That's when the real bad boy stuff started. Zillions of phone calls, visits at my work, relentless knocks on my dorm room door. His grand finale was a suicide attempt, after which I made the ultimate folly of getting back together with him several months later. (Brilliant, I know.) The only excuse I can give is that I felt tremendously responsible for what he did and my self-esteem had been worn down to a bloody nub.
I kept going back to the night I saw him in the emergency room with an IV in his arm. The doctor told him he wasn't supposed to be talking, but Brett still managed to squeak out, "This is your fault." I had never felt so sick to my stomach.