CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO - ROMEO RESURRECTED

Dearest Nurse, you simply can’t make this shit up.

I had to stop the bleed, had to get my head in the game and save myself from an untimely demise at the hands of The Photographer and the cruel Gods of the swipe right movement. I needed out. And so, as per usual, I sent an uncomfortably long text message:

Okay… well, I can tell having an actual conversation right now is going to be difficult. So, to prevent things from getting any more strained, let’s put a pin in things for a whiiiiile. And please know this is not me thinking you’re disposable. You. Are. Not. You’re a wonderful, talented, magnetic person I feel very lucky to have met. But there’s been a shift, and it seems as though our expectations are pretty far out of alignment. And because I think you’re special and would love to maintain some sort of relationship in the future, I think it’s best to call this.

Predictably, The Photographer didn’t text back. But that was okay, I reasoned. I’d have to see him again eventually, as I accidentally left a couple of my favorite earrings at his (and his ex girlfriend’s) place. But at that moment, I just needed a break. I was desperate to get my feet back underneath me and stop the world from spinning sideways, throwing me off my axis, and ripping my insides apart nearly every day. I needed a confidence boost, a stabilizing force, and a helping hand. What I got was PTSD Guy.

I know, I know. I said I was going to stop dating, and I had every intention of doing so. But there was one guy I had reached out to on Positive Singles back in October. We had a brief exchange, and then he got busy with work. We ended up matching again on Tinder about a month later, which I took to be a sign, but still, neither of us had gotten around to asking the other out. The slow, calculated approach is not a common one when it comes to dating apps. Most of the time folks get bored after a few days, and if a date isn’t set, they stop responding. But something told me PTSD Guy was different. His messages were long and thoughtful. He used the wrong word a couple times (patients instead of patience) which - being a writer - I knew I would secretly hold against him in perpetuity - but I appreciated the effort, and the information. He also asked a lot of questions about my daughters and parenting style, which should have been a red flag, but I didn’t care. He seemed kind, and his long, daily essays were soothing. Finally, after five months of on-again-off-again written communication, I popped the question:

Want to get together this weekend?

We met up at a bar he had chosen, which ended up not only being closed, but strangely deserted. I was so exhausted by everything dating at that moment, that I kinda just wanted to go home. That and the fact that I wasn’t all that attracted to him. PTSD guy is objectively beautiful. Crystal blue eyes, high cheek bones, strong jaw, in good shape, and 6’2”. Any gal would consider herself lucky to be standing next to him. He also, however, is the epitome of a skater boy. I have never been into lanky dudes. Particularly not lanky dudes that don’t know how to move their bodies. At one point during the date, PTSD guy came back from the bathroom, and only narrowly avoided ringing his own bell on a lighting fixture hanging from the ceiling. The manœuvre he pulled to literally save face looked like Frankenstein’s Monster attempting the limbo. That, and there was something oddly effeminate about him. A soft, cooing voice, and a way of talking with his large hands that reminded me of delicate housewives in 80s movies.

But here’s the thing about PTSD Guy: for reasons I still can’t explain, he was incredibly stabilizing. Maybe it was his honesty. He’s an engineer and a craftsman, and as such, is a linear thinker and very direct. He didn’t get most of my jokes - staring blankly while I laughed at myself - but you could always take him at his word. Or maybe it was that he always checked in, texting every afternoon just to see how work was going, and to let me know about his day. Maybe it was the sex. Being 6’2”, 41, and taken a few turns around the block, he knew what he was doing. As long as I didn’t watch his lanky body while he was doing it, I had a pretty decent time. Or maybe it was the fact that PTSD Guy had PTSD.

I don’t know what to do. Part of me wants to cook for you, talk and cuddle, but I just got so overwhelmed that I fell asleep in my truck, and I haven’t managed to get out yet.

I was at the Hollywood post office at the time, returning a bathing suit I had ordered for an upcoming research trip to the Dominican Republic. I looked down at his text, sighed, got out of line, and back into my car.

PTSD Guy and I had been dating for four weeks. We had gotten to know each other pretty well, and he'd shared that his previous girlfriend had not only been emotionally manipulative, but physically abusive as well. By the time he moved out of the house he bought for them, he had to have a police escort. She ended up with the house, and he upside-down over 400K.

Can we try something? I texted back, holding my breath. PTSD Guy’s episodes had been happening more frequently. Most of the time he would cancel plans in favor of holing up until he could figure out how to shower and get his heart to stop pounding. I had done some research on dating domestic abuse survivors, and so knew I had to respect his boundaries… but I also wanted to help.

