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Don't you hate it when the person opposite you is trying to look concerned and sympathetic?
Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful for the thought, but isn't it just the worst thing to look up and see?
I just can't stand it when people look at you like that, all sad for you and trying to look attentive and supportive. It makes me feel like shit. It makes me feel like the sad and pathetic. It makes me feel like the kind of person who needs that brand of saccharine, mothering sympathy from somebody who's supposed to be a peer and an equal; I am not that person and I really don't appreciate being made to feel like that person. Yet there I was, made to feel like some china doll by my own best friend. Nursing the largest ice blended mocha Starbucks had to offer, plastic cup with the overly long green straw, and Anna sitting opposite me with this disgustingly soft and babying expression.
It could have been any day of the week at any point in my adult life.
Even the Starbucks itself was pretty nondescript: off white walls, fake cherry wood tables, a few green leather sofas and the same caffeine- stoked- green- apron- wearing staff perkily telling you to have a nice day while actually wishing you'd piss off so they could go on break. I was sitting there in what is still my signature outfit (faded boot cut jeans because they make my thighs look slimmer, this black off shoulder get up which gives me a waist and my heels because I need height). I was sitting there with my coffee partner and best friend of no less than eight years. It was a really ordinary day.
Except it really wasn't.
I think maybe the curls gave it away. My hair may be naturally poker straight and thus highly easy to style, but there's a lot of it and curling it is something that takes a while for me to do so I don't do it a lot. Anna always used to tease me that I only did it when I needed to feel sexy; so did he, come to think of it. It certainly wasn't as rare as she was trying to make it out to be, and that little spiel she gave me about overdoing it just to prove some point to him or whatever really rubbed me the wrong way (though a lot of things were rubbing me the wrong way at that point).
I didn't see what the big deal was though - I mean, every girl needs to feel sexy when faced with the possibility of a run-in with her ex, it doesn't mean that she's not over him or that you need to feel sorry for her. I just… I needed to look presentable. I was absolutely NOT trying to look all "dark and enigmatic and sultry", quote. I so was not.
"Are you sure you're okay to do this?" She said in that annoying concerned tone.
"I have to do it sometime. I just want it over with." I tried to keep it light and as easy as could be under the circumstances but I'm guessing the look on my face was not pretty because she had to start the therapist shit again.
"You know honey it is okay to take your time with it; you're still going through the grieving process. It's understandable if you're not ready for it yet."
Grieving? Grieving for God's sake? She made it sound like somebody had fucking died. So my relationship was over - big freaking deal! It wasn't like somebody had been hit by a bus. People break up all the time, it sucks but you deal with it. I mean, two years isn't as long as it sounds in the dating world. When you're in that comfortable groove with somebody you just kind of stop noticing how long you've been together, until you remember it's your anniversary soon or "wait, didn't we just do Valentine's Day already?"
It's not even like it was a big deal. It wasn't like I had a particularly arduous task ahead of me; I'd been putting it off because I didn't want to run into him, but going to his house to pack up a few clothes and stuff was not exactly Mount Everest. I wasn't even likely to run into him - hence why I was doing it that day.
***
It's amazing how fast the smell of me had gone from his bedroom. People look at me like I'm crazy but I tell you, you can totally smell the difference between a boy's room and a girl's room and it's not anything really obvious like perfume versus cologne. It's just that subtle scent people leave behind themselves, you breathe it in and it's not overwhelming but it's noticeable, and if you can't tell from the décor then you can definitely tell by the smell. Boys are kind of musky, deeper, while girls are a little sweet, kind of floral. Obviously I'm used to my own smell so I don't notice it, but when it was mixed in with his I noticed.
His was… extremely clean. He definitely was kind of a clean freak; he didn't mind working up a serious sweat on the treadmill (though he preferred to run out on the hill when he could) but he definitely minded staying that way. More than one time he'd come in from a run, I'd get worked up at the sight of him and he would either insist on showering before sex or having sex in the shower. He never seemed to understand that it was the hot and sweaty part that was the turn on.
