I love you like that.
WIDE AWAKE AND DREAMING
Spring 2015. I go out a lot, trying to forget, trying to find. Trying not to drink too much. Trying to keep it together. Tonight I had a good night out dancing with a friend of mine. We walked home because it wasn’t that cold and I wasn’t that drunk and it wasn’t raining that hard yet. And it’s past 2:00 a.m. but still, I call him anyway. I call The Man with the White Shirt.
I promised my friend I wouldn’t. But I walk maybe fifteen steps away from her, long enough for her to go into her apartment building, as long as I can last before I pull up his name on my phone, there with a photo of his smiling, Jesus Christ gorgeous face and I call him even though I swore I wouldn’t. I call The Man with the White Shirt at 2:00 a.m. and he doesn’t answer. If I call a second time, he will. It’s a promise he made after The Bad Night, the night with the crazy guy I had to pay to leave, the night he didn’t answer my distress text because he was busy with Rockabilly Redhead.
After that night, The Man with the White Shirt promised he would always answer my calls. He told me if for some reason he didn’t, and something was really wrong, I should call a second time and he would answer no matter what. And he does. He has kept this promise, his one and only commitment to me. It’s the only consistent thing he does, no matter how inconvenient it is, no matter who he’s with, no matter how late it is or how drunk and belligerent I am. He answers. He always answers.
But tonight it seems ridiculous and not an emergency at all for me to call him a second time. So I try a new thing for me: restraint. I try instead to imagine he is just sleeping. Alone. Sleeping alone in his bed on a Friday night. As I walk, I say to myself, He’s sleeping, he’s sleeping alone, he’s dreaming of me. But I know how unlikely that is. He’s lying beside someone who isn’t me. While all I want is to be holding his hand, trying to remember song lyrics and Simpsons dialogue as we walk home. Crawling into his bed, or mine, and the way he always unlaces my boots for me.
And then the mornings. The mornings are my favourite part. The sound of his snoring, me staring at the ceiling, the espresso whistling and bubbling over on the stove. Those breakfasts he makes from what seems like no ingredients. His hands on my body, the daylight streaming in … sigh.
Now I have to unlace my own boots. And stare at my own ceiling. I’m wide awake. I’m wide awake and dreaming of him.
I SHOULD SLEEP BUT I DON’T SLEEP
I should sleep but I don’t sleep. I pace around my apartment like I’m looking for something I’ve lost. I can’t find it so I wander some more, in and out of rooms, back and forth across the floor like I’m gathering forensics of my own mysterious existence. I look at old photos. I zoom in on faces, look right into eyes, trace pixelated jawlines with my fingertips. I read and re-read old emails and journal entries. I live the past like it’s a boulder I’ve swallowed.
I should sleep but I don’t sleep. I’m just sitting here thinking about everything I’ve lost — love, time, a sense of belonging. The woman I once was, the woman I thought I would be. Now I’m a stranger in my own home, a drifter in my own life. A tourist in this city I was born in. Lost and left to wander it, a sad girl in rags.
I should sleep but I don’t sleep. I stand on the balcony and stare out into the night. I have so much to say and no one to say it to. So much to give, but in giving it I have been told it is too much. Too much. Always too much. Or else not enough.
I should sleep but I don’t sleep. I look in the mirror for longer than I should and I think, I’m pretty, I’m smart, I’m interesting. Why is that too much? How is that not enough? Why am I alone? This is how I get. It’s all I think about. Alone alone alone, I am alone. It’s on a loop and it’s all I can do to not be driven crazy by it. This longing for a thing that will never return. A disease I’ve been infected with and will have for the rest of my life. The fact that I have an actual disease I don’t think about very much is ironic, I guess. But MS doesn’t hang out with me the way the longing does, it doesn’t run through my veins the way The Lonely does. Every day I shoot a needle into my body, an expensive drug to modify the disease I actually have, but all the while I’m just wishing there was some drug to modify the loneliness that’s taken over me. No one will ever love me completely again. Maybe no one ever has … why isn’t there a drug I can take to modify that?