Try what?

Open the gate.

I was parked outside his house as the automatic gate slowly opened. And there he was, still sitting in his truck, trying his best to smile.

“Oh, [PTSD Guy]…” I said, sucking back emotion. He wasn’t my end-all-be-all, not by a long shot, but PTSD Guy is a kind man who deserves a lot better than he’s gotten. Seeing all six feet of him slumped in his driver’s seat, his neck throbbing from the pounding of his heart, while reliving his most embarrassing trauma, would have broken anyone’s heart. Except for Little Italy, that is.

“PTSD from a girlfriend? What a fucking pussy.” He had said when I told him about the relationship. (Like I said, I knew very early on Little Italy and I would always be friends.)

I had to laugh. Little Italy is macho to a fault; no room in his world for male weakness. And even though I knew he was dead wrong, that was exactly what I needed to hear in that moment. Because, you see, PTSD Guy broke up with me.

“You’re pulling in closer, which makes complete sense.” He had said on the phone one afternoon, calling while I was taking Dog for a walk in the neighborhood. “And you’re an incredible person, but I’m finding that I’m pushing back… and… look, your kids seem amazing, but—“

Hang on, here. After five weeks, there’s no way he is just now realizing—

“When I look at our future together, I just don’t think that’s something I can handle.”

And there it was. A fact he had known since the beginning. A subject he had questioned me about ad nauseam before our first meeting. The two people I love most in the world were being considered a strike against me. A reason to not engage. Nothing to do with me, just my babies. Yeesh. Well, then, sayonara.

“Okay… anything else?” I chirped.

“Um… no…” He stalled, surprised at my response. “No, I think that’s it.”

As I may have mentioned - or as I hope you’ve learned at this point - I’m a writer, and a professional one at that. I’m trained to take the note, not argue with it. As I’ve also mentioned, I wasn’t in love with PTSD Guy, but I did enjoy his company. Plus, his directness about where he was in life let me know that he couldn’t support me emotionally. If I was going to be involved with him in any capacity, I had to learn to support myself, love myself, and be my own rock. And you know what? That’s exactly what I did, inspired by the incredibly hard and painful work I saw PTSD Guy doing on himself. Because of him and his influence, I got my feet back underneath me, and for the first time in nearly six months, the world stopped spinning out of control. But what was more, in that particular moment, PTSD’s rejection was the sign I had been waiting for…

Hey… just got a friend request from you on Facebook. Is that you, or is someone fucking with me?

I hadn’t wanted to send the e-mail. I hadn’t wanted to engage at all, but I was sickly curious. After months of radio silence and blocking me on every social media platform, Romeo had friend requested me, posted something on my timeline, then deleted it before I got a chance to read it. I worried it might be an irate Rosaline and not Romeo at all. The last thing I needed with my new high-profile co-workers was more Jerry Springer bullshit posts on my profile. And so, in a now familiar move, I blocked him. But a cursory scan of his social media profiles and Rosaline’s revealed there were no longer any pictures of the two of them together... Perhaps cruelly, my lips slid into a sideways smile. Looked like Romeo and Rosaline had broken up. Shocker.

No. It was me. Romeo wrote back an hour later. Sorry. I’m bad at Facebook. A lot has changed. I’m in Florida right now, but I’ll be back in a week, and I’d love to see you.

I should have, dear Nurse, but I did not see this coming. After everything that had happened, the makeouts, the crazed sex, Rosaline’s attack, Romeo’s drug problem… I really and truly thought that chapter - hell, that whole book - was over. Done. Fucking finito. And not just based on the fact that Romeo had decided to stay with Rosaline… Because the truth was, despite the month of pining, since that fateful call in late September, I hadn’t thought about Romeo. At. All. I don’t know what that says about me, but it’s the honest truth.

And yet, now in early March, here he was, in the flesh, standing in the middle of my half-self-renovated apartment. The Christmas Eve spent at The Photographer’s ex-ridden house had inspired me. I shouldn’t have been there. He had said it a few days after, and I agreed. Her mound of toiletries in the bathroom and pile of shoes by the bed were wildly disconcerting. But my place wasn’t much better. Sure, I had gotten the majority of Paris’ things packed up and shipped out, but the space, the apartment I had so painstakingly painted and decorated when we first moved in, still reeked of a life that no longer belonged to me. Not only that, but it was unsettling.

