Chapter 4

You meet someone new – emotions flutter, you feel the attraction dancing around you, creating a fog. It feels like magic. You’ve been chosen. It’s that moment when you catch their eye across a crowded room, that shiver you feel when they brush past you, that knowing glance that only the two of you could share. It could be love. Who would say no? 

You want to capture those feelings, even if they aren’t quite right. I’ve been in love. Twice. This was not one of those times. 

Have you ever pretended to be in love?

Naturally, I met him online. He was the second man I dated after the end of my marriage. But first, there was Fred. 

Fred was a bit older than me, in his early forties. He was the first person I swiped right on, the first time I logged onto my first dating app, Plenty of Fish, in 2015. He had a round face, slightly thinning hair and heavily tattooed arms that could be seen as he leaned against a motorcycle – his photo revealing a mischievous glint in his eye. His profile said he had two little girls, enjoyed working with his hands, and collected records. Within an hour of messaging he asked me to go out that very night. I dove in. 

I put on the same outfit I’d worn for my lackluster date with former cult member, Ian, but added a bit of fire orange lipstick – he did have a motorcycle afterall. I stood waiting, terrified, outside the bar, not knowing if I should just go in or wait for him out on the street. This was the first date I’d ever been on in my entire life. I met my ex-husband when I was 22, at an age where you don’t go on dates, but rather “hung out” with people until something stuck. Now, in my thirties, I wasn’t sure how to act. What would we talk about? Would I like him? Would he like me? 

He strode up, wide and muscular in a way that said he earned it by hard work, not hours in the gym. He was shorter than I expected – I was yet to learn the kiss and tell about men’s heights online. Our eyes met. Was I shaking? He sighed, “Hey.” 

“Hey,” tilting my head, I smiled nervously, “is everything ok?”

“Definitely,” he led with his hand, close to my hip, “let’s go in.”

We talked for hours – about marriage, records, and life. It was easy talking to Fred, he seemed genuinely interested in everything I had to say. Maybe dating wasn’t that bad after all? If every experience was going to be like this, I’d find someone in no time. 

Dating Fred was electric, daunting and exciting all at the same time. We rode his motorcycle down Kelly Drive, went for hikes in Fairmont Park, and spent lazy evenings drinking beers as the summer sun set.  He even invited me along to a friend’s wedding in Connecticut. I was learning on the job, equally excited to explore life with someone new and have fresh experiences, but it was also nerve wracking to always have to be on, showing Fred the best version of myself. More than once, I wondered if he was doing the same – maybe it was just me. 

And sure enough, as things often go, as summer nights cooled to autumn’s chill, so did Fred. He became reserved, less walks in the forest and more quick drinks for an hour before he had other plans. He was closing up, becoming standoffish, and by October it was over and I, now a bit rattled by it all, was back on the apps.  

And that’s where I met Greg. He seemed sweet in his profile. He loved hockey, always sporting a Flyers baseball cap in his photos, and we appeared to have similar musical tastes. This guy actually knew who David Bowie was. He reached out first and I loved his enthusiasm and courage to just go for it.

As I hadn’t learned my lesson yet, I asked him to meet me at my favorite bar – a place where I ate countless varieties of grilled cheese specials with my ex for over seven years. It was a corner bar on a side street, long and skinny with an old-fashioned wooden bar, glistening from repeated coats of lacquer to cover its scars. Photos of the owner’s trips to Amsterdam were peppered between stag heads mounted on the walls. In the evenings, the regulars propped up at the bar shouting answers at Jeopardy on the small screens above. Three two-top high tables lined the wall behind them with a small dining area in the back. That’s where he was, waiting for me.  

Earlier that evening, after an hour of second guessing myself, I selected the perfect outfit, arriving in my cute red buffalo plaid shirt and skinny black jeans. I had stood staring into my closet thinking, what can I wear that he would like? I did an excellent job. There he was, in the same Flyers cap from his photos and a red buffalo plaid shirt. Awkward. 

Like Fred, he was easy to chat with. Meeting new people in general is tough, but I found that if I just let others lead the conversation, talking about their likes and interests, I could easily find common ground. Greg and I had similar tastes in music – I leaned in. Sure, I loved The Replacements, who didn’t? Honestly, I knew very little of their music. Bruce Springsteen? Of course, who doesn’t love The Boss? I’d never actively chosen to listen to a Bruce Springsteen song in my entire life. 

