So all this talk about proms has made me revisit my memories. Most people recall their big hair or their outdated tuxes or their bad dates with a sense of enjoyment and nostalgia. I remember very little about my prom. I went with my first real boyfriend in a beautiful dress, and I recall we had a fine enough time. But after thinking about this ex of mine for all of 3 minutes, I always recall what I still consider the longest, most desperate night of my life.

I was a freshman in college, my parents were out of town and the only brother who still lived at home was staying at his girlfriend’s. I had the flu and my then-boyfriend, who I’ll call Asshole, came by with his friend early in the evening to say hi. They were heading out to a concert on The President–a paddle boat that used to cruise around the Mississippi River playing live music. As soon as they left, I fell asleep on the sofa in the den.

At about 10:30, there was a knock on the back door. It startled me awake. It was Asshole. Months earlier he had confided to me that he’d gone to rehab for a cocaine problem (unbeknown to me but while we were dating). Naive me assumed the rehab worked and the problem was behind him. So anyway, he showed up at my door looking a bit strung out. He told me that he’d gotten nauseous just prior to getting on the boat and had his friend drive him to my place. Great. I crawled back under my covers and turned my attention to SNL that was on t.v. Then Asshole asked if I would drive him to Burger King. I refused. After 5 minutes of him pestering the crap out of me, I finally gave in to his second request–that I let him borrow my car to go get something to eat. This trip should have taken about 10 minutes.

After 30 minutes, I began to get worried. I was now wide awake and unable to focus on the t.v. Then time just went on and on. Endlessly. Slowly. Painfully. At around 11:45, my phone rang. It was one of my married brothers. He asked what was going on. I asked him the same thing. He told me that Asshole had just left his apartment–that he’d been there telling my brother I was in the car and we needed money. Ice water ran through my veins. It was no pretending any longer–Asshole was doing what he could to get money to get high. In. My. Car. I asked my brother if he’d come over — I was scared of what Asshole would be like when he did show up. My brother declined. He did say that if I still wanted him over later, I was free to call him back. I knew he was hanging up and going straight to bed. I did not call him back. It took YEARS for me to forgive him for not being my brother that night.

Time continued to thunder in my ears. I got more concerned and desperate with each minute. I went into the front room of the house where I’d see the headlights if the car pulled in front of my house. I got on my knees, clutched my hands and prayed. I prayed, I begged, I bartered. I got no relief. I thought of using my father’s car to go look for Asshole, but I dreaded the thought of wrecking his car (especially since a maniac would be behind the wheel of my car before this night was over and for all I knew my car was already wrecked) and I was scared Asshole would show up while I was gone and do God knew what. (If memory serves, I think by then I had discovered he’d already stolen jewelry from me and my sibling and had traded his own car for coke–but that was in the past when I was too naive to see the signs).

So I stayed put, unable to DO anything but worry. Tick tock. Tick tock. The hours continued to pass. Around 4am, I thought of the one friend I could call at any time that I was sure would come to my aid. This was my last hope–and once I made the call, I knew I was pulling the curtains back for the people in my world to see what I’d gotten myself into in staying with Asshole. My friend DID NOT like Asshole and had been waiting for this moment. I called his number and his father answered the phone. I asked for my friend. His father (half asleep, of course), asked who I was. I told him. He asked, “Do you know what time it is, Missy?” “Yes, sir, I know exactly what time it is,” I responded despondently, “it’s 4:13am. This is an emergency. May I please speak with him?” “No,” his father responded as he hung up on me.

I felt I had no one else to call. Looking back, I should have swallowed my pride and called my brother back, or one of my other siblings. But I was too ashamed so I didn’t. I just waited. Tortured. Around 5:30, Asshole meekly walked in the back door. Neither of us said a word. I was beyond angry. I drove him home (he left me with a bone-empty tank of gas for which the following day I needed to degrade myself further by borrowing money from my boss to fill).

That was the night I lost my innocence. That was the night I learned that love is not all you need. That was the night I learned there’d be times when no one would come to rescue me. I am sorry to say that that was not the night I broke it off with Asshole. Since, in the end, his dirty little secret did not come out to my friends and family, I held on a bit longer. Not much, but too much. The eventual break up was equally as nerve-wracking.

So for me to see my old prom pictures and my innocent look of love is too much even now, 20 years later. It still pisses me off that he got that sweet, childlike, unconditional love of mine. He never, ever deserved it. The asshole.