I should sleep but I don’t sleep. Not until I’ve exhausted myself with self-pity. Not until I convince myself that in sleep at least, I will not feel the way I feel right now. I should sleep so I lie down and try, finally, in this too-big-for-one bed. Eyes staring up at the ceiling, I straddle the past and the imagined future, neither of which resemble this current reality. Eventually it will just happen, sleep, it has to, I know it. I will hold hands with The Lonely and drift off to the sound of my own beating heart, irregular as the rumble of trains outside my window.
TIME
It surprises me now how much time can pass where I have no contact with The Ex-husband, where I don’t even think about him. It can be weeks, sometimes. It’s amazing, isn’t it? That you can spend twelve years with someone, and several years after that, where they are always on your mind, in your heart, a funny story about them on the tip of your tongue, and then suddenly one day without realizing it, you stop thinking about them as much. Finally.
That’s how I feel now, I feel like finally his power over me is diminished. Like I am moving on. But it’s always short-lived. We have to connect, because of co-parenting or to talk about some vestige of the separation agreement that still needs to be ironed out. We have to talk, and that means we also flirt or fight or both. And then the moving on, for me, grinds to a halt.
There are other ways, too. Like that time at a party, when a woman I know callously started talking about how she’s sleeping with a married man and BOOM! I was shell-shocked all over again. Or the time he showed up on a dating app and a ton of women I know screen-capped it and texted it to me along with, Is this your HUSBAND?!?! To which I replied, Ex-husband. Also that photo is from like, 15 years ago. As IF! And we all had a big ol’ laugh at his expense and also at how awkward modern life is. But inside of me, the awful, twisty pang returned.
It’s an actual pang, not of nostalgia for our good happy marriage, but of regret that I married him in the first place because it brought me here, to this moment, where I have to relive a precise pain over and over again. A pain that upends me when it is triggered so easily by a word or phrase or a laugh or a goddamn screencap of my own husband’s dating profile.
I want to be able to laugh it off, I mean, really laugh it off, like laugh him right out of my life, but I’m stuck with him forever because of Birdie. Without a child, I wouldn’t have to talk to him at all, ever. There would be a distance, and it would be easier to get over the heartbreak and hurt. I know it wouldn’t change some things. I’m sure I’d still want to scream when people talk casually about infidelity like it’s some fun adventure they’ve been on. I know I wouldn’t avoid the screen-capped profile pics. But maybe, just maybe, I would have a real chance at healing if he wasn’t around so much. If he wasn’t there with his smirk and those shiny eyes and his words that hit me like so many slivers of flying, broken glass.
Time is healing the wound, just like they said it would. But it will always be there. The Scientist, The Husband, The Ex-husband … he’s always with me, and in that way I will never be free.
BROOKLYN
A friend of mine is getting married. She lives in New York City now, and I’m going with Forever 21, The Lawyer, and a bunch of other friends. It’s Spring 2015.
The Man with the White Shirt kisses me on the morning I’m flying out. “Have fun. I’ll see you in three days when you get off the plane!” he says. He is the best not-boyfriend in the whole world.
My friend The Bride, has been telling me for a year that her almost-husband’s best friend is “Toootallyyyy your type. You guys would love each other!” He’s going to be the best man at the wedding
. But I’m not going there thinking about hooking up with him, or anyone, on this trip. My heart is tethered to the best not-boyfriend in the whole world. I can’t think of anyone but The Man with the White Shirt.
It’s a short flight to New York from the Toronto Island airport. The wedding is only a few hours after we land. We walk from the hotel down to the pier to have cocktails overlooking the Hudson River, Lady Liberty not far with her slightly disapproving look. The room is crowded and as I’m heading to the bar some dude knocks into me, spills his drink all over the top of my fancy fucking dress and doesn’t even notice. A super-cute guy jumps to my defence quickly with some cocktail napkins, trying to blot out the spill but then realizing he is basically touching my boobs while doing it, he jumps back and shouts, “Ohmygod sorry!” We laugh. We talk. We get to know each other. I learn he’s the cousin of The Best Man, the guy with whom I’m supposed to be a perfect match.
“Where is he?” I ask. “Apparently I have to meet him.”
“He’s late, so lucky for me,” says The Cousin with a smile. I smile back. Oh well, too bad for Best Man.
