I think I’ve just had an epiphany. I’m home alone in my apartment today. Roommate is off having sex and decorating her boyfriend’s new apartment. I have plans with Charles the girl for later, but nothing to do all afternoon. I called my grandparents. I tried to call my brother. I texted a friend to see if she wanted to get coffee, but she hasn’t responded.
I’m feeling a little lonely and I see my Sunday stretching out before me in much the same manner. I made some progress reading a hefty fantasy book that my brother Wes recommended to me. I walked the dog 3 miles and worked up a sweat. I’m considering tackling some house work.
Really, what I want is to have someone here with me. I like the grounded feeling that another human presence brings. When I’m alone, I’m always thinking, “What should I do next?” When someone else is here, I’m talking with them about, “What are we going to do next?” Or, I’m living much more in the moment and I’m not even worried about it.
I was thinking along these lines and my mind somehow brought me to remember the best night that I ever had with Montana. Strangely, instead of feeling bummed out as I remembered the details, I was feeling happy reliving the memory. He called me, picked me up, gave me a kiss in the car and took me out for a drink. Then we went together to a mutual friend’s party. We ended up going out to a Mexican restaurant where he and I sat across from each other and played footsie the whole time. Then we got a taxi back to his truck and we cuddled up together in the back seat for the too-short ride. He said that he wanted me to come over the next afternoon when I finished what I needed to do that day.
Then, he drove me home and miraculously found a nearby parking spot which is an act of God on a Friday night. I had to take the dog out, so he got undressed and waited for me to get back. I love the memory of the moment when I walked back into my room and he was naked in my bed, slightly covered by a sheet with candles burning. Waiting for me. He said, “You were gone for a long time” as I crawled into bed and gave him a kiss. We decided to try and get some sleep and wait until the next afternoon to have sex. We fell asleep for awhile, but I remember waking up with him whispering, “I want to be inside you” and so it happened that night too.
We cuddled until his alarm went off at 6. He laid back down and spooned me for 20 minutes, then got up and left to meet up with some work friends. I drifted back off to sleep feeling so happy and anticipating seeing him again in just a few short hours.
That was a Saturday morning. By the next Saturday night, I was a sobbing mess and Neighbor was trying to comfort me. I broke up with Montana over text the next day. Eight days after our wonderful, perfect, romantic night together, we were done.
Instead of feeling sad about this, I’m feeling so relieved. Since breaking up with Montana, I’ve doubted my judgement and felt that I was delusional to even think that anything good could come of hanging out with him. Now that I’ve remembered that one really perfect night, I know that I wasn’t crazy to think that he and I had something good. We did have a connection and when everything aligned, it was pretty great.
Remembering that night and thinking about the timing just makes me feel like the reason we broke up was him. The official story is that I freaked out and dumped him over text, then I opened up to reconcile and he didn’t want to. That hurts. Another layer of truth to this story is that he freaked out after that wonderful weekend we spent together. On some deep level he feels undeserving of having that connection with a woman or he doesn’t want to put in the time and effort that is needed in between amazing nights like that. For me, working at communicating and considering the other person is totally worth that body-melting, delicious connection that we shared. For him, I think he realized that he had something good and he might have to put out some effort in order to maintain it. And he didn’t want to. Or didn’t think that he deserved it, so sabotaged himself. Who knows. But, the fact that he admitted that he was already thinking that “we should go back to being friends” less than a week after that night…who does that?
Someone who doesn’t know a good thing when he sees it. Someone who’s not ready to love or be loved. Someone who doesn’t think he deserves it. Someone who doesn’t love himself.
Fortunately, I am no longer dating that guy. I want someone who’s ready, willing and able to love me and be loved by me. I’m ready to move on and I’m ready to stop doubting myself when I recall my relationship with Montana. From now on, I’ll tell myself that I saw the good in him and the potential for us to be together. He gave me occasional glimpses that he might be on the same page, so I waited patiently (most of the time!). When shit got real, it turns out that I was ready and he wasn’t. So, moving on to a guy who is ready.
unvanessasary 