Labeled a Bad Boyfriend, so I Walked

On our sixth anniversary, my girlfriend Emily Spencer's childhood friend, Dante Randall, pulls out a "Model Boyfriend Scorecard". He throws an arm around her shoulders. "Em's too trusting. A guy says a few sweet words, and she falls for it, so I need to screen them for her. After all, nobody knows men better than a man." Emily doesn't object. She just sighs. "My mom picked the wrong guy in the past. I'm not making the same mistake." From that day on, every single thing I do ends up on that scorecard. When Dante calls Emily in the middle of the night to pick him up from a bar, I offer to drive her because I'm worried. Dante looks me right in the eye and writes, "Tails his girlfriend everywhere. Overly controlling. Minus ten marks." Emily secretly lends our newly renovated home to Dante for a party. When I return, I find the leather couch slashed and large patches of grease smeared across the pristine white walls. I tremble with rage and confront him about ruining our home. Stinking of booze, Dante taps his scorecard. "Obsesses over material possessions. High risk of financial control after marriage. Minus 20 marks." I stare at the wreckage, completely speechless. Dante makes another mark. "Shuts down under stress. Suspected emotional abuse. Minus another 20 marks." "You're down to 50 marks. That's a failing grade. How can I entrust Em to you?" I turn to Emily. She doesn't say a single word to defend me. It hits me all at once that there was never a passing grade for this model boyfriend test to begin with. If I'm destined to fail this test, then I quit. Chapter 1 Paul's POV Dante Randall looked up from his scorecard, waiting for me to make an excuse or perhaps snap. Seeing me tense up, my girlfriend, Emily Spencer, jumped in to explain, "I just wanted to see if you'd blow your top over nothing." Her voice was soft, almost sounding hurt. I stared at her, lost for words. She hated being controlled more than anyone. Yet here she was, putting our six-year relationship in Dante's hands, letting a scorecard decide our future instead of making up her mind. The music finally stopped, but the booze kept flowing. Someone laughed, asking Dante where the afterparty was. Then the doorbell rang again. It was the property manager, looking even more annoyed than before. "Mr. Paul Bender, if you don't quiet down right now, we're calling the cops." "I'm handling it," I said with a nod. I turned around and pulled my phone out of my pocket. "Drop your address if you've been drinking. I'm calling designated drivers." The room went dead silent until someone let out a bitter laugh. "Seriously? You're already kicking us out?" Dante leaned back on the couch and drawled, "See that, Em? He clearly doesn't give a damn about your friends." When Emily looked at me, her eyes were filled with growing disappointment. "Do you really have to make everyone think my boyfriend is an asshole?" Our neighbors downstairs couldn't sleep, and drunk people were passed out against the balcony rail, yet all she cared about was what Dante thought. I didn't bother arguing. I just turned around and started seeing the drunk guests out. When someone threw up in the hallway, I went back inside for paper towels and trash bags. Dante shrugged. "Let's call it a night. I'll send a maid over tomorrow to clean this place up." Following his gaze, I looked around the apartment. A half-broken skewer was shoved into the master bedroom's mattress, grease soaking right through the sheets. The living room rug was ruined with red wine and vomit. The newly installed cabinets were scraped up by bottles, and the walls were covered in greasy handprints. What used to be a bright, pristine home now looked like an abandoned dump. Dante rubbed his temples as if the alcohol was finally hitting him. Emily immediately rushed over to hold him up. "I'll take you home." Without another word, she snagged my car keys from the entryway table and helped him out the door. Once they were gone, our supposed home finally went quiet. I stood there frozen for a long time before grabbing some gloves from the kitchen and getting to work. By daybreak, the hallway was stacked with trash bags. My fingers were pale and pruned from the harsh chemicals, yet the stains on the rug had barely faded. The grease stains only smeared further when wiped, leaving white streaks on the fresh paint. I would have to repaint the walls. The new mattress in the master bedroom was completely ruined. Around noon, the front door clicked open. I looked up to see Emily standing in the doorway holding breakfast. She frowned the moment she saw me. "I woke up and realized you weren't back. I knew you'd still be here." She glanced over the mountain of trash bags, then down at my pruned hands. After a brief pause, she pulled out her phone. "I need to check with Dante. I need to ask him if your obsession with cleanliness is a form of control." Chapter 2 Paul's POV Emily kept her head down, her fingers flying