But these were trivialities. He liked me, and that was what was most important. I was desperate to find a connection – for someone to look at me and think, I choose her. She’s worth having. 

After a few hours we went up the block to the bar where I’d met Fred for the first time, 7 months earlier. There’d been a few first dates with other guys in the months between, but nothing ever stuck. Just the night before, I went out for tacos with an odd physicist with wavy hair cascading down to his leather jacket. It’s a shame it was two-toned in red and yellow with white moto stripes down the sleeves making him, with the hair, resemble David Hasselhoff from the 90s. I made the rookie mistake of letting him walk me home. Without asking, he kissed me with such an acrid, overzealousness that today it would teeter on the edge of assault. I retreated inside – the next day unlocking a new dating skill I had just learned about, ghosting.

Back at the bar with Greg, the conversation moved to bikes. Not motorcycles like Fred, but good old fashioned cycling. He rode almost every day, often going for 6am rides – even in winter. In fact, he rode his bike the five miles to meet me that night. It was almost Christmas, wasn’t it cold, I asked. He reached down to his crossed leg under the bar, revealing thermals under his jeans. I gingerly touched his leg. We sat quietly for a moment, surrounded by the murmur of late night chats and the clink of glasses. When the bar closed, he walked me around the corner to the end of my street. We stood face to face – frozen in a silent moment – then kissed faintly in the frigid December air. As I stepped back, he patted the side of my hip twice, like a football player saying good play to his teammate and said, “Go home.” 

Things took off from there – by 9am we were texting.

I HAD A GREAT TIME, WHEN ARE WE MEETING AGAIN? he messaged right as I walked in the office door. 

HOW ABOUT TOMORROW?  

SORRY, I CAN'T. :( THING WITH MY SISTER... I stood waiting in the entryway, the heat of my coat now catching up to me. BUT HOW ABOUT THE NEXT DAY? AND THE DAY AFTER THAT I'M FREE TOO! he wrote.

WAIT, HOW ABOUT THAT SHOW ON SATURDAY? DID YOU STILL WANNA DO THAT? We’d talked about checking out a show near his house back at the bar the night before.

YES! OK, SO THAT'S 3 DATES PLANNED BEFORE THE NEW YEAR! :)

A few days later, Christmas was upon us. The previous year, I spent the holidays alone for the first time in ten years. I stayed home, locked away from everyone, eating girl-dinner style charcuterie boards and drinking glass after glass of boxed wine, watching old Christmas episodes of TV shows from my youth.  

Now, I danced – bopping around the kitchen, baking a bouche de Noel from a recipe I’d found on Food52. I attempted to sculpt my buttercream frosting to mimic the look of bark over the dry, cracked chocolate sponge in between sips of cheap champagne. In that moment, I was truly happy. I felt like I’d overcome something intangible but momentous – things were turning around. In 2016 I would be in love. This was going to be my year. This was something that was going to last.

We’d known each other for 10 days and had already had six dates. Now, it was New Year’s Eve, but for once I had plans. Months earlier I’d RSVP’d to attend a work friend’s wedding while Greg had concert plans with his sister. 

Lily invited a dozen of us from the office. A vivacious character with a vision, her wedding didn’t disappoint. It was a lavish affair at a popular suburban venue – a wedding factory –  the kind of place that could seat hundreds and deliver your fantasies, celebrating life’s greatest moments, as long those moments included gold chiavari chairs. After a quick traditional ceremony the evening was transformed into a riotous, glittering all-night party – neverending hors d'oeuvres and signature cocktails, and to keep you on your feet, zero slow songs. At midnight, the ball dropped and Lily changed from her flowing satin ball gown into a sequined white mini dress. Guests of all ages danced, sang and reveled in love and New Year’s aspirations. 

Between mini-crab cakes and French 75s I sent Greg selfies bathed in magenta and violet lights ricocheting off the dancefloor. He felt so close, a captive audience of one, as we celebrated in tangent, miles apart, a flame sparking between us. 

Within weeks we spent every night together, bouncing between houses, living out of overnight bags. Everything just seemed to make sense. Within the span of a month I’d gone from the quiet single life to a full fledged relationship. I didn’t have time to think whether it was going too fast, only that it felt good. Greg was thoughtful and engaging and he wanted to know everything about me.  