Sex and smells and body parts seem like kind of a strange thing to think about when you're standing in somebody's (walk in) closet pulling sweaters off hangers and rummaging through the drawers for any forgotten items, but that's what I thought about. I've always worn this light Armani perfume for daytime and then this heavier, musk based Dior stuff at night and the room used to smell like that plus a combination of Justin's kind of sterile smelling skin products and Abercrombie Woods. He always used to joke it smelled like the Bloomingdales counter in there - but as I stood there packing up, mindlessly folding my leftover underwear and t-shirts into one of the many cardboard boxes I'd brought with me, it smelt purely of boy, and that's what I thought about.
It was generally pretty good and we certainly had healthy sex drives, but sometimes I really did feel like he hadn't quite noticed what I was hinting at or what it was that was the turn on and the focus wasn't right. I'd be lying if I said he was a bad lover but sometimes I just felt like he wasn't picking up on the signals quite right - or maybe I wasn't communicating them quite right. I don't know, maybe he had similar issues with me but if he did he didn't tell me and I didn't notice (pot meet kettle, I know). He was hot and I had plenty of lust for him and he could certainly work his hips towards the right spot but it was a good sex life, not great.
I guess it was being in the bedroom that made me think of all the sex stuff.
I never actually moved into his house officially, but I spent so much time there I might as well have. Now I wonder if there was some subconscious reason we never took that step, if maybe one of us knew this was coming.
The décor was certainly all him - the focus point of the room was a humungous wooden sleigh bed which though comfortable was in no way my style (I'd definitely want a four poster with some of those diaphanous net curtains, I think they're so pretty and it'd be nice to shut them and feel shut away from the world once in a while). The off white and navy was very male, the flat screen TV that descended from the ceiling and the remote controlled fire were very male, the dresser was very basic and functional and male, the curtains were male, even the damn candles managed to be male and you know candles are supposed to be a girl thing.
I was always the guest; you knew it was his home and not mine, like I was the one piece of mismatched furniture. You know, the kind you buy knowing it doesn't really fit with the rest of your stuff but you just like it anyway.
The last time we had spoken had been a purely functional call to work out when I would get my things. We got nowhere so he just said to show up whenever, take my stuff and leave my key behind me. There wasn't much to say really: no recriminations, no tears, no professions of undying friendship, just a 'remember to leave your key with the other spares.' It was odd, seemed kind of robotic and hollow, just like packing everything up did. I think the hardest thing was going through the box he put together. God only knows how long it had been sitting there waiting for me to go through it, but he'd taped this note on it telling me that it was all the "Alex" and "us" stuff he could find. His instructions were to keep what I wanted or throw the rest away.
I was stood there with the box on the dresser going through it and occasionally I'd have to stare bug eyed at myself in the mirror, stare at my raven haired dark eyed complexion willing myself to keep my stupid emotions in check. I'm all for having a good cry once in a while but I refuse to be the sad ex crying helplessly over her boyfriend's dirty t-shirt or whatever. Not that it was dirty t-shirt stuff - a lot of it was just my little things which got left or that I'd put around the place to make it nice and make my presence known or whatever, but if he didn't want to keep pictures of us around did he have to give them back to me? Why did he assume I'd want them, did he so arrogantly think that I would cling on while he let go?
It was just like being sucker punched, to tell you the truth. He couldn't even be assed to keep the frames. Us cuddled up by the Fourth of July bonfire, us on the beach on vacation, us backstage at one of his shows, us at his parents' house… him with his curly hair and square features, those funny horizontal eyebrows and slightly over large nose, the crooked grin and those dark blue eyes, occasionally looking like he was even in love with me. It was a lot of pictures, it really did seem like he was trying to purge me from his home.
Maybe it's unfair of me to take it so personally. We did after all agree that things weren't the same and that the spark had gone. It's not unfair for him to want to cleanse the house of me and start fresh without reminders of the past, and it's not like he was necessarily trying to rub my face in it or like he was being condescending thinking I would want to weep and wail over our lost love. Maybe he just figured I'd like the pictures; I am a tiny bit of a camera obsessive - miniscule really, I just take a lot of photos. It just seemed kind of… too detached of him, I guess.