across the screen. I felt a suffocating weight on my chest. I was cleaning up because this was supposed to be our future home. I didn't want our sanctuary trashed before we even moved in. Yet in the texts Emily was firing off to Dante, caring about our home translated into an unhealthy obsession with personal property. Putting a stop to her so-called friends' wild night became a blatant disregard for her feelings. And my quiet, exhausted silence was written off as emotional abuse. Everything I did was dragged under the magnifying glass of that scorecard, spun into a list of red flags to watch out for. I stared at her, my voice dropping low. "Emily, we've been together for six years. Can't you make your own judgment about what kind of person I am?" She clutched her phone, staying quiet for a long while. "What I see with my own eyes isn't always the truth." I froze. She looked down, her voice barely a whisper. "When my mom first met my dad, she thought he was honest and reliable, too. And look how that turned out. Who's to say you aren't just putting on an act?" Hearing those words, I suddenly didn't know what to say. When I first met her, her mother, Alisha Marsh, was forcing her to quit a job she loved and arranging blind dates against her will. Emily had hidden in the stairwell, sobbing that she didn't want to go. I had walked her back and told Alisha that Emily wasn't anyone's pawn. She had every right to live her own life. That night, Emily had held me tight and said she felt safe with me. In our fourth year together, I proposed to her. It happened to be around the time Alisha was pressuring her to get married. Emily turned me down. She said she didn't want to tie the knot just because her mother was pushing her. Later, she said she wanted a place to call our own. She wanted warm lighting and an open kitchen. Following the mood boards she sent me, I built her dream home from the ground up. I genuinely believed that if I gave her enough love and made an effort, she would eventually see I never meant to trap her. But to Emily, I was just a failing student waiting to be judged by her scorecard. The resentment in Emily's eyes flared up at my silence. "There you go again. You just shut down when you get upset. How am I supposed to know what's going through your head?" "Emily, did I not tell you, or did you just never bother to listen?" I looked at her bewildered expression, feeling a deep sense of helplessness. "I've said it a million times. I don't need a commitment from you. I can wait. I can stand by you. If you have doubts or fears, you can talk to me. I just wish that when it comes to us, the decisions stay between us." Emily's face paled slightly. "I just wanted him to vet you for me. I don't want to wake up one day and have people pointing fingers, saying I ended up just like my mom." With that, she tightened her grip on her phone. It was as if a higher rating from Dante and approval from her friends could somehow erase the trauma Alisha had left her with. Meanwhile, six years of my devotion were reduced to point deductions on a scorecard. The place I had intended to be our home and the place I would propose to her had become Dante's testing ground to grade me. I stopped looking at Emily and walked into the master bedroom. In the nightstand drawer lay the ring I had planned to give her. Maybe she had never needed my presence in the first place. I slipped the ring box into my pocket and turned back to Emily. "Emily." She raised her head. "Maybe we need to rethink this relationship." Her brows furrowed as if she wanted to say something. Before she could, her phone rang jarringly, making her hand go rigid. Alisha's sharp voice blasted right through the speaker. "Emily, what is wrong with you? Did you forget everything I taught you? When someone comes over, you open the door within three rings. How could you keep me waiting outside like this?" Emily instinctively cut the call at the sharp rebuke. Before I could speak, she snatched the rag from my hand and tossed it into the sink. "Come back home with me." As she dragged me into the elevator, she added in a hushed voice, "Don't bring up Dante. My mom hates his guts." When we arrived at her apartment door, Alisha was already there with a thermal bag, frowning. The moment she spotted Emily, her face darkened even further. "Hanging up on your mother? Who taught you that?" Chapter 3 Paul's POV Emily's steps faltered. "I didn't mean to. I was just—" She instinctively recoiled half a step behind me. "Just what?" Alisha snapped, cutting her off. "You've got a boyfriend now, so you think you're all grown up? You won't even listen to me anymore?" Alisha finally turned her gaze toward me. Catching the whiff of alcohol and detergent clinging to my clothes, she pinched her nose in disgust. "Paul, what happened to you? You look so unkempt and filthy." Emily tugged on the hem of my shirt, keeping her voice low. "Mom, he worked all night. It's not what you think." "Oh, listen to you rushing