Just Between Us

by Mario Lopez

  We talked about investment and how Dick had diversified his interests over the years. Apparently, he owned all the Krispy Kreme donut shops in the UK, as well as an island somewhere and about half of Malibu, California.

  Wow.

  As a mentor, Dick was direct and the greatest salesman for whatever he believed in. “Mario,” he told me early in our relationship, “when you’re a host and you’ve got a good personality and people like you, all you’ve got to be is likable and relatable, and yourself. Which is hard for some people. But it’s easy for you. You’ll have much more longevity in this business. Actors come and go, and they’re at the whim and detriment of a writer and a director. But if you start looking at yourself as a brand, and focusing on creating opportunities for yourself, and producing, then you can be in here for the long haul.”

  He was persuasive. “All right,” I agreed. “I like that. I’ll become the Latino Dick Clark.” I said it jokingly, of course. But I meant it too. What I really wanted was to be the all-American host with a little extra spice.

  However, before I wedded myself to just being a host, my road to that altar was about to take some more complicated turns.

  • • •

  Press rewind.

  A few years before I made up my mind to move forward full force with hosting, the direction of my personal life had also shifted as the result of one of those earlier hosting gigs. The year was 1998 and I’d been hired to host the Miss Teen USA pageant. ’N Sync with Justin Timberlake played the show that year, which also happened to be their first TV appearance. The sideline reporters for the pageant were Ali Landry and Julie Moran, who worked at Entertainment Tonight at the time. When I saw Ali, I immediately recognized her as the girl from a Doritos commercial that had aired during the Super Bowl that year.

  Wearing a tank top with a long skirt, she dashed by me walking her dog, Cosmo, a shih tzu. She was a head-turner for sure, but also looked sweet and fresh off the farm. And yep, she was hot. Ali stopped, looked me over in my preshow attire of black Adidas sweatpants and sneakers and a black T-shirt. I looked back at her and smiled.

  The timing was not ideal for getting involved with anyone new. At that point, I was very committed to having what I considered to be a noncommittal “good time” in the dating world. There was another issue, as I found out during the flirtatious conversations we had over the weekend: she had a boyfriend—an NFL quarterback or something along those lines.

  But we definitely had a spark, so that didn’t stop me from telling her, after a couple of cocktails, that we were meant for each other. After the pageant ended and the weekend was nearly done, the producers set up an after-party to which the entire production crew showed up. Feeling something fateful about the moment, I pulled Ali aside and said, “I’m going to marry you, just so you know.”

  “I have a boyfriend,” she reminded me.

  I brushed it off. “That’s all right. I’m not jealous, and besides, he’s not my issue.” And then I walked up to her mom, who was with her that weekend, and told her the same thing: that I was going to marry Ali.

  What was I thinking? She was this very sweet girl and suddenly the world stopped and she was it. But I knew nothing about her, a fact that would soon become a major point of contention.

  Some time passed before I was able to convince her to go out to dinner. The timing hadn’t improved much. But I was in pursuit, not giving up; Ali was still not available, still in a relationship, even though it sounded rocky. At our first date, I was my unabashed self, unafraid to say that I wanted us to be an “us.” Ali seemed interested but restrained—which was just the kind of girl-next-door thing I liked. We casually hung out and kissed for the first time that weekend, and then we started dating shortly afterward.

  Press fast-forward now. We’re all caught up. So Ali and I dated for six years. That broke all records for me. I thought this was the girl. If I wrote down the criteria of what I wanted in a wife and a mother—back then—she seemed to be it. She was a model, so she always had good style—she knew how to dress. And she was Catholic, very driven, ambitious, hardworking—but also charming and innocent at the same time.

  I could have been looking at a lot of criteria that were more on the surface than not. But that was my bad. Except a short time later I felt that she seemed to be changing. Like many girls who move here from small towns, Hollywood appeared to be taking its toll on her. Deep down I questioned whether she was the same sweet Southern belle that I’d fallen for. The changes were subtle, but her interests sounded more materialistic and she seemed more preoccupied with image rather than substance, things I didn’t care about. Our conversations became less based on common interests and more about her pressuring me to be a certain way, dress a certain way, act a certain way.

  We all change in Hollywood, especially if we’re trying to make it in the industry; it was just a matter of whether we were changing in the same ways. That wasn’t her fault, but it confused me.

  We had broken up a couple of times over the six years of dating, but I wasn’t ready to break up with her forever. We always got back together, every time. When we finally got back together after the last breakup, that’s when she gave the ultimatum. Either we would move forward—get married—or she was going to leave me.

  Press pause. What to do? Wasn’t this a sign that I needed to grow up and get serious with my life—and this was my chance? Or was I confusing the thought that my resistance was just cold feet with legitimately not being ready? Every man should grow up and evolve, but the realistic pace of that evolution is a crucial point. I didn’t know the difference between trusting my instincts and questioning my fears. My instincts screamed that I didn’t need to rush while my more critical voice barked that it was a manly choice to commit and begin a family. My instincts had gotten me into trouble in the past, so I accepted that it was time to grow up and commit. Even as I hesitated, that tough-talking voice continued, “Are you going to spend your life looking for the illusion of the perfect soul mate, or the hope of finding a bigger, better deal?” Man, that voice could be crass. But it got to me. Finally, I concluded I’d be an idiot to pass up what was probably a wonderful opportunity and a wonderful woman.

