My Girlfriend Handed Me a “Relationship Contract” — I Had No Idea How Far She Would Go
Part 1
The bright red folder sitting on my coffee table contained fifty rules dictating exactly how I was allowed to live my life.
When I matched with Megan on a dating app in the dead of winter, I had no idea I was walking into a cage.
We started talking, and the conversation just flowed effortlessly for hours.
When we finally met up for our first date, she was quiet at first, her eyes darting around the coffee shop like she was looking for exits.
But as the evening wore on, she softened.
She leaned across the small table, her fingers tracing the rim of her mug, and told me about her past.
She had endured a horrific childhood, filled with abuse that no child should ever have to experience.
On top of that, her last two relationships had been absolute nightmares.
She described being manipulated, mentally broken down, and isolated by men who claimed to love her.
My heart broke for her.
I decided right then and there that I was going to be the safe harbor she so desperately needed.
I wanted to show her that not all guys are monsters.
Because the pandemic was in full swing, I was collecting unemployment, which meant I had an abundance of free time.
I spent almost all of it with Megan.
I accommodated every anxious request she had.
If she needed me to text her my location when I went to the grocery store, I did it without hesitation.
If she needed me to stay on the phone until she fell asleep, I propped the phone on my pillow and listened to her breathing.
She was the sweetest, most affectionate girl I had ever dated.
I genuinely thought this was it for me.
I saw a long, happy future unfolding for us.
We built a relationship based on deep trust, or so I thought, and a shared love of absolutely stupid, absurd humor.
We were always doing bits, playing characters, and making ridiculous jokes just to hear each other laugh.
Everything was perfect.
Until last week.
We were lounging on my cheap leather couch, a random reality show playing softly in the background.
The afternoon light was filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across the living room.
Megan suddenly stood up, stretching her arms above her head.
She walked into the back room without a word.
I didn’t think anything of it until she returned a minute later.
She was holding a bright, cherry-red cardboard folder.
She sat back down beside me, her expression totally deadpan.
She opened the folder with excruciating slowness and pulled out a stack of stapled papers.
She cleared her throat, adjusted her posture, and announced that she had prepared a “Relationship Contract” for me.
I immediately chuckled.
I thought it was just another one of our elaborate, goofy bits.
I settled into the couch cushions, fully prepared to play along.
She started reading the rules out loud.
The first one was that I had to deposit twenty dollars into her account every three days.
I snorted.
The second rule stated that I was absolutely forbidden from accepting a job that was located more than fifteen miles away from her house.
I shook my head, smiling at her commitment to the bit.
Then she read the rule regarding my best friend, Tyler.
She stated, in a completely flat tone, that I was no longer allowed to see Tyler unless she was physically present with us.
I busted out laughing.
I told her I was going to need to commission a small cardboard cutout of her to carry around in my pocket.
Megan actually laughed at that.
She giggled, bumped her shoulder against mine, and kept reading.
There were at least fifty rules on those pages.
They ranged from absurdly controlling to strangely specific sexual mandates.
Rule twenty-two demanded that if we ever went out to eat, I was legally obligated to surrender exactly half of my meal to her.
Rule thirty-five dictated that I was not permitted to speak to anyone in public while she was with me, because she would handle all communication.
It was so over-the-top that I didn’t question the joke for a single second.
When she finally reached the bottom of the last page, she handed me a blue ballpoint pen.
She tapped the signature line with her index finger.
Still grinning, I took the pen and scribbled my initials.
Right next to my signature, I drew a detailed, cartoonish picture of male anatomy.
I slid the folder back to her.
She closed it, put it away, and we went right back to watching our show.
I completely forgot about the entire interaction.
Fast forward to yesterday afternoon.
Tyler texted me and asked if I wanted to come over, play some video games, and smoke.
Since we hadn’t hung out in weeks, agreeing to his offer was an easy decision.
Grabbing my keys, I quickly locked up the apartment and made the drive over to his place.
We were having a great time, completely relaxed, until my phone vibrated in my pocket.
A Snapchat notification from Megan flashed across the screen.
Tapping the alert revealed her message.
She was asking what I was doing.
Without hesitating, I replied honestly that we were just chilling at Tyler’s house.
A few seconds later, she replied with just his name.
“Tyler’s house.”
I typed back, confirming it, and asked her what was up.
She sent a message asking if I wanted her to come over.
I told her no, that it was just a guys’ afternoon, and we were fine.
The three dots appeared, dancing on the screen for what felt like an eternity.
When the message finally came through, my stomach dropped into my shoes.
She wrote, “You told me that you weren’t going to talk to Tyler without me being there.”