to his defense before I even say anything!" Alisha let out a cold sneer. "Emily, you never learn. You haven't remembered a single lesson from the misery I went through." Stepping inside, Alisha scanned the place, then frowned. "Isn't your new place fully renovated? Why are you two still staying here? You already have a house, so it's high time you get married. Six years without a ring? What are you even doing?" Alisha took a sip of water. As if suddenly remembering something, she said, "It's perfect, actually. Your Aunt Freya is coming from out of town tomorrow. Clean up the new place. You two can host dinner for everyone there tomorrow and let the elders take a look." Emily snapped her head up. "Tomorrow?" "Why not?" Alisha frowned. "The place is ready. Is there something you're hiding?" Emily opened her mouth, completely lost for words. Failing to notice her panic, Alisha continued, "Your grandma always says you inherited my poor taste in men. This is my chance to show them whether Paul is actually dependable or not." The second Alisha excused herself to the restroom, Emily dragged me out to the balcony. "Can we get the mattress replaced today? Can you hire someone to touch up the walls?" She talked at a frantic pace, as if she had completely forgotten who let Dante wreck the house in the first place. I stared at her. "Didn't Dante say he'd handle it?" Emily froze, then lowered her head and called Dante. On the other end of the line, Dante chuckled lazily into the speaker. "Good. Let's see if he's willing to clean up your mess. Come downstairs and wait for me. I'll take you out for a drive." Hanging up, she went quiet for a few seconds before muttering softly, "I'm heading out for a bit. Keep my mom company while I'm gone." Then, as if still uneasy, she turned back with one last warning. "Paul, don't embarrass me in front of my mom." The moment the door closed, Alisha came out of the restroom. Seeing Emily gone, she couldn't help but snap, "Where the hell did she run off to now?" "She had something to take care of," I replied. "I'm right here! What could possibly be so important that she had to run out right now?" I didn't answer. She pressed on, "Is everything set for tomorrow's dinner at the new place?" "The place is under repair. I'm afraid we can't host people tomorrow." Alisha's face fell instantly. "Paul, are you kidding me?" I stood my ground, staying silent. She narrowed her eyes, sizing me up from head to toe. "A house in shambles, and you can't even host our family. If you two actually get married, is Emily supposed to baby you through everything? "Paul, don't think doing a few small favors for us means you get to waltz in and marry Emily without making any effort. A real man takes care of his wife's family instead of giving them headaches." I suddenly found the whole thing absurdly funny. When Emily's uncle, Leonel Marsh, crashed his car while driving drunk, Alisha called me at 3:00 am to rush to the police station and pick him up. When Leonel got into a feud with a customer at his store, she forced me to take time off work to apologize on his behalf and clean up his mess. Every single time, she played it off so casually. "You're marrying Em soon, which makes you part of the family. How can you sit idly by when her uncle is in trouble?" And she'd always tack on a parting note. "Don't tell Em. A real man steps up so his woman doesn't have to worry." Looking at the overbearing woman in front of me, I realized just how alike the mother and daughter truly were. Alisha saw me as the son-in-law who was bound to join their family sooner or later, while Emily saw me as the boyfriend who would never walk away. Both of them were used to running to me whenever trouble hit. Yet neither of them ever bothered to ask if I was actually willing to help. Alisha's expression darkened with every passing second of my silence. Snatching up her thermal bag, she said, "Tell Emily to think long and hard about this." With that, she stormed out. I escorted her to the elevator and returned to the empty apartment. The bowl of chicken soup on the table had gone cold. I called Emily, but no one answered. When I called again, her phone was switched off. From dusk till midnight, I sat alone in the living room waiting for her, leaving a message asking to talk things through. But no reply ever came. Around 1:00 am, an Instagram notification popped up. It was Emily. The photo showed a dark beach beneath the night sky, with two coffee cups resting on a rock by the shore. At the edge of the frame, a corner of Dante's white sleeve was visible. Her caption read, "Enjoying a slice of peace with my best friend." I locked the screen and went back to the bedroom to pack my things—my clothes, laptop, documents, and the ring I never got to give Emily. I had originally wanted to wait for her to return so we could end things face-to-face. Now, I realized there was no point. I placed the keys on the entryway table, pulled my suitcase behind me, and walked out.