We got past the Facebook fight, but it would be a lie to say there was a relationship rewind button that put us right back into our happy place. I couldn’t remember a single night spent apart as husband and wife, so it felt strange to pack up for Canada without her when a production company came calling.
Some television producers had had their eyes on Drew for a TV hosting gig, and he had shown them a sizzle reel we had made for an audition a few years earlier, featuring a fun makeover of JD’s place. Sizzle reels are basically montage videos on Red Bull, a quick taste of what the show’s about, who will be in it, and where it’s set. Discovering that Drew had a double who happened to be a contractor/designer gave Drew’s producer pals an idea: Would the two of us be interested in testing for a show they had in the works called My Dream Home? The idea was to help desperate buyers get into the home of their dreams via a fixer-upper. That was exactly what we’d been doing for years, anyway, minus the TV audience. It was a no-brainer to tell the producers we’d be right over. Over being Toronto, that is.
The production team flew Drew and me up for a few days to shoot the My Dream Home sizzle reel. Even the excitement of gaining momentum on the professional front couldn’t completely take my mind off the feeling that things were inexplicably faltering on the personal front. It felt like my wife and I were adrift on an open sea, unsure of whether the fluctuating tide was going to carry us away into the sunset or pull us straight under.
That first night I was away, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I texted her several times to see if she wanted to hop on a call before I headed to bed. After a couple of hours, she responded saying she was out with friends and would call me after. She was on Pacific time, and I was three hours later on the East Coast, so my inner clock was already struggling to tick. I drifted in and out of sleep, listening for her call in my isolated little hotel room. I was lonely. I missed my wife. When my six o’clock alarm woke me in the morning, I silenced it and checked my phone only to see that no call had come in. No text had been sent. My mind began to spin as I wondered if she had tenderly avoided calling so as not to wake me at such a late hour, or if she had never quite made it home at all. In Vegas, it’s not inconceivable to party through breakfast. And lunch.
That uneasy feeling that something wasn’t right reminded me of the time our elementary school decided it would be good for our individual development to assign Drew and me to different classrooms for second grade. The separation wasn’t as bad as my tenth-grade solo crash-and-burn in High River years later, but we both felt vaguely anxious and out of sorts. The teachers and our parents agreed that our energy was just off and didn’t try to split us up again.
A month flew by, and we were still waiting to hear whether My Dream Home would be picked up. I had promised myself not to get my hopes up, but I couldn’t help it. This was a big opportunity and would be totally life changing. Those daydreams would often be abruptly shut down as reality snapped me back to the problems in my marriage. Things were getting worse, and we needed to fix it. Open, honest communication may get rough at times, but I’m a steadfast believer that it’s the only way to go in any relationship you care about. I approached my wife, hoping to talk directly about the massive elephant in the room.
“You know I’m not thrilled about the Facebook thing,” I began, “and it’s no secret that things have been off with us.” I plowed ahead, keeping my voice steady as I cracked open the door. “I think we really need to talk.”
She agreed, and we began to discuss the highs and lows of our current situation.
I asked myself if I had somehow failed her as a husband. I had never been unfaithful. Or even disrespectful. I cherished this woman, and I wanted to spend my life with her, to love and be loved by her for the duration, whether our journey was full of adventure or adversity. I had been lucky enough to grow up inside a love story, and I didn’t want to close the book on my own. I wanted to throw my last ounce of energy into fighting for our marriage, for her. We just couldn’t seem to make the connection anymore. The distance between us grew wider, the silent nights colder.
There was a surge of hope when we agreed to marriage counseling, but that was short-lived, as she decided not to continue attending. Sitting in the therapist’s office alone sealed the fate of our marriage and brought me clarity about it. She moved out, and we filed for divorce.
There’s a twelve-month waiting period before divorces are finalized in Alberta, where we were married. I was determined to keep things civil between us. When her mother came to town and said she wanted to see our two dogs, Gracie and Stewie, I got her free tickets to a Blue Man Group show and invited her over to the 5,500-square-foot house Drew and I had bought in foreclosure and planned to renovate someday.
The divorce dragged on for another hellacious year as our respective attorneys exchanged missives. There’s no victory to such an inherently brutal process. I was in such a negative place, it was hard to even enjoy the ride as Property Brothers took off. Defeated, depressed, and alone again in a Toronto hotel room, I finally just called my ex directly one afternoon.
“How did we get to where we are?” I asked with genuine sorrow. “I don’t get it. This isn’t who we are. You can have two good people who just are not good together, and it’s not a sin.” I could hear her sadness on the other end of the line. We were able to talk the way we used to and signed our final papers the following day.
We were done.
Except I couldn’t move on.
When I came out of my marriage, I was hurt, angry, and felt completely lost. I had mentally plotted out the rest of my days to include this woman . . . and now she was out of the picture completely. Being in a relationship, to me, meant knowing that no matter how bad your day was, there was one person who would always have your back, as you would have theirs. Maybe having a twin made me understand that kind of ride-or-die devotion early on. But my marriage had failed, and that left me questioning the loyalty in all of my relationships. Loyalty is something I always have, and always will, treasure deeply. I see it as a quality that reflects more than even love; it says something about character, too. Had we tried hard enough to fix what was broken? If we were truly loyal to each other, wouldn’t we have tried harder? I was left with far more questions than answers and needed time to reflect on all of it.