  Clearly I was an idiot already. I was approaching thirty and I thought of all my cousins and friends—everybody was getting hitched and raising kids. I’m certainly not a follower, but I just thought, well, something’s got to be wrong with me. Why did I not have the same desires as my close friends and family? I was lucky with girls but was I unlucky or unrealistic when it came to the long haul? I also had the pressure of people telling me how perfect Ali was for me and how great we were together. But they didn’t know how she and I related one-on-one; they hadn’t taken the six-year journey I had. They didn’t know everything. The most specific advice I was given came from one of my friends who told me to walk away. He said, “Mario, ultimatums are there to test you. Walk away, man, walk away. That’s how they get you. Surprisingly, man, girls can sometimes be a lot more conniving than guys, so beware.”

  Well, that was no help. The pressure from both sides made me distraught. How to properly decipher my feelings? How was I able to clearly express myself to the right friend, someone who could guide me with wisdom?

  Fast-forward one more time. Let me fess up now: the lesson to come is that when your instincts start talking you must be brave enough to listen and clearheaded enough to act on what they are telling you. Of course I wasn’t ready to commit wholeheartedly. But I didn’t want to listen because I wanted the fairy tale to be true and my instincts to be wrong. I overlooked two very important facts: I wasn’t in love with her in the way that she deserved a spouse to be, and, obviously, given all my resistance, I was not ready to settle down.

  The lesson, in hindsight, was that I would never keep those sorts of feelings to myself ever again. The nervous hesitation in me should have been shared with her. It wasn’t fair to Ali for
me not to gracefully tell her how I felt because she was understandably ready for a serious commitment and someone who was ready to jump into marriage with both feet. I also didn’t realize that no matter how amazing a person is, no matter how wonderful, if you’re not ready, trying to prolong the relationship is pointless.

  When they say timing is everything, I don’t think it applies to anything more than it does to relationships. Well, maybe timing is a bit more important for landing a jet on an aircraft carrier, but after that, in close second place, are relationships. There have been lots of great women in my life, but I just wasn’t ready, for whatever reason, for a long-term relationship.

  The problem with the passage of time is that people do change. As far as I was concerned, Ali had changed. The reality was that I had fallen out of love and I wasn’t ready, and I confused my unpreparedness with feeling that I wasn’t being brave and that all my misgivings were nothing more than cold feet. What’s a guy to do in this situation? The worst thing possible: I proposed. I bought the ring and made the engagement official and did so like a zombie.

  Even in the midst of proposing, I suppressed my apprehensions. Again, just cold feet, right? I had to man up, I told myself. Repeatedly. If this was what Ali wanted, it was my responsibility to commit. Was walking away worth losing her? No. Then . . . I might as well marry her. Bad logic at the time, I know, but that’s the illogical logic I used to make my decision to go forward. I know now that the manliest thing I could have done was to confess my misgivings and take the heat for causing a broken heart, but that wasn’t the choice I made.

  Then I lost my mind and acted the part of a reformed bachelor. Not only did I go down to Louisiana to propose, but I went even further by asking her father for her hand, hoping that with the family’s blessing I would live up to my new role as groom. Her family was very traditional, and with all the emotional gymnastics I’d been through, I hoped this would start us off on the right foot. It was the left foot that got me into trouble.

  My buddy Joe organized the bachelor party, complete with his private jet and all my cousins, who’d been planning on our doing a marlin-fishing trip in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico. Joe told me, “Hey, screw that trip. I’m taking care of everything. Grab your cousins. We’re going on my plane and we’re going to hop around to all the hot spots—Cabo, Puerto Vallarta, Acapulco, and Cancún.” It was a seriously generous offer and my crew was game for the adventure.

  The bachelor party coincided with college spring break, so it was a far cry from a fishing trip. We started with the hottest spots here in the States—MTV was shooting at many of these locations, so you can only imagine the crowds they drew. Then we jetted off in style to all the Mexican beach resorts. Joe was the man, orchestrating the whole fantasy party from start to end. But what about the women in our lives? Would they approve?

  My cousins were all married or in committed relationships, so it was natural for them to ask: “Are we going to tell our wives or girlfriends about this trip?”

  My response was, “Yeah, let’s just be honest and tell ’em. What are they going to get mad at? It’s a bachelor party.”

  But the group consensus was against me. A resounding “No, we can’t tell them” echoed among my friends and primos. One cousin was adamant, saying, “If we spring this on them, oh my God, mine will freak out. So let’s vote on it.”

  In the end, I was overruled and we all decided to go hush. Now I was left with another dilemma: I couldn’t tell Ali. Again, in hindsight, I know this was the wrong thing to do. The beginning stages of a relationship must be built on a foundation of trust. And trust begins with telling the truth even when it’s difficult—especially when it’s difficult. Men mature more slowly than women and I imagine Ali was looking at our relationship with more maturity than I was at the time. Scratch that. I’m sure she was.