Nightly, we would lay in bed, discussing the future. Our future. But I didn’t understand it. Not that I didn’t comprehend the concept of a future, but that we would sit and talk about one. That’d never happened in my life before. I truly thought that couples only talked like that in movies, cozying up in old t-shirts, chatting about their hopes and dreams by the glow of a bedside lamp. 

Curating a life – drawing up silly little vacation plans, discussing a dream home or imagining future children, those things were fantasy. You didn’t plan for it. Life was just something that happened to you. My ex never wanted to talk about life more than a few weeks ahead. It was all so strange and made me weary. Could something like this be real? 

One bitter January morning, less than a month into our relationship, as we said our morning good-byes on the street, Greg shouted across to me, “Bye!” Then softer, “I love you.”

“What?” I spun around, wind blowing up around me as I opened my car door. Did I hear that? Did he just say that he loves me?!? 

“Nothing, nothing,” he shook his head, “I’ll see you later!” he waved, tossing his bag into the back of his car, slamming the hatchback shut.

I raced to work, blurting out the story to my cubicle mate as soon as I made it through the door. She was skeptical. “Do you think he really said that?!?” she mused, headset dangling around her neck. “He could have said a lotta things, what’re you gonna do?”

I shrugged, “I don’t think I’m gonna do anything.” What could I do? If he had said it, was I ready for that? If he hadn’t, and I asked if he had, would that knock our balance? I decided to keep my mouth shut.

A week later, lying in bed, we were having another one of our life conversations. Greg’s dream was to sell up and move to New Jersey, find a quaint little town with good schools close to bike routes, and have a couple of kids. He’d have a garage to play around in and I could work on my writing while we lived the dream. We talked about “being on the same train” towards a future destination full of weekend barbecues and family trips to the shore. Our relationship was new but we were confident that even if we weren’t heading to the same final destination, at least we were on the same train. “And mine is heading to Jersey,” he smirked. It felt nice, to have someone who truly wanted to lay with me each and every night. Regardless of our pasts, like my broken marriage and his 9 year engagement or our troubles with the pets and everything that came with messy modern lives, he wanted me and I loved being wanted. 

“Do you remember the other morning?” he questioned casually as we lay staring at the ceiling. 

“The other morning?” 

“Yeah, when you were heading off to work… when I left late that day,” his speech slowed, “Did you hear what I said?”

Omg. Omg. “No,” I mustered as casually as I could. He was going to tell me that he loved me. How amazing! Wait, did I love him too? I mean, this relationship was heading towards amazing – the train had only one destination, right? We were happy. I couldn’t remember ever being with someone who wanted to be with me as much as he did. I must love him, if he loved me, right?

“I said that I loved you. Because… I love you,” his eyes still fixed to the ceiling.

I turned to him. I didn’t know what to do, so I did what anyone does when someone tells you that they love you… I think. I kissed him. 

“You’re amazing,” I whispered, kissing him again. “I can’t believe it…”

Did I believe it? Could this be real? My marriage left me in shambles. If someone who professed their love, every day for ten years, could suddenly come home one night and say, staring blankly at the TV screen, that it was over, how could anyone love me? Had anyone ever loved me? I knew the truth. In the end, everyone lies. 

And yet, Greg said it. He loved me. I would be a fool to pass this up. No one was ever going to love me again, this was my last chance. It was a new year and I was a new woman. I felt like something was within my grasp – a future with someone who wanted to explore life’s journey, together with me. We would travel the world, grow a family. This was my chance.

“You’re scaring me a little,” he laughed nervously. “Say something.”

I twisted to face him, propping my arm up against the pillow, “It’s just that… I can’t… I don’t… I just…” He looked into my eyes, waiting, wondering, willing. 

“I love you too.” 

Everyone lies. 

I didn’t exactly lie to Greg. That was what I told myself, anyway. In the moment, I felt something real and visceral – the only chance I’d ever have at what I’d been told my whole life was happiness. I felt freedom – the freedom from loneliness. I’d always have someone by my side, someone who would take the good with the bad, through the ups and the downs, and every other cliché I could think of. I fell in love with love. 

