After our weekend in Portland—after the redemption at Jake’s and the fog at the soaking pool—it didn’t take long for the old programming to kick in.
The goodness I had found with the Canadian? I stopped feeding it. I put it on a starvation diet. I let it go cold in the corner of my life, figuring if I ignored it long enough, it would just wither and die on its own, like a houseplant in a bachelor pad. I went back to Bend. I went back to the “rotation.” I kept my replies short, vague, and infrequent, trying not to lead her on while I was busy leading myself back into hell.
But she didn’t let go. She was an Ace, remember? Aces don’t fold just because the dealer looks bored.
She contacted me several months later. “I have to see you,” she said. “Meet me at Edgefield.”
I couldn’t say no. I raced out there. I had the room set. It had been three months since the “fog” incident, three months since we had touched. And when I saw her, standing there on the grounds of that old poorhouse, I could see the water rising in her eyes.
She was getting ready to cry.
We did our little dance. We broke the ice. We walked the grounds, held hands, talked about her family, her property, the safe stuff—the architectural drawings of a life we weren’t living.
And then, we went to the room.
We started. It was the reunion of two people who had been starving. It was frantic. It was real.
But in the middle of it, she stopped. She put a hand on my chest and pushed me back. The air left the room.
And she gave me the confession.
She told me how she felt. Not just about the sex. About me. She poured out a confession of love that was so pure, so heavy, and so terrifyingly honest that it scared the living shit out of me.
I listened to her. And all I could hear in my own head was the residue of the other people I’d been with. The toxic pollution of my lifestyle. The divorce lawyers. The “Low-Hanging Fruit.” I felt dirty. I felt like a man trying to sell a burned-out car to a woman who thought she was buying a Rolls Royce.
We went through the motions after that. But the rhythm was broken. We missed dinner. We missed the hot tub. We didn’t smoke the cigar. We just stayed in that room until breakfast, two people trying to solve an equation that had no solution.
That night, she was cuddled into me, asleep, trusting. And I stared at the ceiling, thinking: What the hell am I doing?
Her confession… it wasn’t a gift. It was a burden.
I didn’t want to hurt her. I really didn’t. But I knew, with the cold, hard certainty of a man who knows his own limitations, that on Sunday, she would drive back to Canada. And I would go back to my life. My “bubble.” My safe, chaotic, controlled little hell.
And what was the alternative?
Marry her? Bring her back to Bend to meet my traumatized kids? Introduce her to the wreckage of my divorce? Move to Canada and live on a commune with eleven workers?
My mind went negative. Hers went positive.
We had incredible moments. There was nothing bad to latch onto. No fight to pick. No reason to storm out. I couldn’t accuse her of cheating. I couldn’t find a flaw to exploit.
So I had to do the only thing left.
I had to be the Bad Guy.
I made the decision before I even got home. I was going to cut her loose.
It was too soon. It was too raw. It was too good.
I know I’m a cold pussy. I know I’m not a “nice guy.” This proved it. I decided to be a dick. I decided to be short in my replies. I decided to “ghost” her, slowly, painfully, efficiently.
For the next three months, the emails came. Long, beautiful, heartbreaking letters confessing her love.
And I didn’t even have the balls to read them.
I deleted them unread. I was terrified that if I read them, if I let her words in, they would affect me. They would weaken the resolve. They would make me turn the car around.
I had a divorce to finish. I had a life to reinvent. I couldn’t be the “Rich Man” anymore, and I didn’t think she fell in love with that guy anyway. She fell in love with me. The guy inside the suit.
And that terrified me more than anything.
So I shut the phone off. I shut the heart off.
It wasn’t easy to cut her loose. It was the hardest goddamn thing I’ve ever done.
But it was necessary.
Because you can’t build a new life on the foundation of a woman you know you’re going to disappoint.
