therealljidol week 23: backing the wrong horse
We're driving somewhere through Idaho when my phone buzzes gently, telling me I've got a message. I'm in the passenger seat, a friend is driving, and there's another friend in the back of the car. I'm in the middle of a story, talking about that one time, in that one place, when we did that one thing -- something funny that ends with mistaken identity; a slight albeit humorous misfortune that befalls me; what makes it right. "And then he said..."
My phone vibrates again. A call, this time.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I have to take this, it's -- "
It's you.
There are few things in my life that are complicated, these days.
You are one of the complicated things.
"She doesn't treat you well," go the various messages. "She..."
I know the score: how many times you've flaked on me, how many times you've broken plans; how you'll tell me, later, that you're sorry you did it, but you weren't up to seeing everyone, you only want to see me, just me.
How many times I fall for it. How I let you reel me in.
"I..." I start, every time it comes up. "You don't know her. Our friendship is -- weird."
You're my ex, or you would be, if we'd ever gotten around to dating.
You're my best friend, or you would be, if you answered my calls.
You're someone I'd cut out, if I weren't so patient, too forgiving.
"I love her," I finish, feebly. "It's not something I'm really up for talking about."
And everyone else lets it slide.
"Hello?" I answer.
"Hey," you say, and I can tell from the tone of your voice what's coming. "I'm sorry, I..."
"You have to cancel," I start. "Okay."
"Okay?" Your voice is hopeful. "You understand?"
No, I want to say, I don't, but I keep my voice level.
"Yes," I tell you. "I get it. You're busy."
What I don't tell you: do you remember, we said in December, we said...
I'm traveling to Seattle, ostensibly for a concert, but actually because I'm hoping to see you. We don't live in the same place, anymore, and it's an opportunity, to see you...
"I've gotten caught up work, and you have to understand..."
And I do, though I don't like it.
There are conflicting stories, about how we met.
There's mine -- that you reached out to me; that you chased me, and having hooked my interest, you withdrew. You had what you wanted; the rest was up to me, to make it work.
"I never see you unless I make plans," I told you, at one point, after you'd confessed that you had feelings for me.
"How can you say that?" you said. "I..."
You gave a long list of reasons as to how I was to know that you liked me, that you were into me. I had only recently come out; I wasn't sure what the new realm of dating was supposed to look like -- but even then, I'd like to think I didn't believe you. The reasons you listed were spurious: you would occasionally text me first. Sometimes you called me first. Sometimes, rarely, you would let me know that you were going to be at our favorite bar at a certain time -- never with an invitation attached, but it was implied, you said.
You were the Cool Girl. Everyone wanted to date you. I listened, and let myself be mollified.
Your version is different. It starts with me, being too needy, too demanding -- but somehow winning you over anyway.
"You told me you were into me first, remember?" you said. "You said..."
Because you told me that you were jealous of the other date I was going on, I think. Because you said you were sick of watching me go out with other people, when I should have been going out with you.
"I remember."
In your narrative, I am diminished -- less attractive, somehow; needier, less patient, less kind, more obsessed. You go out with me out of pity, or some other misplaced emotion.
Remember?
I do, and I don't.
We never actually dated.
We went on one date. At the end of it, you kissed me gently on the cheek, and told me that there was someone else.
"I think that it's serious, with her," you said. "So..."
So you had to let me go. So you had to cut ties.
"Okay," I said, as if we could pretend it was. "Okay."
You kept me dangling, though.
"Maybe, if things don't work out with her..." you texted me. "I mean, Tricia is great, but if it doesn't work out, then..."
It could be you, the texts said. If you're patient.
I wasn't patient. I tried to date other people, but there was always the ghost of you, in the back of my mind. I'd go out with someone and find myself comparing them to you. The girl that I'd met for coffee had hair that was cut in the same style as yours. The woman I met for a paint and wine class had your love for the Elizabethan poets. Tracy -- whom I'd date for six months -- could have answered to your description, in how you both treated me.
I ended it with her around the same time you broke up with Tricia.
"Maybe..." you said, when I told you, casually, that I too was single, that things had ended fairly amicably and I was already thinking about dating again. "We could..."
I was learning, by then, just what that meant. You could, might have been the better way to put it, because it fell on me to organize everything we did.
"If you want to go out, just tell me," I said. "You know how I feel about you."
You blanched, when I said it, and canceled the carefully-made plans we'd organized, a month in advance, to see one another for dinner.
"Busy," your text said. "Sorry."
You didn't offer to reschedule. I asked about availability, and you made some quiet noise about how you'd get back to me.
I put a note in my calendar to call you in a week, when you hadn't called me, and reschedule then.
By the time I called you, you were head over heels for someone new.
