by Max Monroe
I hope you can forgive me for being stupid enough to qualify actions with such childish thinking, but I assure you, I had no more control of it at the time than I had in falling totally and completely in love with you.
[laughs]
Right. I’m not sure I counted on this podcast being quite so embarrassing, but here I am, bloody blushing as I tell you the details of my treachery.
Anyway, as self-control never has been, and probably will never be, one of my strengths, I clicked the article despite my best intentions and read the damn thing in one sitting. I had no idea you didn’t know I’d received a copy of it until I saw you that night.
[clears throat]
I have to tell you, little fire, every time I read it, I find some new level of enjoyment.
You’ve got a way with words I didn’t give you nearly enough credit for from the beginning.
You give off a distinctly different first impression than what’s at the heart of you, and I believe, reading this article and seeing the way you turned something I’d been doing my entire life into a new experience—into something fun and exciting in a totally unique way—was the first little tug you made on me in a region north of…well, my cock.
[laughs]
Sorry for the crudeness, but up until this point, I’m fairly certain everything I’d been feeling toward you was physical.
Sure, you’d challenged me with arguments and a different point of view from the first minute, but I’d been truthful when I told Zoe that wasn’t something that necessarily appealed to me.
I thought the beginning of a real relationship was certain to start with actual like. Not the verbal slap fight we found ourselves tangled in every time we conversed.
In fact, I’m fairly certain, despite the physical attraction you’ve admitted to, you quite assuredly loathed me as a human being at this point.
I had no idea that could be a jumping-off point for love.
Foolish of me, in hindsight. Through a little research, I’ve discovered that a lot of love stories start out looking like hate.
As luck would have it, after reading through your article a couple of times, I happened to be strolling through the lobby of our hotel when a group of Jordy’s friends was walking by.
They greeted me with hellos and hand slaps, much how almost all of the young sports on the tour did, and then went about their business.
If it hadn’t been for a young lad asking of Jordy’s whereabouts, I might not have found you that night.
Frankly, I’m giving myself a little too much credit because if it hadn’t been for Hank Chantza, I never would have found you that night.
La Plancha, the little hole-in-the-wall eatery and drinkery—is that a thing?—was a blip on a tourist’s map at best. But beyond that, as enamored of you as I was after reading your words, I don’t think I would have tried.
Not for lack of interest, you see, but in my sometimes-warped male mind, giving a woman the room to pursue you was an occasionally necessary evil.
The cool, emotionally detached bloke…the indifference—it was all part of what my limited male psyche thought you ladies found appealing.
Amusing, huh?
I can picture you now, rolling your eyes at my stupidity.
[pauses and sighs]
I wish I could see you rolling your eyes at me now, Lucky.
As it is, all I’ve got are memories and an investigative eavesdrop on Hank Chantza.
“Where’s Jordy?” Hank asked one of his mates. “I thought he was meeting us for a night surf.”
“Nah,” Willy Mace replied. “He’s off with Sal, Clive, and Matty at La Plancha.”
“And the little redheaded reporter too,” Jamie Coggs added helpfully. “I was in his room when he texted her to go with them.”
I reckon I resembled your American-born, beloved canine Scooby Doo, stopping in my tracks and jumping to attention to listen to the details of their conversation.
Floppy ears perked, slobber, wide eyes. I had all of the symptoms.
Of course, they’d already given me the details of your location and the company you kept—all that was left was the ammunition that put me in a cab without looking back.
“He’s got a boner for her, huh?” Hank asked then. “Every time I turn around, he’s following her like a puppy.”
“Hey, I don’t blame him,” Jamie said. “I might have made a run for it if he weren’t so hot under the collar.”
“She is hot,” Willy agreed with a laugh.
I don’t even remember leaving the lobby, Luck. One minute, I was there, panting over the tiny morsels the lot of them left behind, and the next, I was pulling up in front of La Plancha and paying the cabbie.
Never in my life had the pursuit of a woman stolen my awareness like that.
There’d been plenty of women—you know that. Plenty of firsts, plenty of attraction, plenty of wild stories.
But I’d never—and I say this with absolute bloody certainty—made a decision so outside of consciousness, so based in feeling, that I didn’t remember how I’d even gotten there.
Only you did that to me.
Do that to me.
Even then, when I was stupid and you were sure you hated me, I was powerless to the greater force pulling us together.
I’d like to say I sat in that cab for minutes on end, debating the complexities of going inside, invading your privacy and your time with another bloke and commandeering it for my own, but I’d be lying.
The tires had barely stopped turning when I paid the fare and climbed out, and I didn’t balk for even a single millisecond before heading inside.
[laughs]
I think I would have used a time machine to get there even earlier if I’d been able. You’d already been there for who knew how long with a group of other blokes, all unfortunately equipped with eyes in their heads and dicks in their pants, and I had no idea the state I’d find you in when I got inside.
