“I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” he said. We were sitting across from each other on his couch, the rest of the house deathly quiet.
“I can’t tell you what to say,” I replied. I was at a loss. I needed more. More attention. More affirmations that I was important to him. He couldn’t give that to me. He didn’t know how. And I refused to give him a script.
It was the beginning of the end.
Not long after the breakup, I started trading texts with his best friend. Let’s call him David. David was underemployed and had plenty of free time on his hands. He would text to say hi or see how I was doing. “You must be bored,” I told him more than once. He denied it every time and insisted he wanted to talk to me.
It was exactly what I had wanted from the ex. And it came naturally to him.
Over the course of our relationship, I would find countless ways in which the two friends were different. It got to the point that I didn’t even know what made them friends. The ex delighted and took pride in being “an evil, sadistic bastard.” David wouldn’t let me call him evil. Not in jest, and not when he as hurting me. “I only do things people like,” he’d repeat. “I’m a nice guy.”
And he was. Still is. We may be separated by distance now, but he – and his wife – are still extremely important to me. They made me feel wanted, desirable again. Until then, I had convinced myself that I was just too needy. But I never felt that way around them. They have a welcoming way about them that I know has followed them. I miss it.