I want to say, I don't know what I saw in you, except I know what I did, because I still do.
You were a great friend, when you were dating someone.
When you were dating someone, when I was not a threat, it was easy. You didn't have to worry about posturing; could refer to me as one of your best friends, let your guard down, relax. Flirting would be inappropriate, so you didn't do it. You didn't try to get me into bed, or drop hints about how we should date -- hints that I only picked up on after the fact, long after I'd resigned myself to the corner of "unrequited feelings". We spent time together, with or without your girlfriend, and nothing ever happened. When I needed to talk about work, or who I was dating, or how things with family were going, there you were. When you needed to ask for advice -- honest and raw, coming to me with an admittance that you weren't good at this -- meaning, dating, or maybe, loving people -- I could give it.
"I'm probably closer to you than to anyone else in the world," you said.
I had no reason to doubt you.
It should have gotten easier, after you moved away.
When you picked up and moved to Everett, I wanted to think that this was it -- that we could go back to being just friends, without any of the lingering oddness.
Instead, you told me you loved me.
"I always have," said the letter you wrote -- three sheets of creamy white paper, outlining in no uncertain terms how you felt. "I know I've never been good to you, but if you still think about..."
It was the admission, that you'd never been good to me -- that gave me pause.
"You've always been fine," I emailed. "A little weird about dating, but who isn't?"
Even as I typed it, I knew it wasn't true.
You didn't respond, and I didn't press for answers.
We became friends again, better than we had been in a long time. I took to calling you again, regularly. We made plans to meet, when you were back in our home state over the summer.
"I'll take you to Jim's," I said. "We can get those gross fries you love," and you just laughed.
"You've always known me better than anyone."
I told you, come see me, you can sleep in my guest room, we'll go hiking while you're out here, and you booked your flights.
I thought, everything is fine now, there's nothing to worry about, and I started dating someone new.
I told you, when things got serious with her, because we were ostensibly friends, and it would have been strange not to, to have you find out through someone else.
"You're making a mistake," you told me. "I don't think she's right for you."
You couldn't give me reasons why, but I trusted your judgment, and when it came down to it -- when you said, I don't think this is healthy, you listed very good reasons as to why you didn't think it was.
I didn't consider our shared history. I thought you had my best interests in mind.
I examined the relationship, how things were going with my new girlfriend, and I broke it off.
"It's because of her, isn't it?" she asked, when I told her that it wasn't working out.
"No," I lied. "I just..."
"You're making the wrong decision," she said, and shook her head. "Not -- I mean, okay, if you think that things aren't working out, fine. But you've got to stop listening to her. She's got inside your head and she's just going to keep pulling all the little strings when it's convenient for her."
She didn't say anything else. There weren't any impassioned pleas. She picked up her things and left, and that was the end of it.
I told you, when I broke up with her, and that's when you told me that something had come up, and you had to cancel your flights.
"But it's okay," you said. "I know you're going to be out here in September anyway -- come see me then. We'll do dinner, and..."
"Okay," I said, reeling. "Um. That's -- fine, okay."
"Love you," you said, to end the phone call. You rarely told me that you did.
I thought about all of this, and I wondered if I'd made the wrong choice, after all.
When my phone rings in the car, when I realize that it's you, bailing on me yet again, I am faced with a choice: I can continue things the way that they have gone, or I can withdraw. I can decide to keep following the same pattern, or I can try to do better.
"You have to understand," you say, and I lower the phone to my lap for a moment, consider what to say.
"Yes," I respond, finally. "I do."
I know I am supposed to suggest an alternate time here, wedge myself into your life, chase you and make you give me the answers I want -- but I can't do it. I can't bring myself to.
One of us has to break the pattern.
One of us has to admit: this isn't working, and I'm tired of pretending we're friends.
There's a beat of silence, where I am supposed to say something -- where I am supposed to interject, "oh, but I can meet you..." and suggest another time.
I don't, though.
"You know, if you want..." you start. "We could..."
I know what invitation will be offered next: let's meet for dinner, then go back to my place, and...
"Sorry," I say, breezily, though it is anything but. "I'm pretty booked. The only time I had free was what I offered you."
Another silence.
"I could postpone work," you start. "I could..."
"It's fine," I say, though we both know it's not. "I know you're busy. Don't worry about it. There's always next time."
"Yeah," you say, and your voice is full of false relief. "I'm glad you understand. Love you."
You hang up, after I don't respond.
We'll pretend to be friendly, the next three months, but when you don't make the reach -- when it becomes clear that it will always be me, asking you, and never you asking me, I let go.
"Some things aren't meant to be," you told me, in reference to my ex. "You have to learn to be all right with that."