And we continued. Weekend trips to Target, hikes in the woods, nights out eating vegetarian Chinese food, and staying home watching couples who had never met before get married on reality TV. Planning for home sales, renovations, and our future in the suburbs – it was all coming together. Nevermind that I never really wanted to live in the suburbs. With him, it wasn’t scary anymore. Greg and I would have a family, with two VWs in the drive and a little girl playing in the yard.

The chill of March thawed, our winter hibernation was coming to a close. In just a few weeks we would go to New York City for the Five Boro Bike Ride, riding 40 miles across all five boroughs. Greg already bought me a new bike for the trip. The heavy steel frame of my mint green cruiser bike, adorable as it was, wasn’t going to cut it up the steep incline of the Verrazano Bridge. We found a great deal on a road bike for $650. Greg bought it without even blinking an eye. We were in love – people in love do things for each other. Spring would start with a bang. First, an Iggy Pop concert, then a trip to Baltimore to see Bruce Springsteen, then the bike trip. All set up by my loving boyfriend. I couldn’t wait.  

A few days before the concert, we went to a flea market on Spring Garden Street. The market had everything for the up and coming millennial. Stalls of vintage woolen blankets for camping weekends in the Poconos, notebooks and cards that announced you were against the patriarchy and for when you got tired of shopping, cozy coffee corners with chairs made of sheets of particle board surrounded by walls of vining pothos. Across from a display of nightlights decaled with vintage magazine pinups was a refurbished furniture stall owned by one of my favorite vendors that I’d seen at a few recent popups. The proprietor had great style, repurposing old wood and cabinetry to make one of a kind vintage pieces that spoke to a simpler time when furniture was made to last. In the corner, we noticed a vintage metal cabinet that was transformed into a kitchen island, topped with a large repurposed oak top. I caught her eye as Greg bent down to open the front-side cabinet door. “This is great,” I pointed over to the piece. “We’re thinking about remodeling our kitchen. You have such great stuff, I would love to incorporate some of this into our space,” I waved my hand across the display area. Greg stood and smiled.

Wait. Did I just say that? We’re planning on remodeling our kitchen? What kitchen? What are you talking about? A million thoughts raced through my mind – am I going to sell my house? Why would I sell my house, why doesn’t he sell his house? Why are you talking about selling houses? What was I thinking? 

I pushed the thoughts aside. True, it’d only been four months, but maybe when you knew, you knew? Greg certainly didn’t seem to disagree. We chatted for a little while longer then moved on along towards the rows of vintage records and antique picture frames. Later, we rode our bikes back to his house and ordered pizzas, a small white and a small red, like every other time, and settled in to watch another episode of Love at First Sight. 

Friday night came and it was time to witness the electric chaos of Iggy Pop. It didn’t matter that he was in his 70s, seeing Iggy was a right of passage for any punk rocker and I was finally able to bear witness. Sitting in the rafters at the Academy of Music, I knew tickets were expensive, but Greg bought them because he loved me and wanted to share the experience. From our perch, staring straight ahead we could see the inner workings of the magnificent crystal chandelier that was the hall centerpiece. Looking deep, deep down below, Iggy writhed, prancing shirtless in all his glory – a man who never let age dictate his life. That was, of course, until he would stealthy step away, hiding behind a white floor to ceiling banner where a small stool sat, allowing him to keel over and take a break from fifty years of contorting on stage. With Lust for Life coursing through my veins, energy electric from the pulsing guitars, I turned to Greg, “I love you,” I said, kissing his cheek. 

After the show we had a couple drinks with his friends before they drove back to their home in the New Jersey pine barrens. As the four of us sat there was something odd in the air. At first, conversation flowed around the concert and memories of past shows and experiences. But soon, stories involving Greg’s ex began to bubble up – stories from a time before I existed. The foursome became a trio as they reminisced, laughing and joking about years gone by. Years without me. There was intangible friction but I played it off – surely I was just being silly. It was clearly nostalgia for their friendship and fond memories of the past, brought up off the high of the concert and cold beers on a fresh spring night. 

We said our goodbyes and meandered home. After settling in for the night with the dogs we got into bed. As usual, Greg’s lumbering pit bull ventured to snuggle in between us. Every night he would make an attempt and every night we would tug and pull his dead weight to the end of the bed. That night, he stayed where he was. 

I laid still – running through a thousand hours of thoughts in seconds. Was something happening here? Our life together was perfect – we were in love, right?