Chapter 5

I sat stoically on the toilet. Often since my divorce, I’d found that my stream of consciousness went into hyper drive in lone spaces – in the shower as I shampooed my hair wondering why my husband didn’t love me anymore or as I rode the elevator to the fifth floor contemplating if I would be alone forever. In between meetings, alone in the first floor toilets, I looked down at my pants bunched around my ankles. He’s not the one. 

No, Greg was the love of my life. I shook it off and flushed.

Still, it kept happening – in moments of solitude – waiting for the subway or listening to my coffee percolate in the funny little pod machine at the office. Each time I push it out of my mind. 

Now there we were, laying in bed with a lump of a dog between us, the night still.

“Did I do something wrong?" I whispered into the dark, afraid of his answer. I felt the pillow rustle as he shrugged next to me. 

“I don’t think we should do this anymore,” he muttered. “I don’t know. I just don’t think it’s working.” He sighed, his body going limp, “It’s just… I don’t.”

The tears were falling before I knew what was happening. “Please don’t cry,” he reached across and stroked my hair away from my face. “I just don’t feel right, I dunno. I can’t do this,” he shoved the dog away.

“Did I do something?”

“No, it’s just… not it.”

He asked if he should go. I begged him to stay. I wasn’t prepared for this. I couldn’t handle a relationship. Sure, it was great when it was all going well. Fun nights out and meaningful conversations. But when life was no longer a fantasy, I couldn’t cope.     

Months earlier, Fred and I had a weird argument. By then, things had already started to deteriorate but I wasn’t in the right mind to see it. One afternoon, absently, I posted on his Facebook wall. I’d seen a post about the reissue of a classic 70s family station wagon – green, wood panels, wide rear hatch. The kind of nostalgic car we grew up with. It was just his thing.  Within minutes he was furiously texting me, TAKE IT DOWN. NOW.

I didn’t understand. What had I done? I knew he wasn’t my boyfriend, but we’d been dating for almost three months. It had to be at least more than casual. A Connecticut resort weekend had to mean something. A million thoughts raced through my mind as to why he didn’t want me to post on his page. The most significant, however, was the realization that I wasn’t ready for this. Any of it. I wasn’t ready for a fight. I wasn’t ready for a put down. I wasn’t ready to have someone crush my heart. I made my excuses at work, saying I had a stomach bug and took off on my bike. Flying down the middle of 15th street, tears streaming down my face, I announced aloud to no one and the world, “I can’t do this.”  

“I can’t do this,” I cried, head burrowed deep into the sheets.  

The dog jumped from the bed, rattling his collar as he shook away any tension, breaking the silence. “What about tomorrow?” I sniffed. As usual, we had a full day of plans set out. We would take my car for inspection, then Greg would drop me for a haircut while he went record shopping. Another normal Saturday. Why was he doing this now? Didn’t he think this through? 

Maybe he was just going through the motions – afraid to admit he was stuck in the middle of something he no longer wanted. But rather than step away, he persevered, pretending to be the person he should be, until he just couldn’t take it anymore.

“But, you were the one who wanted all this!!!” I burst. 

“I know!” 

“So why don’t you want it anymore? You started it! You’re the one who said we should do all of this stuff!”

“I just, I dunno… I can’t. I’m sorry.” We said no more, rooted in the darkness, waiting for the hours to pass and have daylight release us from this limbo. 

When the morning came, we went about our day as planned. After dropping off my car he delivered me to my hair appointment where I sat stonefaced, leaving my normally chatty hair stylist to awkwardly finish as soon as possible, the hum of hairdryers droning out my somber thoughts. 

“You look nice,” Greg sheepishly muttered as I got in the car. We drove in silence to get lunch. Heartbreak can make you peckish. 

I held a french fry to my mouth, “What about the 5 Boros ride?” Chomp. 

“We can still go,” he took a bite of his sandwich, “I guess.”

We got tickets for the ride just two weeks after we met. But it wasn’t just the tickets, it was a proclamation that we would still be together four months in the future and ready to take a mini-weekend away. When he offered to buy the tickets, my heart swelled. Clearly this guy meant business if he was willing to commit to an event with me months away. It was intoxicating. We’d even arranged to stay at my friends’ apartment in Brooklyn while they were out of town. 

“Are you sure?” I focused on my fries. 

“Sure,” he nodded.

Maybe this wasn’t the end. Maybe he was just feeling a bit off and in time we would repair the damage. I just needed to hold on. This could still be love. 

A concert. A breakup. And now a trip to Baltimore to see Bruce Springsteen. 

Not long after Greg bought the tickets for New York, he asked if I would like to head down to see Springsteen perform his seminal double record, The River, in its entirety. “Of course!” I said. What was The River? I wondered to myself. But each time Greg was excited about something I wanted to be too. When you loved someone you wanted to enjoy the things that they enjoyed – their favorite restaurants, TV shows, hobbies. Greg loved riding his bike. I had a bike, sure, but now, through Greg, I was taking weekend cycling trips around the city instead of long walks with my dog.  Greg was a vegetarian. Obviously it was easier if we just ate the same things. The small things mattered and if he was happy, I was happy. That was how love worked, right?  

I nervously got in the car. We were going to get back together – I could feel it. We drove companionably, chatting along the way. In fact, things hadn’t been so bad between us over the last two weeks. We texted back and forth a good bit. Not as much as before, of course, but there was communication. I didn’t shy away from my feelings. We had a clear and open dialogue. I’d even texted him all about how when I went back to work on Monday, after the breakup, I lasted about 20 minutes and realized I couldn’t hack it. My cubicle mate watched on with sorrow filled eyes as I packed up crying, telling my boss that I had been dumped and needed to go. I hopped on my little green bike and rode 15 miles on the bike trail along the Schuylkill River, pushing until I could pedal no further, legs heaving from the cumbersome metal frame. 

WOW, THAT'S LIKE 40 MILES ON A ROAD BIKE. IMPRESSIVE, he texted back.

Everything would be fixed in a few hours. In the glow of the concert lights, he’d realize how much he’d missed me and how being together made our lives so much richer. Waiting for the restroom at the Royal Farms Arena his friend’s wife remarked with a reassuring smile, “You guys are so good together, I’m sure everything will come together in the end.” 

After a three and a half hour set, we embarked on the two hour drive home. It was late and I was exhausted. Staring out the window watching the highway pass, we spoke very little. As he pulled up to my house, looking straight ahead he spoke: “Ok, well, I’ll see you next Saturday then.” No kiss. Just goodbye. I got out of the car and cried. 

The worst part was that I knew, deep down, I shouldn’t be feeling this way. Not after four months. I knew I was overreacting. But I couldn’t dismiss my feelings.  I was broken, just as I had been two years earlier.The same doomed month when my husband walked out, 10 years to the week we met. Deep down, I knew that I didn’t love Greg and that I was in need of repair. More importantly, however, I knew that if I didn’t do something, I’d be alone forever. I needed him back.