  That said, I was fine with telling my fiancée of our plans, because it was my bachelor party. What did she care where I was going? But I had to keep my mouth shut. We voted not to say anything to anyone and all committed to the white lie that we would be going on a bachelor party fishing trip. It wasn’t as if we’d planned on being bad, but the gang unanimously agreed that their girlfriends and wives would be unnecessarily stressed if they knew where we were headed.

  It was a five-day nonstop party. Suffice it to say, my good time was a little too good, because I got inebriated and a little too friendly with a young lady on spring break at one of the stops in some university party town. What was I thinking? At the time, as little as possible! Maybe I’d rationalized it to the point of thinking that the whole Bachelors Gone Wild scene was a rite of passage I was supposed to experience. You know, when in Rome . . . ? The truth is, during those five days, I remember having only vague tinges of guilt. Reality began to settle in, however, when it was time to return home. As time went on, I’d see that the excuse of a bachelor party frenzy wasn’t right. The blame, obviously, was my immaturity and inability to keep my priorities in perspective.

  Once I took responsibility for my feelings, acknowledging how I had so mishandled my decisions, lightning hit me with truth: I wasn’t in love. The thoughts came streaming in, but it was too late. My misgivings reared their ugly heads and I knew I should have broken things off with her before I strayed.

  Everything was suddenly crystal clear. But like an idiot I did what you do when you find out you’ve dug a hole for yourself: I kept digging. I’d tell myself, Oh, whatever, this is my last hurrah, and I’m not married yet so it doesn’t count, just one last youthful indiscretion before I step up and become a married man. With that kind of guilty self-defense, I came back and all seemed normal at first. Twitter and other social media were not all the rage, luckily, so what happened wherever it happened stayed there—or so I thought—and I went through the proceedings and got married as planned. I formally walked down the aisle and said, “I do.” But in my heart and soul, I was screaming, “I do not! I can’t! What am I doing?”

  When I was at the altar and looked down, I saw my mom and dad with dry eyes. No tears. No emotion. In contrast, four years earlier, when my sister, Marissa, married Kailee Wong—the all-American linebacker from Stanford who began his NFL journey playing for the Minnesota Vikings and then later the Houston Texans—I saw that my parents were visibly moved with tears and expressions of great joy. At my wedding their expressions were blank.

  At the reception, Ali and I made the rounds, but you never really talk to anyone at your own wedding. That is, except for the moment when it was time for the traditional dance with my mom. We went out onto the dance floor together and she took both my hands in hers, looked me in the eyes, leaned in so no one could hear, and quietly whispered into my ear, “I hope you know what you’re doing, mijo. I’m going to pray for you.” Mom always knows best and she knew I wasn’t ready.

  Ali and I didn’t get to go on a honeymoon because I was shooting a pilot at the time and I had to do some other work in New York. With that trip behind me, I came back to Los Angeles just in time for the proverbial shit to hit the fan. Ali had found out all about the bachelor party. She brought me into the bedroom and showed me pictures her sister had found. One of our unplanned stops on our bachelor party tour had been at a Louisiana State University spring break party. Ali’s sister had a lot of friends at LSU and one of her sister’s friends snapped a picture of me in South Padre Island, Texas. I was caught in the white lie. South Padre Island was a far cry from where I’d told her I would be. Not only that, but I was on the stage partying like a rock star with scantily clad girls—certainly not fishing in Cabo. I came clean. No brownie points for me, though. Ali was pissed.

  Understandably, she was humiliated—though she sounded more worried about how it would make her look than about our relationship and working things out. She asked me to leave, so I did. At that point, we were not calling it quits so much as putting me in the doghouse and cooling off before figuring out how to make things right
. In that short period, she didn’t hold back from telling a lot of people what a louse I was. “Louse” may not have been the word. All was starting to become clear. Something was horribly wrong in our relationship and it had to be fixed, immediately.

  Then I had an epiphany. I didn’t want to save our marriage. The foundation wasn’t there. I finally got the balls to say, “I’m sorry. I can’t be in this marriage. It’s not right for either of us.” It was incredibly difficult and heartbreaking for us both. I told her, “I shouldn’t have gotten married and I didn’t mean to hurt you. I’m sorry.” She was hurt and angry, rightfully so. And so two weeks after we said, “I do,” we went to the Catholic Church for an annulment.

  I take full responsibility for not being mature enough to recognize my own heart in this relationship and for allowing outside pressures to affect my choices. I learned a lot from all of this, which was no solace to Ali or to myself in this mess. I just wasn’t ready and my heart wasn’t in it. Plain and simple. And I knew that if I ever met someone worth walking down the aisle with, I would make damn sure I jumped in with both feet.

  After Ali and I went our separate ways, I regretted most of all that we couldn’t find a place of friendship. Almost all of my exes and I became friends after our romantic involvements ended. After all, caring for each other shouldn’t stop because you’re no longer an item, so why not be friends? Life’s too short to bear grudges or carry resentment. That’s a lesson that comes with maturity.

  The other upshot was reclaiming trust in my own instincts, not only with respect to relationships but also when I next found myself with a new wave of unexpected job opportunities—none of them directly related to hosting.