I'm not, but I can pretend until I am.
Mostly fiction, though I have had friends like this, and have had to make similar choices.
In the past, I made the wrong choice.
Now, I like to think I'd make the right one.
My phone vibrates again. A call, this time.
"I'm sorry," I say. "I have to take this, it's -- "
It's you.
There are few things in my life that are complicated, these days.
You are one of the complicated things.
"She doesn't treat you well," go the various messages. "She..."
I know the score: how many times you've flaked on me, how many times you've broken plans; how you'll tell me, later, that you're sorry you did it, but you weren't up to seeing everyone, you only want to see me, just me.
How many times I fall for it. How I let you reel me in.
"I..." I start, every time it comes up. "You don't know her. Our friendship is -- weird."
You're my ex, or you would be, if we'd ever gotten around to dating.
You're my best friend, or you would be, if you answered my calls.
You're someone I'd cut out, if I weren't so patient, too forgiving.
"I love her," I finish, feebly. "It's not something I'm really up for talking about."
And everyone else lets it slide.
"Hello?" I answer.
"Hey," you say, and I can tell from the tone of your voice what's coming. "I'm sorry, I..."
"You have to cancel," I start. "Okay."
"Okay?" Your voice is hopeful. "You understand?"
No, I want to say, I don't, but I keep my voice level.
"Yes," I tell you. "I get it. You're busy."
What I don't tell you: do you remember, we said in December, we said...
I'm traveling to Seattle, ostensibly for a concert, but actually because I'm hoping to see you. We don't live in the same place, anymore, and it's an opportunity, to see you...
"I've gotten caught up work, and you have to understand..."
And I do, though I don't like it.
There are conflicting stories, about how we met.
There's mine -- that you reached out to me; that you chased me, and having hooked my interest, you withdrew. You had what you wanted; the rest was up to me, to make it work.
"I never see you unless I make plans," I told you, at one point, after you'd confessed that you had feelings for me.
"How can you say that?" you said. "I..."
You gave a long list of reasons as to how I was to know that you liked me, that you were into me. I had only recently come out; I wasn't sure what the new realm of dating was supposed to look like -- but even then, I'd like to think I didn't believe you. The reasons you listed were spurious: you would occasionally text me first. Sometimes you called me first. Sometimes, rarely, you would let me know that you were going to be at our favorite bar at a certain time -- never with an invitation attached, but it was implied, you said.
You were the Cool Girl. Everyone wanted to date you. I listened, and let myself be mollified.
Your version is different. It starts with me, being too needy, too demanding -- but somehow winning you over anyway.
"You told me you were into me first, remember?" you said. "You said..."
Because you told me that you were jealous of the other date I was going on, I think. Because you said you were sick of watching me go out with other people, when I should have been going out with you.
"I remember."
In your narrative, I am diminished -- less attractive, somehow; needier, less patient, less kind, more obsessed. You go out with me out of pity, or some other misplaced emotion.
Remember?
I do, and I don't.
We never actually dated.
We went on one date. At the end of it, you kissed me gently on the cheek, and told me that there was someone else.
"I think that it's serious, with her," you said. "So..."
So you had to let me go. So you had to cut ties.
"Okay," I said, as if we could pretend it was. "Okay."
You kept me dangling, though.
"Maybe, if things don't work out with her..." you texted me. "I mean, Tricia is great, but if it doesn't work out, then..."
It could be you, the texts said. If you're patient.
I wasn't patient. I tried to date other people, but there was always the ghost of you, in the back of my mind. I'd go out with someone and find myself comparing them to you. The girl that I'd met for coffee had hair that was cut in the same style as yours. The woman I met for a paint and wine class had your love for the Elizabethan poets. Tracy -- whom I'd date for six months -- could have answered to your description, in how you both treated me.
I ended it with her around the same time you broke up with Tricia.
"Maybe..." you said, when I told you, casually, that I too was single, that things had ended fairly amicably and I was already thinking about dating again. "We could..."
I was learning, by then, just what that meant. You could, might have been the better way to put it, because it fell on me to organize everything we did.
"If you want to go out, just tell me," I said. "You know how I feel about you."
You blanched, when I said it, and canceled the carefully-made plans we'd organized, a month in advance, to see one another for dinner.
"Busy," your text said. "Sorry."
You didn't offer to reschedule. I asked about availability, and you made some quiet noise about how you'd get back to me.
I put a note in my calendar to call you in a week, when you hadn't called me, and reschedule then.
By the time I called you, you were head over heels for someone new.
I want to say, I don't know what I saw in you, except I know what I did, because I still do.
You were a great friend, when you were dating someone.