I lost all desire to socialize and shied away from family and friends.* I didn’t want to risk getting hurt by anyone, lover or not. The only company I could enjoy was that of my unconditionally loving pooches, Stewie and Gracie. They never judged me, wanting nothing more than love in return and maybe the occasional treat. In them, I found solace.
*I could tell Jonathan was still hurting, which hurt me. I’d try to get him to go out with me, but he’d usually politely decline, saying he had to get home to Gracie and Stewie. The fun-loving, happy doppelganger I’d known my whole life was now a faded shadow of his vibrant former self. They say time heals all wounds, but they don’t say how hard it is to watch the second hand tick on your loved ones. I made it my goal to remind Jonathan that we were all there for him.
I poured myself into the show, willed myself to put up a happy front for the cameras, then returned to my funk when we wrapped for the day. Sometimes an unknowing acquaintance might ask how my wife was, never realizing what pain their polite small talk would cause. I found comfort in routine and didn’t miss going out to bars and social gatherings. In fact, I didn’t even go out on a date for over six months.
It’s one thing to face a personal tragedy. Another to face it alone in isolation from your friends and family. Filming in Toronto, I was in a city where I didn’t know anybody. I was unsure of my way around, and I hadn’t built up the courage to get back out there. With our filming schedule, Drew was only in town part of the week, so I didn’t have him to lean on. But even when we were together, I never liked to talk about “it.”
I realized that I had this great circle of f
riends—very caring, compassionate, kind people whose strength could pull me out of this sinkhole faster than I could climb out by myself. Many of them chose to fly out to Toronto to visit, which meant the world to me. Before I knew it, I was smiling and laughing again. It was a feeling I had missed deeply.
Once I ended my self-imposed exile from every female alive, everyone wanted to set me up. But I hate blind dates. I hate blind dates more than words can possibly convey. But I couldn’t keep third-wheeling it on dates with Drew and Linda forever, no matter how generous they were about sharing the tub of buttered popcorn at the movies. I told my matchmaker pals that I was attracted to insightful women who had their own passions in life and were following them. They’d swear they knew the perfect person for me. I’d go on the blind date, and it would be terrible. Like, please let there be a citywide blackout before the salad comes so I can slip unnoticed into the dark night, terrible.
“What on earth made you EVER think that would be a match?” I would demand of whichever female friend had missed the mark so wildly this time. Invariably, the guilty party would shrug and look perplexed.
“Well, you’re both single,” came the eye-roll worthy reply. That’s like saying you’re compatible because you’re both right-handed.
My own brother even tried to pimp me out. We were booked to appear on Steve Harvey’s talk show, but while we were sitting there yukking it up, this wall opened up on set and there sat three beautiful women. Surprise! It’s the Dating Game! I had to interview the eligible bachelorettes and then choose one to go on an instant date with, which turned out to be lunch in the studio cafeteria. She was perfectly lovely, but it was painfully awkward.
I took charge of finding my own dates from then on. I had accepted that my ex-wife and I were simply not meant to be. There was no need for a hasty generalization of females or any lingering negativity. I was ready to trust women again, but I honestly didn’t know if I would get in another serious relationship. I spent five years going out on some great dates as well as some disappointing ones. There were some sparks and a couple of wonderful women, but no show-stopping Fourth of July fireworks with cannons booming and the 1812 Overture playing in my head.* I told myself I was okay with that.
*I always assumed it was “Magic Man” playing in your head.
How could you hear it over “Creep” playing in yours?
Then, in September 2015, I was walking the red carpet at a charity event in Toronto when I saw this gorgeous, tall blonde standing at the other end in a group of people who seemed to be hanging on her every word. I had never seen her before and didn’t know any of the people in her group, but I was intrigued.
At the end of the night, as I headed toward the exit, I spotted the mystery girl again, sitting at the back of the room at a table by herself. There was no time to stop and plan something witty to say, so I just stopped in front of her and blurted out the first thing that came to mind, relieved that no drool came out. So at least I’d evolved that much since third grade.
“So this is where they stick all the troublemakers,” I said.
She looked up and smiled but seemed distracted. I was blocking the exit, and the crowd of people wanting to leave was growing restive behind me. I made one last stab. “I hope you’re having a wonderful night,” I said, which earned me a “Meh” and a giggle. I had no choice but to give up and move along, unless I wanted to bear responsibility for turning a gala into a Pamplona-style stampede.
Understand that I was never the type to fawn over anybody or dwell on what I could have done better. But I couldn’t get the mystery blonde out of my head. I’m not sure if it was the fact that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met, her stunning black dress, or her nonchalant yet pleasant reaction to my inane dad joke. Something made me determined to talk to her again.
