment, a flicker of compassion softened his gaze.

“You see…” he murmured, almost moved, “…when you cry like this, it shows me just how much you love me.”

In that instant, clarity seared through me. My tears were his triumph. My suffering, his proof of power. From that day forward, I vowed: never again would I gift him the satisfaction of my tears.