Saturday night, LP and I talked and talked and made an actual, calendared date.
Although I am not confident it will happen . . .
We are seeing each other Friday (he’s traveling and gets back Thursday). And I am spending the night with him.
We are as excited about sleeping next to each other as anything else. He seemed actually relieved when I told him how much I know he needs me to sleep next to him. And he does. He’s a sleep cuddler and he needs that physical connection. The sex, which will also probably happen, takes a back seat to the fact that we want to sleep next to each other, to wake up in each other’s arms.
Again, I am not at all confident this is happening, but this is the plan.
We talked via text message for an hour and a half, mostly about music. Do we remember LP was a rock star in another life? Everyone in my life has been a musician. Except me. I just worked in it.
He was exhausted and described himself as “run down.” He told me later he’d been working — on a Saturday — for 13 straight hours. He came home to go to sleep and wind-down and instead texted me around 1030.
Within about 15 minutes of back and forth texting, he asked if I’d heard a song by a band I didn’t recognize.
We talked music and shared bands we loved. He talked wistfully about his favorite of his bands, the best record of which was never released and no longer exists, the masters destroyed in a fire. He talked friends who influenced him, now dead. We were both a bit maudlin as my best friend’s mother died earlier in the day.
The thing I like about him the best — and this is a man I have loved for years, foolishly, as I’ve not seen him in nearly a year and I’ve not slept with him in nearly 18 months — is his brain. It’s also what he likes best about me, too.
We love passionately, we are overly enthusiastic about everything, but it’s sincere, even if it seems as though it shouldn’t be.
He laughed towards the end of our conversation once we had switched to phone that he loves that “you are so smart, so classy, and you carry yourself with such elegance, and yet, you have such a dirty mind.” Yes, I do. With him.
We both agreed that the music discussion was the best part of our conversation because we loved playing things for each other, and I loved hearing him reminisce over his rock star days. He still plays. He’s actually still signed to a label and recording a project. All of that is rather funny to ponder.
I told him about PR’s party and the amazing performances I saw there and I told him I wish he’d been with me. From a musical perspective, it’s true. I’d love for him to join me at those shows, as I know he’d love them — both the bands and the guys. He and PR play the same instrument. LP was playing headlining shows at 15 in the big city in which he lived; PR is often a drunken mess on stage. Still, LP would love it, as they come from the same aesthetic. PR’s library includes books about LP’s era in music, presumably about him. But, they live in different worlds. LP is now an armani wearing hired gun, arguing the biggest cases on the biggest stages. PR is a skinny jeaned, cycling jacketed hipster, running a creative firm and investing in startups. The straight line connection between them — aside from me — is music. And being complete badasses from far too young an age, which warps your worldview just a little. Sometimes, failure can be healthy.
I would love for LP to join me at one of PR’s bands’ shows or parties. He’d love the music, he’d love the guys. They would see a side of me they suspect exists, but never see. With LP, I am more sophisticated and more cerebral. I am more serious, as he is more serious.
They . . . would probably not like him. He’s super-intense, charming narcissist, but he is very true to who he is. He lives in a bubble of wealth and privilege. With BFD, you don’t necessarily notice until he says something tone-deaf. With LP, he looks like an actor they would cast to play him — almost too perfect for the role. He is all of my worst habits. Together, we amp that up. We are a little spoiled in a way I try to bottle up for the most part. Except when I am with him. He understands.
Then again, most people who meet him love him. He’s charming and interesting and funny. He sucks the oxygen out of a room even more quickly than I do, which is a rare skill, but we are equals in a way I don’t always feel with other people.
With LP, I feel smarter, more beautiful, sexier, and more interesting than I feel normally . . . and I have, we can agree, a rather healthy sense of self. He makes me feel like the best version of me all the time. He looks at me with admiration and, as I think he’s absolutely amazing, I carry that with me. Because he admires me and respects me, my admiration for him buoys him, as well.
I am doubtful I will see him, but we locked a day in and we made a plan and it’s certainly possible it will happen this time. He misses me. Intensely. He told me that during a particularly bad bout of insomnia, he nearly drove here at 3 am, so desperate was he to see me.
While I have been dating and in relationships, he has — by his admission — been working. He joked that it’s been so long since he’s had sex he’s not sure he remembers how.
[I told him we’d go slow.]
[Also, I do not believe him. Not entirely. Although I have heard through third parties that he has not been dating. He’s working and when he’s not working, he’s with his kid.]
We talked actual schedule, confirmed his return trip [he leaves Tuesday, as he is here in town, working this weekend], and walked through what we’d be doing.
Again, I am wary about whether I will see him, but that’s almost the least important part.
The most important part is that he has essentially ruined me for almost all other men. How could I ever date someone who fails to measure up to the standard he has set? He has his faults and flaws, all of which I have detailed here, but he is an amazing, brilliant, funny, charming man who I still love dearly. Do I think we could possibly figure it out this time? Eh, unlikely. But for the past three months, we’ve been making promises to each other and we have been getting closer. We have been the voice in the dark on every single holiday, the connection to love.
So, I am taking what may happen and embracing it if it does, but recognizing the beauty in the expression, even if it doesn’t. Seeing him will be wonderful, whenever it happens. And then, inevitably, something will go wrong and it will hurt worse than anything else could. Small wounds get magnified, the pain growing.
I have hurt him badly; he has hurt me. I have been in multiple relationships since we split up in August, 2010, with his parting words: “we’re fine.”
He has broken my heart repeatedly. If I were to tell him what all of you know, it would crush him. I cannot imagine he thinks I’ve been sitting at home, knitting him sweaters, but he certainly doesn’t think I’ve fallen in love with other men. I have. And yet, it’s always him, lurking in the background, my heart, the other part of me.
It’s intoxicating and untenable and unsustainable. Or, at least, it was. Who knows if we can work it out now.
I am open to him in a way I am not open to other people. That was the promise I made to him on that warm October night. Me in a little black dress, him in an armani suit, on our first official date as we left the best restaurant in town, now even more famous, and drove down darkened streets in the neighborhood into which he was moving. We promised honesty, we promised vulnerability, we promised that we would not play games. We haven’t. It’s why it hurts so much.