In the arms of Jordy, perhaps. Held close and pressed together for a romantic dance.
When I walked in to find you on your own—not in the arms of another man with stars in your eyes—I hadn’t been able to wait even a second.
You, at that bar in the most casual outfit I’d ever seen you in, took my breath away.
You were put together flawlessly, just as I suspected was always your intention, but you had a light in your eyes and a drink in your hand, and the way your gaze ate up everything around you told a different story.
Who knows, maybe it was the fact that I’d read the surfing article at this point—that I felt like I knew a different side of you, even if you hadn’t shown it to me personally—but I knew right then I wouldn’t be able to leave that bar without putting my hands on you.
Clive, Matty, Sal, and Jordy were animated as always, but after a quick exchange of hellos, you clammed up.
I wasn’t sure if you were upset at my arrival or if you had other things on your mind, but I figured it best to order a beer, give you your space, and let the boys run off some of their energy like a herd of dogs I knew I’d be crating for the night.
I was surprised that none of you asked me how I’d ended up at La Plancha. It wasn’t a frequented spot, it wasn’t on the main drag, and it wasn’t somewhere I would have found my way to on my own.
But I guess that’s the good part about fame and popularity—people tend not to question your presence. They question their own—how they could have had such luck to end up at the same place you are—and then they celebrate it.
I wasn’t too proud to take advantage.
Instead, I chatted and laughed and watched you surreptitiously as you observed a young couple dance together.
The longing on your face wasn’t far off from the feeling in my chest—the bold, bright, burning need to touch you.
That’s not the point of this story, though, and I know you’d be disappointed if it were. We’ve well established my physical attraction to you, and yours to me, and the matter at hand is
a whole different thing entirely.
The point of this story today is to tell you about the moment you hooked me.
I’m not much of an angler—I much prefer swimming with fish to catching them—but for the purposes of this little tale, an analogy based in the hobby is quite useful.
A fisherman sets out to catch different species differently. There are certain types of bait for certain types of fish, as well as particular conditions for finding the lot of them in the first place.
But you, my sweet fisherwoman, had a unique sort of rod, one that attracted a bevy of diverse fish—us blokes, if you’re confused—and we’d all been chomping at your bait for an age now.
I was after it. Jordy was after it. Half the bloody bastards in the bar were after it, I’m sure.
But when I asked you to dance and you accepted—after a carefully placed jab—I finally got a hold of the blimey thing in my mouth.
It tasted good—the victory—but you smelled sweeter, and the feel of you in my arms… I’d never felt anything that good, Lucky.
Of course, every good fisherman knows that a fish can still escape the line once they’ve tasted the bait.
Unless…they set the hook.
So this story, about this day, is really all for the purpose of that one moment.
The moment you hooked me deep, little fire.
The moment of no return.
Funny thing is, from the way you told this story, I know you don’t even remember it.
You had all sorts of details about the conversation we had that night—about the way you looked at my lips as our bodies pressed together to move as one.
You don’t remember mouthing the words and singing along to the song as we danced, but I do.
“Space Cowboy” by Kacey Musgraves.
I’d never heard the song before in my life, but I’ve never not recognized it since.
As she sang about giving her cowboy space, about the end of a relationship—about the inevitability of love fading—you sang about it too.
I watched as you went somewhere else, to your relationships of the past and to the love you’d given out with an expiration date.
I watched as you used the song to teach yourself lessons—I watched as you put up a wall between us that didn’t need to be built.
And I got hooked.
After that, I couldn’t have turned back if I wanted to.
My new existence was based in proving something to you. In proving that not all beginnings were doomed to a preordained end.
Pretty lofty goal for a guy who’d never hung around longer than a couple of days, huh?
[laughs]
I know. I have a knack for lofty goals.
And making you mine is the loftiest fucking goal I’ve ever attempted.
Hell, to this day and for however many it takes after, I’m still attempting it.
[sighs]
With you in my arms and your eyes locked with mine, I wanted to kiss you that night, Luck. So fucking bad I could bloody taste it.
But, you, of course, panicked at the prolonged contact with a jerk like me and scurried off to the bathroom to collect yourself.
I had every intention of following you—of giving you a peek into my infatuated mind.
It was something I’d never done before—shared with a woman how I truly felt about her—but I was prepared to take the leap.
Of course, as always, I got distracted by a group of young surfers with a damn near stockroom full of stories at their disposal.
They held me captive just long enough to find out you were gone.
Back to your space without a goodbye. And the real blow—back to Jordy and the possibility of hooking another fish.
[swallows and pauses]
I didn’t know you’d kissed Jordy until I heard it from you, on your podcast.
Probably a good thing, love.
I was just learning how to pursue a woman.