The ceremony is beautiful. The atmosphere is beautiful. The Best Man gives an amazing speech and he seems really cool, but I haven’t met him yet. I’ve spent the whole night with The Cousin, drinking and laughing and drinking and more drinking. He is much, much younger than me and we have nothing in common but he’s adorable and brash and this is fun.
Eventually, The Best Man comes over and we meet. He is not brash. He is not crazy party drinking guy like his cousin. He’s thoughtful when he speaks and looks at me in a calm, arresting way even when he isn’t saying anything. I am captivated. The Best Man works in radio just like me. He’s an artist who also is into sports, just like me. He’s soft-spoken and seems like a real man in comparison to The Cousin. A really real man compared to The Man with the White Shirt, even though Best Man is five years younger. All I want to do is talk to him now. What’s he all about? But he cuts through the crowd, leaving me and the now-very-drunk Cousin to resume our silly party. We dance close on the dance floor but we haven’t kissed or anything. Instead I keep looking over his shoulder to find The Best Man, to see what he’s doing. And that’s when The Cousin casually mentions his fiancée back home in New Jersey.
“Your what?” I say, pulling away from his body quickly.
“We aren’t married yet!” he says, trying to pull me into him again.
No no no no no. Nuh-uh. Nope. I walk away. Fast. And that’s when I realize the place is half empty. The chairs are being stacked. That song was the last song, the wedding is over. I look for my purse and jacket, and then The Best Man is there in front of me.
“We’re all going to a bar now,” he says, and takes my arm in his. We walk along Avenue of the Americas, talking to each other, arm in arm, while the now-very-drunk-and-dejected Cousin trails along behind us with some other people. We walk past the hotel most of us are staying at, then down a few side streets until we get to a little Irish pub. The bride and groom and all the Canadians are already inside.
I stopped drinking hours ago. I want to be present for this conversation with The Best Man. He’s so soft-spoken and mild-mannered and unassuming and totally, unbelievably interesting to me. Also, full of surprises. I’m in the middle of telling some story when he suddenly just puts his big arm around me and pulls me into him for a kiss. A capital-G-Great kiss.
“Wow,” I say teasingly, “that was bold!” He just shrugs like no big deal, and I am electrified. I pull him into me now, and kiss him hard, right there in the middle of this crowded pub in Lower Manhattan, even though I’m usually the least PDA person in the world.
At 2:00 a.m. he walks me back to the hotel. We are carrying enormous vases of flowers back for The Bride, but even still, we stop every few feet to make out against a wall or in a doorway. It is the sexiest walk I have ever taken in all my life. I feel like I’m in a movie. I’m in New York City, everyone! Where dream men appear and kiss you perfectly in half-lit laneways!
For the last bit of making out we’re in a little crevice in the side of the wall of the hotel. People walk by, but I have never cared less. I’m wearing my fanciest fucking dress and there are vases of gorgeous flowers at my feet and this man can kiss and he can smile and have I mentioned the absolute gloriousness of his arms? They are huge and strong and his body feels like the best thing I have ever felt maybe, or at least it does right now, here pressed up against a wall in Manhattan.
We kiss a million times in the lobby. We say, See you tomorrow, Yes, for sure, I have your number, I have yours. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. I go up to the hotel room I’m sharing with Forever 21 and two other friends. They woot and wooo at me about The Best Man. I blush and demur and fall onto the bed in the most blissful state and check my phone. Best Man has already texted, Can’t wait till tomorrow! and I text back, Me either!
And then I see it. Another text, sent only an hour earlier when I was involved in the world’s longest street kiss. It’s from The Man with the White Shirt. He wonders if I got there safely since he hadn’t heard from me. He says he heard a song on the radio and it made him think of me. He says he hopes I’m having fun. My heart sinks for a second. Goddamn it, if you were just my actual boyfriend you would be here with me. I wouldn’t be making out with Brooklyn Dream Boy, I’d be with you in our own hotel room! You wouldn’t have to hear songs on the radio that make you think of me, you would actually be with me! I turn off my phone and try to fall asleep.
The next day I walk the High Line with my pals. We have the world’s best Mexican brunch. We go to a Mets game. The whole time, The Best Man and I text each other until finally, finally, later that night, all the Canadians and the bride and groom and The Best Man get together in a bar on the Lower East Side.
