Confession

I barely make it past the door, when I fall to my knees and begin to weep. I cry for him, myself, but mostly for us. ...Truth steps out from between the lines of my story. It grins at me and I smile back. As he sits there, driving himself crazy, thinking he caused a great wound in me. I sit and write these words. A confession he will never know about... It was me who played him while we were together. It was me who betrayed him first...

Day One

My stomach is in knots as I walk to his door. This is the first for me to show up unannounced but after the time we spent together two nights ago my heart was hopeful. First knock, second, third, no answer. I begin to walk away and I hear the door unlock and when I turn, a woman greets me. She is tall, slim and pretty. The kind that exhumes privilege. A sports bra and joggers hang perfectly from her tiny frame and expose her defined abdomen. Hair is in a morning bun, and the smile decorating her pretty face, implying morning sex. She greets me, her voice soft. 

“Hello.”  

“Hi, I was looking for Damian.”

“Oh he’s showering. I’ll let him know you are here. What’s your name?”

“Oh no that’s ok. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to say hello. I’ll call him later.”

Before she could sooth her curiosity or ask probing questions, I quickly paced back to my car. Her woman's intuition ready to materialize, questioning why an unknown woman shows up to your boyfriend’s house.

I leave his driveway. No emotions or feelings surface. I’m numb. My mind is racing, and I replay the night we spent. I scan through the conversation and the laughter looking for clues. Maybe that night never happened, I tell myself. It couldn’t be that he did this to the one person who loved his flaws most. Up until this moment I had given myself permission to bring my needs down so he could fit in my life and not feel inadequate. This is how he repays me?

I fail to zero-in on the intended destination of my drive, when my phone rings and I see his name. My stomach wakes the emotions in me. When I realized that I’ve been made a fool. Third ring in and I answer.

         “Hey. You came by?”

                     “Who is she?”

         “Someone I dated but I don’t see myself with.”

                     “She was at your house. Seems she slept over.”

         “She came by yesterday to wish me a happy birthday. She’d met James and wanted to say hello.”                       

                     “She met James?” No longer invested in what follows. I begin to ask rhetorical questions.

                     “She met your son? How? Setting aside the fact you moved on so quickly. I meant nothing to you. Why didn’t you tell me?”

         “There was nothing to tell.”

                     “We were intimate two days ago. You slept over. Why come back?”

         “Ana, James needs to get dropped off at school. I’ll call you back to talk.”

It had been almost three years since this man was part of my life, physically and in thought. Either way, omnipresent. I arrive home and when inside, my consciousness wakes me. I barely make it past the door, when I fall to my knees and begin to cry inconsolably. I cry for him, myself, but mostly for us. There was no going back. The hope of picking up the pieces to glue them back together, now ash. Gone with the light wind released when the door to my house greeted me with pity. 

The day was a blur. Thought after thought eventually depletes me. We had history and it was him who returned to my life after our breakup. A life so cautiously rebuilt after our ending. Evident it was no engineer. I turned my phone off, showered and laid in bed. My eyes are red and swollen. It was hard to breathe from all the crying. Finally, I dozed off to the replay of her answering the door.

Day Two

The morning came and grief had departed in the early hours. Tippytoeing out of my room and into the air of another’s broken-hearted bed.  Anger settled next to the empty space he’d filled just a couple of nights prior. The phone in silence alerts me of missed calls and texts. Preview after preview with a simple “Sorry”. All which will go without reply or acknowledgement. After years of educational lessons on heartache, I’d mastered in silence and got my PhD in shutting the fuck down. 

Like a favorite romance novel, I read through the texts and poems I’d written when I tried to be part of his life. The same period he would come in and out of mine. One by one I begin to list the cancelled dates, the side glances at other women, the realness in his hurtful words when he spoke about his past romantic failures. It was true, I made myself small so he can shine. I saw through his insecurities, but thought my strength was enough to hold me and this weak man. How can a man revolt at the thought of being loved?  Self-worth questions creep into my wounded heart. Was I not pretty enough, smart enough or well-off enough? The contemplation ignited the search for answers he will never give me, and I will never ask for. Soon after my mental self-loathing plague, I come to and chuckle. It was comical to see the hypocrisy in this situation. I remind myself I was enough. Too much for a loveless broken man. 

Day Three

The third night settled without nightmares to haunt me or night sweats to wake me cold. My heart is healing faster than expected. No tears shed to memories. The pity party concluded, the music now faint. Submerged in the solitude of my daily work a thought comes to mind. He failed to see the cruelty in me. He was indulged by his physical beauty and the ease of how quickly he was able to move on after we went our separate ways. His ego turned me into an option. He must have thought there is always something better.

In this moment the truth steps out from between the lines of my story. As he sits there, driving himself crazy, thinking he caused a great wound. I sit and write these words. A confession he will never know about or read. It was me who played him while we were together. Truth be told, our relationship reeked of sexual dissatisfaction. He was vanilla and predictable. Leaving me craving for more. The insecurities he held close to his chest I tried my best to mask for him. I played him first. It was me who betrayed him in silence and he never saw the open spaces in my harbor.  I had other men lay in my bed under the veil of exclusivity. He dodged a bullet. I never held his heart, and he never held my loyalty.