The Aftermath

The end.

I know what you’re thinking.

I ended things with Book Boyfriend swiftly.

I cried for a few weeks, maybe even months, ate tubs of ice cream, listened to hours of Taylor Swift, and got over him.

But that’s not how our story ended.

It ended as slowly as it began. We danced around the truth for months after I read the messages on his phone. I think somewhere deep down, we both knew it was over. We held on to the good moments. We held on to the inside jokes. We held on to the simple moments (him letting me drive his fancy car, me teaching him how to play Uno.)

Yes, we let the candle burn as long as we possibly could until the wick was about to touch the floor and the entire house would catch fire.

After divorce, I could not let the house go up in a blaze again. I could not fall apart again. I could not break and rebuild again. So one night, I finally blew out the candle.

Our last kiss

We’re outside. It’s summer.

It’s dark. I can see fireflies in my peripheral vision.

I can hear the crickets in the distance.

He looks perfect.

That stupid baseball cap on backwards and black T-shirt.

In this moment, I do not think about how he hurt me.

In this moment, I think about love.

I think about love beginning.

I think about love ending.

This is it.

We hug in the parking lot and I whisper, “Goodbye.”

For the first and last time, he tells me to kiss him.

I stare. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest.

He says, “Come here,” and places his hand behind my head, pulling me towards him.

Our lips meet.

I taste him, but I also taste the salt from the tears now streaming down my cheeks.

I pull away and stare at him one last time.

Then we both leave.

A McDonalds Parking Lot

He was my person.

I’m not sure who to call now when something funny happens.

I’m not sure who to vent to when I’m annoyed.

I’m not sure who to run to when I’m sad.

One night, it’s all just too much. I need to hear his voice.

I park my car in an empty lot at McDonald’s.

His number is easy to find.

He’s the only one of my contacts with an emoji next to his name, a picture icon.

(A mirror selfie he sent me two months into knowing him.) Man, did I have it bad.

I click the little icon and wait.

He answers after the first ring.

“Hi,” I mumble through obvious tears.

“What’s wrong?” He sounds alarmed and worried.

“Nothing. I… I’m sorry I called. I didn’t know who else to call. I miss you and I’m sad, and you’re the person I talk to when I’m feeling this way, so I just needed…”

“Yeah, it’s okay. Tell me everything. How have you been? How’s PJ?”

I sit in that McDonald’s parking lot for over an hour.

Soon the conversation turns from crying to laughter.

And soon it’s time to say goodbye again.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says.

“I know. So are you,” I reply.

Click.

I drive home and feel like I can finally breathe again. I just needed a little oxygen.

The Aftermath

Eventually, I learn how to breathe on my own.

Eventually, I learn there are other people I can call when I’m annoyed or sad.

The truth is I am not angry at him. I am grateful. This man taught me I could fall in love again. This man forced me to learn how to love myself.

To love myself enough to leave.

To love myself enough to heal.

I learn that I do not exist to make my partner comfortable.

I learn that I do not shrink to make others feel big.

And I make a new dating goal for myself. Find someone who doesn’t make you disappear to be loved.

And eventually, with that goal in mind, I learn how to try again.