With my inner computer nerd playing wingman, I flew into action as Captain Cybersleuth. Time for non-creepy,* perfectly innocent social media stalking. I looked at the charity Facebook page and website and couldn’t find her in any of the photos. I pulled up guests and media I knew had been there, but again, she was nowhere to be found. After exhausting every avenue I could think of within 48 hours, I called off the search and concluded that it just wasn’t meant to be. (Thanks for nothing, fate, Cupid and Mark Zuckerberg.) I kicked myself that I didn’t at least ask for her name which, in hindsight, would have helped greatly.
*No, pretty sure it was the full creepy kind . . .
Almost a month passed. I kept busy at work and found myself just taking it easy one evening, catching up on emails and chilling out. Fighting a mild bout of FOMO, I flipped open my Instagram account. The first picture that popped up was a friend of mine . . . and in the background was the mystery girl. I nearly fell out of my chair. Of course she wasn’t tagged, so I still didn’t know her name, but at least now there was a possible link. I didn’t want to just text my friend directly and ask him who she was, because who knew, it could be somebody he was dating. Or an ex. I needed to work out this riddle on my own. It only took another fifteen minutes of sleuthing before I struck gold and discovered who she was: Jacinta Kuznetsov. And she wasn’t my friend’s girlfriend or ex or anything else awkward. She was his producer. I found her Instagram profile and Twitter page.
Now I just needed to figure out how to make contact without looking like a creep. I also needed a better opening line than “so this is where they stick the troublemakers.”
I sifted through her listed preferences and found she was a DJ. What a coincidence! I like music! Nope. Too much of a stretch. Just as well, since I found out later that she had filled her profile with fake info, anyway, and had no experience whatsoever in scratching records.
Hmm, maybe I just reach out and say hi. What’s the worst that could happen? Check. I already knew that. But drool doesn’t travel through computer keyboards, so I tapped out my first love letter to her:
Still hanging solo in the troublemaker section of charitable events? Or have you moved up to wedding crashing? Enter.
I then sat and waited anxiously for a reply, which didn’t come for three days. What finally landed was just a light-hearted, witty retort that induced a mild chuckle and embarked us on a five-month battle of the brains until we discovered we would both be in the same city for the same event at the same time. We HAD to finally meet in person to see if the chemistry was as strong without the safety net of a keyboard.
We kept it casual and light. Jacinta met me and a few friends at a nightclub at the Bellagio Hotel. After quickly discovering there was no way to actually converse over the bass-thumping dance music, we decided to break away to a quiet bar to enjoy a drink and get to really know each other.
I felt this overwhelming urge to learn everything about her, but I didn’t want to delve too deep on a first date and come across as pushy. So I asked about her career and fished for any similarities. The conversation was pretty routine for first-round pleasantries—when all of a sudden, Jacinta dropped a bomb.
“Ugh!” she groaned. “You ask the WORST questions. Ask something interesting.” I was taken aback. Not exactly sure what to say, slightly offended and paralyzed with shock, I finally mustered a response.
“Sorry?”
To which she replied: “Seriously. These questions are so boring.”
Well, excuuuuuuse me, Oprah Winfrey. I let her insult sink in for a moment and suggested perhaps she could contribute to the conversation, then. At which point, it all went downhill. I remember thinking, This is not a nice person. Who would say that? Why am I still here?
So finally I just said, “Why don’t we call it a night? If you’re not interested in being here, then there’s no point.” I walked her to the elevator and said good-night without eye contact or so much as a fist bump, I was so deflated. A little heartbroken, surprisingly. The person I’d built this rapport with over the past five months was completely different from the
one I just met. Maybe I wasn’t ready to open up that much to somebody yet.
As I walked away, I heard her call after me: “Jonathan!”
I just threw my hands up in the air and kept walking.
I sat in my car for a good twenty minutes, replaying where I had gone wrong, how something so full of promise had ended up derailing so badly. Was I being too sensitive out of pride? Was she legitimately not a good person? What was my friend who she worked for going to say? Ugh. Let the social awkwardness begin. I had always been great at keeping my private life very private. And now, one of my friends was no doubt going to hear about the Diva of all Diva moments that I just had. Perhaps a little damage control was in order.
I texted Jacinta, apologized for my behavior, and explained that wasn’t who I am, that I honestly was not sure what had happened back there. After a few moments, she responded, saying she, too, was confused and it was not her intention to offend me. She was trying to be funny.
At that point, I discovered I had it all wrong: She was not some stone-hearted jerk who couldn’t care less about the feelings of others. In truth, Jacinta was the most sarcastic person I’d ever met and, much like me, thrived on taking advantage of even the most intimate of moments to get a laugh. We could literally be the same person. . . .*
*You already have a twin! Ha ha
We decided that it was worth starting fresh and attempted a new first date the following night. I promised to drop the drama and she pledged to set aside the sass. It turned out to be the beginning of something truly special.
Jacinta’s life was in Toronto, and mine was wherever Drew and I happened to be filming any given month. Jacinta and I knew it would take some flexibility and complex travel maneuvering to ensure we could spend as much time as possible with each other, but we promised never to let the time apart be considered a negative thing. It actually worked out well, because we pack a lot into our time together, and absence really did make our hearts grow fonder.
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