Once I really took a look at my home, I was shocked to realize just how many objects in it had no meaning to me, or actively made me feel bad. Tchotchkes and furniture pieces I had purchased to appease Paris, or because I couldn’t afford what I really wanted, and so settled. Books, toys, stupid decorations I didn’t even like, but seemed to make our 70’s pseudo-dingbat “a home”. Not only that, but even without Paris’ stuff, I still had so. much. shit. I was drowning in it, my apartment more akin to a T.G.I. Friday’s than the sanctuary I craved. And so, while things were heating up with PTSD Guy, I gutted the entire place, donated or chucked more than half of my belongings, tore everything off the walls, and started D.I.Y.ing the shit out of what was now firmly my space. I’m pretty sure, out of everything that transpired since leaving Paris - including the actual leaving of Paris - that was the most therapeutic. It was a crap ton of work, and months later - what, with writing gigs and the girls - I am still far from done. But hot damn, it feels fucking great.

But having Romeo there felt strange. Like an ancient artifact in modern art museum. But, like I often do, I pushed past it, anxious to know why he was here and what he had to say.

“I made a mistake.” He said frankly, his blue eyes staring fearlessly into mine. How many times would this guy have the gall to say this to me?

Turns out, Romeo and Rosaline has broken up three months before - about three months after he and I said our goodbyes. They had gone back and forth, I guess… she kicking him out, then wanting him back, until he finally cut the cord. He was pretty wrecked about it, on top of no longer having a place to live, and so went back to Florida for a beat and hung out with his family. It was only after recovering from A. his pill addiction and B. a tumultuous three-year relationship, that he thought to reach out. The mistake in question? Choosing Rosaline over me.

“I wrote you this really long letter… about everything.” He said, sitting at my new dining table and watching me from the safe distance I was keeping in the open kitchen. “How I feel about you, what you mean to me. How I can’t believe what I did. All of it.”

“Where is it?” I asked. Surely he wouldn’t bring up such a thing without the promise of a formal presentation.

“I deleted it.”

“You what?”

“I wrote it in Notes on my phone…”

Wait, what? I know we’re in the tech age or whatever, but here’s a hot tip: There’s nothing less sexy than an emotion-fueled love letter, full of regret and passion, written in a fucking app designed for grocery lists. I mean, come the fuck on.

“[Rosaline] found it. It’s part of the reason we broke up.”

“She found it, so you deleted it?” I asked, trying to wrap my head around the series of events, and how even after Romeo had chosen to stay with his delightful Karen, he decided to Apple Note me a love letter.

“It was one of many grand gestures.” He said, “To stay together.”

This was confusing, but as I often do, I figured I must be missing something. The important part was that he still had feelings for me. Big feelings, apparently.

“I know this is a lot to ask,” He said, staring at me intently, bravely, unflinchingly, “But if you gave me another chance—“

“What!?” I felt it, the heat rising in my face, which usually corresponds directly to the raising of my arms. It has recently come to my attention that, as loud as my mouth is, it’s not the only feature with which I communicate. When I get really animated my hands go wild, conducting a veritable orchestra of my inner emotions, and now, dear Nurse, my I was directing a symphonic production of Alexander Scriabin's Mysterium.

“You rejected me. Twice!”

“No, I didn’t reject you—“

“Yes, you did!”

“I had a girlfriend—“

“That you said you were breaking up with— HAD broken up with!” My hands were flying over my head now. I felt like I was losing my mind. The hell was he talking about? Right before we embarked on our supposed month to find ourselves for one another, Romeo told me he and Rosaline had broken up. I mean, you were there. Remember? She had kicked him out of the house, and he was looking for a new apartment. Maybe he had a girlfriend the night we made out at that rooftop bar, but that had ended. Romeo had then made the conscious decision to go back to her, rather than pursue things with me. That is what I - and, methinks, the rest of the fucking planet - would call rejection.

“I didn’t know what you wanted. You said you didn’t want to have kids. You know that’s a big deal for me.”

“I told you that wasn’t set in stone.” I said, and instantly hated myself for it. I had told him that during the stupid phone call where he made me feel like I was auditioning for him. Trying to loosen a bit to toward his stupid desires to make him want me when the truth of the matter was, he had already made his decision. Rosaline. Rosaline was what he wanted, and now that he couldn’t have her, Juliet was runner up. Dear Nurse, I have had some tender moments in my life. Times when I have felt like absolute shit about myself. But never, ever, have I ever entertained the idea of being someone’s second best, and Romeo was no exception.