The Best Man is wearing a leather jacket with jeans and a black T-shirt. He’s got some kind of a cool hat on and cool bracelets and his overall style seems effortless and timeless. I like it all so much, holy shit. We sit together at the bar and talk, our legs pressed together, our hands touching. After a while we look around and realize everyone we know is gone. I say, “So you want to take me back to Brooklyn?” and he says, “Obviously.”
For the first time in my life I go to Brooklyn, New York, where we fall together easily onto his bed, and he is quiet and I am loud, and his body is to die for and he says mine is and the whole thing is pretty fucking Great, capital G. At around 5:00 a.m. when the light of morning is starting to crack the sky, we fall asleep. We wake up starving at ten. “Let’s go for brunch,” he says. “I’ll take you to my favourite spot.”
Meanwhile, the Canadians are all texting me like crazy. Where are you? Was it fun? Are you coming back? And I answer with rows of exclamation marks.
I’m in Brooklyn!!!! I type, like I’ve been to Narnia or the moon.
I assume once brunch is over we will say goodbye, so to make conversation I ask him what he’s doing the rest of the day. Without hesitation, but also as if it’s obvious, he says, “I’m going to spend it with you, right up until you have to go to the airport.” And I swoon. Like for real swoon, like a swoon I haven’t felt for anyone since I met The Man with the White Shirt. Oh my God — White Shirt. It’s been hours, more? since I’ve thought about him. Did I ever even answer his text? Do I care?
He keeps insisting he isn’t my boyfriend, so I can do whatever I like, right? I can do anything, including having this unexpected thirty-six-hour romance with The Best Man. White Shirt wouldn’t mind anyway. He wouldn’t even care. He’d say, As long as it makes you happy. And I wouldn’t like the way it would feel to hear him say it. I promptly push him out of my mind.
The rest of the day with The Best Man continues like a New York City rom-com montage. We ride the subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan. He takes me to Little Italy, where we wander the crowded streets hand-in-hand and snap selfies of the two of us nestled against one another. We walk through SoHo, then Chinatown. We just walk and walk, his arm always ar
ound me or leading me somewhere new. It all feels so romantic.
We make our way slowly back to my hotel so I can pack my bags. All the Canadians are staying until tomorrow, but I’m leaving today to get back to Birdie. He lies on one bed while I pack my little carry-on luggage on the other. Then I lie down beside him, my head on his chest. We text The Bride one of our selfies with the caption, You were right!
Told ya so! she answers.
“Why don’t you exist in Toronto?” I ask him, because I really mean it.
“Why don’t you exist in New York?” he asks back, which is impossible to believe is true. How can a smart, super-cute, interesting, fit, talented, shit-together thirty-five-year-old man not find a girlfriend in this giant city?
He shrugs. “Dating is the worst.”
And I say, “Oh believe me, I know.”
We both sigh. When it’s time for me to go he carries my luggage to the subway station and then all the way down the steep stairs. He walks me as far as he can, right up to the turnstile, and kisses me goodbye several times. He waves once I’m through, and I wave back.
Only a few hours later, I’m back in Toronto, standing outside the downtown island airport. The Man with the White Shirt pulls up in my car and hops out. He reaches for my little carry-on luggage and when he touches it, I flinch. He hugs me hard and kisses me sweetly, then puts the luggage on the back seat beside his lovely old dog, who is also happy to see me, but I feel like I’m having an out-of-body experience. How can this all be the same day? I woke up in Brooklyn. I woke up in a dream man’s bed in Brooklyn. And now I’m here with White Shirt and his dog and our city and our complicated non-relationship and what, everything is supposed to be normal even when it isn’t? Even when it’s never been?
At my place, White Shirt cooks us food and we watch a TV show in bed and then, for the first time ever, I do not want to have sex with him. I want instead to just fall asleep with my New York City romance preserved in a snow globe that doesn’t include The Man with the White Shirt in its tableau. I want to keep our Brooklyn morning and the hand-holding walks through Manhattan and the whole all of it. I want to keep it unpolluted by the complication that White Shirt brings to everything in my life.
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