Crazy Love

Crazy Love

Leslie Morgan Steiner

Language: English

Pages: 352

ISBN: 0312377460

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


At 22, Leslie Morgan Steiner seemed to have it all: good looks, a Harvard diploma, a glamorous job in New York City. Plus a handsome, funny boyfriend who adored her. But behind her façade of success, this golden girl hid a dark secret. She'd made a mistake shared by millions: she fell in love with the wrong person.

At first, Leslie and Conor seemed perfect together. Then came the fights she tried to ignore: he pushed her down the stairs, choked her during an argument, and threatened her with a gun. Several times, he came close to making good on his threat to kill her. With each attack, Leslie lost another piece of herself. Why didn't she leave? She stayed because she loved him. Gripping and utterly compelling, Crazy Love takes you inside the violent, devastating world of abusive love and makes you feel the power and powerlessness of abuse that can take place anywhere and to anyone. Crazy Love draws you in -- and never lets you go.

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the train, I glimpsed myself in the token-booth window. With my wet hair hanging in dirty-blond corkscrews and wearing my old blue down coat, I looked more like a kid than a magazine editor. The subway doors opened and I squeezed into a slippery neon-yellow subway seat. I was sandwiched between a handsome, neatly dressed older man with thick blond hair and a heavyset Latina woman with grocery bags who smelled like day-old enchiladas and cigarette smoke. At Forty-second Street, she got off along

any new hire in company history. Conor wanted a stickshift Volkswagen like the used one he’d driven in college. There was only one VW dealership in Vermont. We haggled with the dealer and then plunked down a down payment for a black Jetta with gray cloth interior—my first real car. Of course, we didn’t have the money to buy a new car. With Conor being employed fewer than three months and my erratic freelance income, we didn’t qualify for a loan from the dealership. I called my father at eight

drove while Conor slept. Everyone agreed getting married was stressful—maybe that was why he’d hit me. He always hated seeing his family—maybe it made him have flashbacks from the times his stepfather beat him. Was he acting out like the little boy he used to be? Our money problems, too much free time on his hands, the unfamiliar surroundings, all seemed like plausible excuses. I loved him. He loved me. He did not mean to hurt me. That made it okay. Didn’t it? About thirty minutes before the

use, drunken adventures, and sexual experimentation, culminating with losing my virginity at an age I was sure he’d consider way too young (fifty would probably be too early in his mind). He sat quietly, contemplating the scuffed blue diary as if it were an original da Vinci notebook. Was he so angry that he was refusing to acknowledge me? He turned another page. Memories of Mom screaming at me flooded my body like hot water from a tub faucet. “No, no, no! That’s mine!” I grabbed the diary from

calls. For hating Conor when what I felt was far more complicated than hate. I tried to look right in her eyes so she could know how much she meant to me. She met my gaze for a second and then turned away with a small smile, like a shy eight-year-old girl. It was just enough. She took a taxi to her hotel to wash up and change clothes for dinner. I headed home in my black patent leather high heels, still wearing the dark gown and silly headboard with its cheap tassel, my costume for the day.

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