Then again by the end we were both detached. Until the last few months of our relationship I saw no distinctions between making love, having sex and fucking. It was all the same to me, it's a physical action, blah, blah, blah. I see the difference now, and it's definitely a mental one. Justin is an incredibly hot guy. I'd go so far as to say he's beautiful, physically - his imperfections are endearing and quirky rather than off putting and he has got abs to die for. It was never any problem getting hot under the collar on his behest, I just… I guess I just eventually stopped being excited by Justin, you know?
It was like the intimacy and the mind connection went and we were just left with two people who had some good sex. There's nothing wrong with that at all, but it's just not enough after a while and it's definitely not enough if that's not what you started out as and not what you were looking for out of the relationship. We used to talk and be on similar wavelengths and it used to be (for lack of a better word) personal. In the end it was like I could be any nice girl he found physically attractive and he could be any nice guy I wouldn't mind taking for a test drive.
And it was all this I thought about as I taped the boxes I'd already done and headed into the bathroom to check under the sink and in all those places guys never think to check in because if it's not immediately obvious to them they're clueless.
I wasn't ever going to move in with him. Our relationship wasn't ever going to progress beyond companionship and some good adult fun, and I see that now. I definitely loved him at some point, and I'm almost sure he loved me at some point. He's an honest kind of guy and I think when stuff is going really good, that kind of connection is hard to fake - any guy can throw lots of compliments your way or whatever but it's the rare guy who can take in what you say and give you honest, constructive responses without completely crushing your ego if they're not so positive. Justin has a good heart and I know he's a catch and I'm really kind of pissed it hasn't worked out because life just isn't fair in that respect but what can you do? I thought it was a sure thing and I still don't understand where it all just stopped being good.
In some ways I feel like the wounded party because he dumped me, and he was kind of abrupt about it. It was like one minute we're ticking along as ever and then the next he turns around and tells me he's not happy and maybe we should think about time apart. I don't even think he was talking about breaking up but once he'd said that the conversation kind of snowballed and before I know it - bam, I'm single. The actual break up decision was mutual but he was the one who brought it up and thus I still consider him the dumper and me the dumped. I honestly think "time apart" was him not having the balls to break up with me.
I remember being in this strange thought pattern as I finished packing up my stuff from the bedroom - it was like I was arguing with myself. One second it's his fault, and then the next I'm being reasonable and pointing out my own stupid mistakes or that I felt the same way or whatever. I know when he told me how he felt it was like he was speaking for me. It was like he'd crawled in my brain and my thoughts were coming from his mouth.
I just can't help but wonder if I ever would have said it. I wonder how long we could have ticked along in that weird relationship inertia where it's not right but it's not bad and you just kind of settle because it seems to work after a fashion. It takes a lot of balls to give up an easy, comfortable thing to go solo - Justin of all people can tell you that. I honestly don't know whether I would have said it if he hadn't. I wonder if it was him for a reason or whether it could just have easily been me that said it but he just got there quicker than I did.
Sometimes I wonder if maybe we had stuck at it, it would have got better.
Sometimes I wonder if because the conversation happened so quickly and because we'd both been feeling it we mistakenly took it as a sign it was time to break the bond.
Sometimes I think we really did the right thing.
That's what happens when you leave it two months to go get the rest of your stuff from your ex's house; you have time to dwell on stuff. On the upside you've got over the initial hysteria and the fear that nobody will ever love you again (or, okay, maybe you've stopped wailing it out loud and keep it quietly to yourself), but on the downside you've had a lot of time to think and a little thinking can be a dangerous thing.
It's just hard to deal with when it's not really anybody's fault. Having one party do something nasty to end a relationship isn't exactly fun but at least it's a clean and definite halt to proceedings, you know? It's a lot harder to understand why something just fizzles out through no fault of either of you, and that's what made my eyes well up as I started dragging the boxes downstairs to load them into my car.
It was just a little, though.
***
Needless to say, it was awkward when on my way out I met him on his way in.