I doubt I would have been able to handle a simultaneous lesson in heartbreak.
Your conversation about being better off as friends should have made it okay, but I fear that’s one of love’s biggest downfalls—it’s not rational.
I can still feel the sting if I concentrate hard enough.
Thankfully oblivious to the event at the time, I scoured the original email about your arrival from Allie, got your number, and texted you.
To check on your welfare, sure.
But mostly, to interrupt your time with Jordy.
Do you remember how we ended that conversation?
Sleep well, little fire. I’ll see you in the morning.
Well, baby, I’m here to confess…that was a promise.
From that point on, I was in.
In pursuit.
In to win.
Into you.
This jerk is in love with you, Lucky. Please…listen again. Let me tell you more about the parts of our story you don’t know.
Let me explain.
* * *
Episode 8: Sharks of Jerks Past
Day Nine of Falling
June 12th’s flight from Bali to South Africa was a long one. I’d done it many times, between surfing the tour myself and sponsoring the tour with Surf Arsen, and as the years ticked by, I was growing more and more accustomed to doing it in first class.
I knew you’d flown the last leg of the tour in business, and more than anything else, really, I knew you’d spent way too much time for my liking the night before with Jordy Fuller.
I swear, I’d never been the jealous type before you, and the feeling, quite frankly, was entirely foreign.
I was a blind puppy, trying to find my way through a minefield for the first time.
Clearly bound to make mistakes, I only hoped I’d survive it without blowing myself up too badly.
[laughs]
We all see how well that worked out.
Anyway, prior to your arrival at the airport, I got on the phone with the airline and played a little game of musical chairs.
I had to move to a seat with an opening next to it, and you had to move up a class. This was normally the kind of thing someone else in my office took care of, and if you’d heard me on the phone, you probably would have gathered a sufficient amount of material to make fun of me for the next three years or so.
But I did it, after some blundering, and when I arrived at the airport that morning, I did it knowing our flight would be taken side by side.
I expected it to take work to intentionally dick around enough to ensure you boarded the plane before me, but as it turns out, you’re one of those annoying people who seems to think lining up to board fifteen minutes ahead of time is a necessary evil.
[laughs]
Newsflash, love: Those seats are assigned. You could sit your perfect arse in the comfort of the leather lounges until the very last minute, and your spot on the plane would still be there.
I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised, though. Control and order are all part of being uptight, and you are. Tense. Inhibited. Cautious. A list-maker, of all bloody things.
Of course, as it turns out, I apparently find those things attractive in you.
Go fucking figure.
After giving you time to get settled after boarding, I did the routine myself and made my way down the jetway with a knot of anticipation in my stomach.
I’d never manipulated a situation to this extent, and I’d certainly never done it with the intent of being stuck next to a woman for eighteen hours. Oh, I’d avoided. I’d hidden. I’d executed some Jackie Chan-worthy aerobatics to avoid seeing someone. But all this…just to sit next to you?
I was a man in uncharted waters.
And, unbeknownst to me at the time, they were apparently chock-full of sharks of jerks past.
You didn’t seem nearly as excited to see me as I was to see you. In fact, as I recall, I had to work to even get your attention. You may not remember it this way, but I stood there saying hello to you for nearly a full minute—the
prize idiot oblivious to holding up the line of people waiting to board behind me—while I tried to get you to notice me.
Somehow, in my head, I’d dreamed up a whole other landscape where you spotted me immediately and had to fight your smile. You picked at a nail and shimmied in your seat as I sat next to you, and I could feel the weight of your eyes as they lay heavy upon me.
Of course, in reality, I barely got a mumbled hello, and your eyes were about as steady on me as a fucking pinball.
You were distracted and, if I’m honest with myself, a little disappointed to see me.
If I weren’t such a cocky shit, I’d imagine it would have felt a little bit like a kick in the nuts.
But I am a cocky shit, as I’m sure you’ll agree, and convenient excuses were kind of my specialty.
When I saw the article opened up on your tablet, I attributed the surliness to distraction.
Ah, little fire, if only it’d been that simple, right?
I wouldn’t find out the truth until you fell asleep.
That’s right. I confess.
While you were sleeping, a cute little trail of drool dripping down your perfectly made-up chin…I snuck the tablet out of the seat pocket in front of you, and I read your first Dear Ex-Boyfriend article.
I’ll pause now, just to allow you time to curse me thoroughly without having to rewind to listen to what you’ve missed.
[distinct pause]
I know. It was a bad move and an invasion of privacy. But when you’re trying to get inside the head of a woman you’re interested in, and all of the normal paths are closed up tighter than a watertight seal, you get desperate. And before you know it, you’ve already arrived at the justification.
You’d be publishing this article, I rationalized. It’d be exposed to the whole world at some point, and my reading it early was merely a lack of formality.