“You said you didn’t want to be monogamous. You weren’t even sure you wanted a relationship. All you wanted was to get laid.”

Yikes. Now that was true…

He was referring to the fact that I had started my post-divorce adventure terrified of commitment and obsessed with sex. That is, as you may remember, one hundred percent accurate. But after a few months on the road, I realized the philandering lifestyle of a fly-by-night floozy wasn’t really for me. I may have been a cheater in my past, but those days were behind me. I tried seeing more than one person at a time. Once with Old Boss and Little Italy, and then again with PTSD Guy and The Prince - who has been snaking her way in and out of my life - and all I can say is, that shit takes a lot of energy. Hell, seeing one person at a time was taking it out of me. Two, plus the dudes I was chatting with on the apps, was making me feel like an exhausted, horny schizophrenic. And what’s more, I wasn’t myself. It seems, dear Nurse, your Juliet is something of a romantic. I know, I know, who would have thunk it? And, as it turns out, monogamy is pretty damn romantical. So, for all that hemming and hawing about being an ethical non-monogamist, it appears I might just be a basic one-horse bitch. We shall see.

“You’re right. I did say that.” I nodded, jamming my hands into the pockets of my jeans and staring down at my aging pedicure.

“I want a serious relationship. I wanted that with you, [Juliet]-- want that with you. But I can’t do that if you’re seeing other people.”

Well, shit. When Romeo makes sense, he makes a lot of fucking sense. I looked at him. Really looked at him. The color had come back to his face in the past few months. He said he had recovered from his pill addiction, and the proof was right in front of me. He looked together, perhaps a bit out of shape and beaten down by the drama of late, but he was with it. What’s more, that chemistry we’d always had was excruciatingly present.

The rest of the evening was filled with fun, natural banter. About politics, our lives, our feelings for one another, past and present. In some ways, it was as if the past few months never happened. In others, every single moment was pulsatingly present. Because I had evolved, grown in ways I hadn’t taken stock of, and didn’t quite understand yet. But I knew it was all there, driving me toward something incredible, inevitable, and yet, completely incomprehensible.

We played darts on a new board I had gotten myself as part of my total home makeover, and it was just like the old days. So much like the old days that it started to feel like a time warp. At one point, he brought his face close to mine, playfully trying to distract me from my shot. It worked. I dropped my arm and kissed him, full on. I still have no idea if I finished my turn.

We had something here. We always did. But what could I do? At that moment, I was five weeks in with PTSD Guy, and had just rescued him from his narcoleptic truck episode. No, he wasn’t the love of my life, but I had committed myself to whatever the relationship was, and I didn’t want to turn my back on him just because Romeo decided he wanted not a second, but third chance. I told Romeo as much during a follow-up brunch that lasted three fucking hours. He nodded thoughtfully…

“Then, see both of us.”

First off, he had just told me he didn't want to date me if I was seeing other people, remember? Good, because he didn't. And also - as previously discussed from my point of view - absolutely fucking not.

However, the fact that the fire between Romeo and I was still very much there after that crazed one-week reunion was validating. It was meaningful, and we both wanted to indulge, give those emotions whatever it was they deserved… but how could I just break things off with PTDS Guy? I mean, he had PTSD, for Godsakes! No, no. Romeo had his chance, and regardless of the feelings that were still there, our undeniable chemistry, his perfect cock, and the deep look of profound love in his grey-blue eyes, I just couldn’t drop everything and run off into the sunset with him. That would be stupid.

“Let’s leave it up to the Universe.” I said, finally, needing to get some work done that day, or at least a chore or two. “I’m sure it will tell us what we’re supposed to do.”

We hugged goodbye and he kissed me on the forehead. It was the most bittersweet embrace I think I’ve ever had.

Not two hours later, PTSD Guy dumped me.

“Okay…” I said, after his somewhat latent speech about not wanting to deal with someone else’s kids. “Anything else?”

“Um… no.”

“Well, have a good one, then!”

I hung up, and, believe it or not dear Nurse, laughed my ass off. I had left word, and the Universe had returned like I was Amy fucking Schumer offering to do a free Netflix special. I had my answer. I knew what I was supposed to do, and, within five minutes of hanging up, Romeo was in my bed.

“We’re back.” He said, having rushed over with the quickness of a man in love.

“We’re back.” I said, and kissed him again, deeply.

And so, Dearest Nurse, we find ourselves at the end of the play. There is, however, the beginning of another that I will leave you with before I take my final bow.

Sincerely yours,

Juliet