How It All Went Down
You’re getting suspicious. Something is definitely off with him. He's been acting so strange lately. Distant. And when you ask him about it he shuts down, gets this look in his eye and says nothing. You've been telling yourself for weeks that maybe it's just pre-wedding jitters. Maybe the reality of getting married is hitting him now, which is ridiculous. How much could actually change? You've already been together for 5 years. But whatever, you give it to him. After two weeks of this, you finally and fearfully ask him if that's it, if he's getting cold feet, and he emphatically says no, stop acting crazy. So what is it? You plead. Why are you acting like this with me? He looks at you for a long time and you can see the little gears moving in his head, debating whether or not he should finally tell you the truth. After about a minute and a half of this, you get very impatient. You suck your teeth and sigh deeply. Well? you prompt. Nothing, he answers hastily. He starts walking away, throws back a quick See you later, I'm going for a run, and slams the door behind him.
———
So, you go snooping. You know it’s wrong, a gross invasion of his privacy, but what other option did he leave you? He's been shrugging you off for weeks (weeks!). Your wedding is in 2 and a half months and you refuse to marry a man like your father. A man that would look your mother square on and force feed her lies. You refuse to be your mother and accept that shit.
You start looking through his pockets, the closet, his email and finally his Facebook account.
And wow. You find exactly what you didn't want to see, didn't want to accept even though you pretty much already knew. What else could it have been? Of course he cheated. You know he’s not very original. But you surely did not expect him to be dumb enough to keep all the proof on an account that you have the password to. It's like he wanted to get caught. God, you feel so fucking naïve.
———
You sit starting at his betrayal for what feels like hours. You didn’t know it was possible to feel and think so many things in such a short span of time. Your initial reaction, before the severity of the situation set in, was aha! I knew that bastard was hiding something from me. You were almost pleased with yourself. But as you continue to read through dozens and dozens of alternatingly sappy and sexy text messages, it hits you.
He betrayed you. Lied to you. Had sex with some random bitch named Lisa. Called her baby, sexy, sweetheart. Told her in graphic detail all the things he would do to her if he didn’t have to go home to his fiancée.
His fiancée. Yep, that’s you.
The messages go back at least three months and you realize that he didn’t just cheat on you, he’s completely stepping out. Having a full-fledged, tacky-ass affair with fucking Lisa. This man, YOUR man, has been holding you, kissing you, fucking you and lying to you. FOR MONTHS.
Every conversation and interaction you’ve had with him for the past couple of months hurtles through your mind. You second-guess everything. That time when you went for the cake testing and he got an emergency text for work and ran out- did the system really crash at his job or was Lisa just horny? When it took him 45 minutes to drop off a red box movie, was there really just a long line or was he getting a quickie in the parking lot from his mistress? Now, just now when he ran out to “go for a run”, did he run right over to her place to tell her that you’re getting suspicious? Is he there right now? Is he with her right now? Where is he?
———
You throw the iPad across the room, shattering the glass against the wall at the same time the front door swings open.
Babe, he calls out to you. What was that noise? Are you okay?
He walks into the room and finds you still as a statue on the bed, your face a blank mask. You still can’t half believe it. You can feel the tears behind your eyes, but they have yet to fall. It’s only a matter of time.
He walks over to you and tilts your chin up towards him. He has the audacity to kiss you. He starts speaking: I’m sorry I’ve been so off lately. I guess I was having pre-wedding jitters. But it’s over now. I don’t have anything to worry about. I’m here. I’m completely here... Babe. Can you look at me please?
Finally, you lift your eyes to his. In the clearest and strongest voice that shocked even your own ears, you say: Who the fuck is Lisa?
———
What happens after that is a blur of rage and rampage. There is screaming, throwing, hitting, punching (all of which is done by you) and eventually a whole lot of crying.
He falls to his knees in front of you and wraps his backstabbing hands around your waist. He looks pitiful. Crying and snotting and begging. It was a mistake, he says. She’s nothing. Nothing, I swear. I want you. Only you. You have to believe me.
I don’t have to do shit, you spit at him. But you need to get off of me. You peel his arms from around your body and sidestep around him. You leave him crumpled on the floor, a pathetic mess. You can feel the cruelty dripping off of you. But you don’t care. You want him to hurt.
Get out. It’s over, you say just as calm as if you had told him it was raining outside. I’m done.
———
Except you’re not done, not really. Love– genuine, real ass love – doesn’t just die off like that. It’s never a clean break and you are disgusted with yourself for still feeling any affection towards him.
He comes back the next day with a huge bouquet of flowers, chocolates, and a teddy bear like it’s fucking valentine’s day. He cries, some more. And begs, some more. He recites one of his shitty poems to you, but this time you don’t have to pretend to like it, because fuck his feelings. He tells you how sorry he is, how he can’t imagine a life without you in it, that he will do anything, anything to make this better. Please baby, he pleads. Please.
You feel trapped. He is standing directly in front of the door, blocking your only means to escape. You’ve never seen him look this vulnerable before. Never seen so much fear in his eyes. You look at him– really look at him– and suddenly you are filled with an inexplicable yearning. A strong desire to be held and loved and seen by this man, the man you love. You look at him and you feel like you're drowning.
He makes a step to move closer to you and instinctively you step back. Pain flashes in his eyes as he stretches his arms out towards you. He maintains eye contact and moves ever so slowly in your direction, like you’re some caged animal that will flee or freak out or both if he makes any sudden movements. Eventually he makes his way over to you. You allow him to pull your body against his. He smooths his hands over your face, kisses your forehead, eyelids, nose, mouth. I love you, he whispers. Your lower lip trembles as he lowers himself down to his knees. Let me prove it you.