When you were dating someone, when I was not a threat, it was easy. You didn't have to worry about posturing; could refer to me as one of your best friends, let your guard down, relax. Flirting would be inappropriate, so you didn't do it. You didn't try to get me into bed, or drop hints about how we should date -- hints that I only picked up on after the fact, long after I'd resigned myself to the corner of "unrequited feelings". We spent time together, with or without your girlfriend, and nothing ever happened. When I needed to talk about work, or who I was dating, or how things with family were going, there you were. When you needed to ask for advice -- honest and raw, coming to me with an admittance that you weren't good at this -- meaning, dating, or maybe, loving people -- I could give it.
"I'm probably closer to you than to anyone else in the world," you said.
I had no reason to doubt you.
It should have gotten easier, after you moved away.
When you picked up and moved to Everett, I wanted to think that this was it -- that we could go back to being just friends, without any of the lingering oddness.
Instead, you told me you loved me.
"I always have," said the letter you wrote -- three sheets of creamy white paper, outlining in no uncertain terms how you felt. "I know I've never been good to you, but if you still think about..."
It was the admission, that you'd never been good to me -- that gave me pause.
"You've always been fine," I emailed. "A little weird about dating, but who isn't?"
Even as I typed it, I knew it wasn't true.
You didn't respond, and I didn't press for answers.
We became friends again, better than we had been in a long time. I took to calling you again, regularly. We made plans to meet, when you were back in our home state over the summer.
"I'll take you to Jim's," I said. "We can get those gross fries you love," and you just laughed.
"You've always known me better than anyone."
I told you, come see me, you can sleep in my guest room, we'll go hiking while you're out here, and you booked your flights.
I thought, everything is fine now, there's nothing to worry about, and I started dating someone new.
I told you, when things got serious with her, because we were ostensibly friends, and it would have been strange not to, to have you find out through someone else.
"You're making a mistake," you told me. "I don't think she's right for you."
You couldn't give me reasons why, but I trusted your judgment, and when it came down to it -- when you said, I don't think this is healthy, you listed very good reasons as to why you didn't think it was.
I didn't consider our shared history. I thought you had my best interests in mind.
I examined the relationship, how things were going with my new girlfriend, and I broke it off.
"It's because of her, isn't it?" she asked, when I told her that it wasn't working out.
"No," I lied. "I just..."
"You're making the wrong decision," she said, and shook her head. "Not -- I mean, okay, if you think that things aren't working out, fine. But you've got to stop listening to her. She's got inside your head and she's just going to keep pulling all the little strings when it's convenient for her."
She didn't say anything else. There weren't any impassioned pleas. She picked up her things and left, and that was the end of it.
I told you, when I broke up with her, and that's when you told me that something had come up, and you had to cancel your flights.
"But it's okay," you said. "I know you're going to be out here in September anyway -- come see me then. We'll do dinner, and..."
"Okay," I said, reeling. "Um. That's -- fine, okay."
"Love you," you said, to end the phone call. You rarely told me that you did.
I thought about all of this, and I wondered if I'd made the wrong choice, after all.
When my phone rings in the car, when I realize that it's you, bailing on me yet again, I am faced with a choice: I can continue things the way that they have gone, or I can withdraw. I can decide to keep following the same pattern, or I can try to do better.
"You have to understand," you say, and I lower the phone to my lap for a moment, consider what to say.
"Yes," I respond, finally. "I do."
I know I am supposed to suggest an alternate time here, wedge myself into your life, chase you and make you give me the answers I want -- but I can't do it. I can't bring myself to.
One of us has to break the pattern.
One of us has to admit: this isn't working, and I'm tired of pretending we're friends.
There's a beat of silence, where I am supposed to say something -- where I am supposed to interject, "oh, but I can meet you..." and suggest another time.
I don't, though.
"You know, if you want..." you start. "We could..."
I know what invitation will be offered next: let's meet for dinner, then go back to my place, and...
"Sorry," I say, breezily, though it is anything but. "I'm pretty booked. The only time I had free was what I offered you."
Another silence.
"I could postpone work," you start. "I could..."
"It's fine," I say, though we both know it's not. "I know you're busy. Don't worry about it. There's always next time."
"Yeah," you say, and your voice is full of false relief. "I'm glad you understand. Love you."
You hang up, after I don't respond.
We'll pretend to be friendly, the next three months, but when you don't make the reach -- when it becomes clear that it will always be me, asking you, and never you asking me, I let go.
"Some things aren't meant to be," you told me, in reference to my ex. "You have to learn to be all right with that."
I'm not, but I can pretend until I am.
Mostly fiction, though I have had friends like this, and have had to make similar choices.
In the past, I made the wrong choice.
Now, I like to think I'd make the right one.