He looked the same, just like my boyfriend - apart from the fact that he was no longer my boyfriend. His big ass gas guzzling Escalade was parked neatly in front of the garage doors; he'd just hopped out of it looking like his usual superstar self. Justin will tell you he's just an ordinary guy but it is beyond weird how he can exude a 'celebrity' aura even when dressed casually. Maybe it's just his confidence - he certainly has a lot of that. It's a very magnetic trait actually; it was definitely part of my initial attraction. You can tell he's comfortable with himself, though he's not a complete ass about it (maybe just a little bit of one, but that's guys for you).
I still had a minor flutter in my stomach though. He was all in basketball shorts showing off the legs and this sleeveless t-shirt showing off the biceps (and that cross tattoo which I always found weirdly sexy despite the fact I hate tattoos and I think he has way too many) and like I say, we didn't break up because the sex was bad.
"Hey." He and his newly growing out hair said to me.
"Hey." I responded in an identical manner.
"Did, uh, you just get here?"
His big nervous habit was scratching at the nape of his neck. I felt some serious shameful satisfaction that my presence bothered him on at least some level. Hell, I didn't even care if it was a 'Man I don't want her here' level, so long as he cared either way. Believe it or not, it's worse to have an ex who's indifferent to you than one who hates your guts.
"No, I just finished boxing up." I remember I was shifting from foot to foot like I was on hot coals - which actually it kind of felt like I was at that point because I wore very stupid shoes considering the task I went there to perform. "I left your key on the hook with the other spares."
"Right. Okay, thank you."
I was watching him rubbing his hands anxiously and I had a particularly graphic flashback to him rubbing somebody else's skin entirely, which was rather odd considering that one thing I hadn't really paid much attention to was missing sex. It took me a lot longer to start missing the tactile stuff than just generally having a guaranteed somebody to hang with, though once I did start missing the cuddles it kind of sucked. I could live without sex though so it took a few weeks for the horny frustration to really kick in.
"So, uhh…" What do you say at moments like that? "I guess we're done here, unless there's anything else I need to pick up or give back or whatever."
"Can't think of anything - I'll call if I do."
I hate it when you start having those bland, perfunctory conversations with somebody you have so much history with. It just doesn't feel befitting and it WHOMPS.
"Fuck this is awkward."
That finally raised a small smile from him. "Damn fucking straight."
"I just… in the unlikely event you need anything, you can always call." I finally managed to get out. It was woefully inadequate but it was going to have to do because anything else was going to be too drawn out and sound far too sappy - or worse, far too much like I was dying inside. "I know we're ex but it's not like I hate you now."
"Well, it's, uh, not like I hate you either so you know you can do the same."
I know he meant it, but he was mocking me just a little bit at the same time. Nice to know he hadn't lost his sense of humor; sometimes I felt like I had, though some days were better than others.
"See you round Timberlake."
I gave him a tight smile and was mildly surprised when his response was to give me a hug. It felt off, somehow, wrong to be doing that. His arms were the same and he smelt the same but his grip was looser and even I couldn't rest my head on his shoulder like I usually did - it was like I just couldn't lean anything on him any more. He wouldn't have objected I know but I just couldn't.
On the bright side, I totally busted him taking a sniff of my hair. I didn't say anything to him about it but I KNOW he did. If nothing else, he still thinks I smell good. That's better than nothing, and that's what I held onto as he disappeared into the house and I drove away.
***
They say the reason guys don't want to talk and snuggle after sex and they'd rather just turn over and fall asleep is genetic. Apparently it's just a Y chromosome thing; it's just the way they're built. After they have spread their seed -or so their body thinks, not being quite aware that Trojan has prevented it - the body automatically goes to rest.
Justin used to piss me off when he did that. It got to the point where I would purposely keep the lights on after sex to try and keep him awake so I could get some discussion about "us" out of him and I even eschewed my much beloved mood candles (I look so much better in candlelight, it's far more flattering and it hides my love handle). He used to fall asleep anyway and then finally I would turn them off and lay there stewing for a while before going to sleep.
He later admitted to me he had an inkling that was what I was doing (I vehemently denied it and I think he eventually believed me, the sucker). He told me he just got used to sleeping in the brightness and I told him it was weird.
If I find myself thinking about him last thing at night, for some reason I usually find myself sleeping with the light on.
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