———
It has been exactly nine days since a machete was taken to your engagement and you are still just as confused and lost. You let him stay in the apartment so you don’t have to be alone with your heartbreak. You put yourself through hell just so you can hear him, just so he’ll touch you. You convince yourself that the only way to hurt less is to just hurt a little more.
Emotions aside, the rational part of your brain has been questioning all of your decisions lately, mainly, what you are still doing with him. You remind yourself that you can’t technically kick him out, no matter how angry you are. After all, his name is on the lease too, right after yours. If you were truly that disgusted with this presence, you’d just leave instead.
You haven’t told any of your friends and family yet. Because what is there to say? Oh yeah, he had an affair. No, we’re still fucking around. Why? Well, that’s a good question. I guess I still love him. And, no, I don’t know what I’m doing at all.
You’ve spared yourself the chance of looking like a dumb ass for as long as you possibly could. You have to talk to somebody about this. You meet your two best friends for lunch and recount the whole sordid affair.
So, what have you been doing? they ask. You left him, right?
Well, no not exactly. He’s still at the apartment, he’s just sleeping on the couch now.
I’m sorry. Are you seriously considering getting back with this man? Do you still want to marry him?
I don’t know! We’ve been together for so long and have been through so much. I barely remember who I am when I’m not with him. I don’t know, maybe the wedding planning was just too much, you explain.
They’re both silent and share a knowing look with one another.
What? you ask exasperated. I was getting overwhelmed with it all too!
Yeah, but you also didn’t sleep with another man to make yourself feel better.
You’re quiet for a moment while you ponder this. Look guys, we’ve been through a lot. His parents’ divorce, my grandfather’s dementia, not to mention the miscarriage. Nothing was the same after that. We both really wanted that baby.
You pause for a second, swallowing the quiet grief that rises in your throat whenever you think about “the incident.”
You sigh. He was my first everything. I’m just not ready to give my entire life up that easily.
Okay, they shrug. Okay.
———
It’s been three weeks now and everything is still a mess. He has been doing everything in his power to get you to forgive him and you are doing everything in your power to spurn his efforts. More shitty poetry and handwritten notes. Flowers delivered to the job. He picks you up for lunch, takes you to that new Italian restaurant up the street that you have been dying to go to for months. One night, he sits you down and calls Lisa to openly break it off with her. Tells her it’s over, how disgusted he is with himself, how he never wants to talk to her again. You are unimpressed. He even books a trip to Hawaii for a couple days, so that you both can “get away from it all.”
But he doesn’t get it. He’s the thing that you need to get away from. All of his advances still leave you feeling dissatisfied. You keep sleeping with him, because in the past, even when you were fighting, at least the sex still felt right. But now, you’re just looking at the clock until he’s done. You feel nothing. Nothing but betrayal. Will it ever be good again?
———
It’s been 68 days since Lisa (yes, you’ve been counting). You haven’t been sleeping well, or eating well (or doing anything well, really) since his shit hit the fan. You wake up in the middle of the night and can feel his hand on your hip and you. are. disgusted. Completely and unequivocally put off. His hand touching your body just sets you off. You are reminded of everything he has ever done wrong. Something snaps and that’s it. You’re done. For real this time.
You climb out of bed, grab a duffel bag from the carpet and tiptoe around the apartment collecting your belongings. The soles of your feet kiss the bathroom tile as you gather up miscellaneous toiletries. Deodorant? Check. Shampoo? Check. Toothbrush? Check. Whatever you forget, you can simply replace.
But wait, who cares if you’re quiet. He should hear this. You want him to know that it’s officially over now. That you have thought about it and decided that there is no possible way to go back. And wait, why are you leaving? You’re not the one that cheated and torpedoed your impending marriage. And fuck the lease. You’ll deal with the landlord and all the legalities once he’s finally gone.
You drop the bag of belongings on the bedroom floor. It connects with the carpet with a hollow thud, the shampoo and deodorant and brushes and jewelry clanging loudly together upon impact. You reach across the bed and shake his shoulder, roughly. Get up, you command.
What’s going on? He asks. What are you doing?
What I should have done 2 months ago. I’m not doing this anymore. You need to go.
He gets this look of shock, then defiance on his face. Says no, he’s not going anywhere. That you’re going to work it out together.
He keeps going on and on about what’s going to happen. You walk out mid-rant, grab his shoes from the living room and place them in front of him.
It’s not a debate, you say. Leave now, or I’ll call the police.
He faces goes pale, shocked that you would threaten law enforcement on him. To be honest, you are a little shocked at yourself as well, but you know you’ll do it if you need to.
Fine, he says. Fine. He grabs his shoes and stalks out of the bedroom in nothing but a t-shirt and a pair of boxers. He starts gathering up stuff in his arms – pants, coat, hat, wallet, keys – muttering about how he can’t believe this shit. When he gets to the door, he stops, turning around to look at you as if to silently ask if this is what you really want.
It is, you think.
It is, you tell him. Let’s stop trying to make a dead thing work.
You shut the door in his face, a small smile playing on the corner of your lips. Just then your stomach growls noisily, finally hungry after weeks without an appetite. You head to the kitchen to the look up the recipe for the beef bolognaise that you’ve been dying to make but never did because he couldn’t eat red meat. You start cooking, swaying around the kitchen with a lightness you haven’t felt in months. There’s just something so liberating about cooking for one.