Complications

It wouldn’t have been that consequential...except there was Rebecca. 

Rebecca was glowy moonlight in a world that glittered just a little too brightly. She was subtle and kind—the genuine kindness that bubbles up from deep within rather than floating on the surface like slick oil. She read thick books like life was long, and she loved food. Like, she loved food. She had this face when she tasted something particularly exquisite. It was like she’d just jolted awake from a fantastical dream with a new awareness of subconscious possibilities. It was incredible to me how she experienced life, lingering in the middle of each moment instead of assessing every angle for the optimal TikTok impression. 

And that was probably my favorite thing about her. We didn’t meet on the internet. We met in real life. Organically. And, in this day and age, it seemed like the rarest form of serendipity: that moment she looked at me over the edge of her book just as I was squinting her direction to make out the title. I knew more concretely than anything that this would be something real. Because no one else had ever settled into the corner of my coffee shop before 9:00 A.M. on a Saturday morning just to read a real paper book while sipping from a real ceramic mug without a digital device in sight. I was fascinated then.  

I was infatuated within a week. 

Being with her felt like a rebirth for me. She was teaching me how to see the world—how to love it in a way that it had only ever disgusted me before.  

“Life is a gift, Julian.” she’d say to me often when we sprawled out on her apartment balcony to watch the sun set, “Respect it. Love it. And it will love you back.” 

It made me wonder if I could ever believe that life was that simple—that love was generally reciprocal and the universe was generally fair. Even as she was tenderly unlocking in me an uncanny affection for being alive, I struggled to believe that if she knew the complexity of life—of my life—that she would feel the same. But I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe in Rebecca. I wanted to believe in us. So I tried. 

And when she asked me with those solemn eyes—as if there had been a million things I’d rather have done—if I would go with her to her college friend’s wedding, I said yes with a sly smirk and not a second of hesitation. She leveled me with reserved glee and explained further—as if I hadn’t understood—that she would be the only person in the room whom I knew. 

“I would sign my coffee shop over,” I declared, taking her hands in mine, “solely for the privilege of being known by you and you alone.” 

She slid her hands from mine and cupped my jaw.  

“I think I love you, Julian Dunn.” she murmured with a shy smile. 

I braced the back of her neck and I kissed her so thoroughly that she gasped. And that’s when I told her that I was absolutely certain I loved her more. That’s also when I wondered precisely how much time I had left on loan before she understood all the complexities living between the lines of my words. 

Nevertheless, it was in that heady kind of love haze that I picked her up on the wedding day and we both doted over one another’s polished, sophisticated styles. I twirled her by the arm and she took pictures of us with her disposable film camera. She never used her phone for memories precious enough to capture. No, moments like these were stowed away in a thick photo album perched on her coffee table and busting at the spine. It was yet another reason I loved her. It made sense to me that life should be private to everyone except the people who really matter—the people you invite to your home for dinner. The people who listen and laugh with you about the embarrassing stories behind your photos of far-off places. The people who cry with you when you flip past cherished memories of loved ones lost to fate.  

Running slightly late, we scuttled into a row near the back of the chapel. Rebecca settled her bag and tucked her shoulder under my arm like muscle memory. Only a number of minutes passed before I noticed the first head swivel in our direction. First just one wide-eyed glance. Then another two who ducked their heads back together and snickered. Then a few more from across the aisle. I felt Rebecca tense at my side, but it wasn’t until one of the ushers did a double-take while walking the bride’s mother down the aisle that Rebecca finally craned her neck to inspect me. 

“Did you spill something on your shirt?” she whispered. Her hands flew into her hair, “Is my hair messed up? Oh! Lipstick smudged?” 

I chuckled and tugged her arms away, “You're perfect.” 

“Then,” she frowned at me, “why does it feel like everyone’s staring at us?”  

I scanned the room once more and caught two more women biting their nails as they glanced from their phones back to us.  

“I don’t know,” I frowned back at Rebecca, “Maybe they’re surprised to see you here with someone?” 

She gawked, shoving my shoulder in playful reproach, “Reading books does not make me a prude!” 

I snickered, feigned injury, and in miraculous timing, the bridal march began. The room stood at attention and while every face studied the bride, I studied every face, determined to find some shred of familiarity in any of them. Because one thing was certain: none of these heads were craning toward us. They were all gawking at me. But I didn’t recognize a single soul. I wracked my brain for some brief acquaintance, a work encounter, a High School friend of a friend...but nothing. I could feel my face redden with paranoia, convincing myself without any evidence at all that everyone in this room knew exactly who I was—that I was utterly exposed.  

Rebecca squeezed my hand when the couple shared their first kiss, and that’s when I finally roused from my daze and noticed the happy tears gleaming in her eyes. I kissed her hand fiercely and she mouthed the words: I love you. But as everyone stood and cheered, an intrusive rebuttal pummeled through my thoughts: Are you sure?  

Rebecca was already embracing some stranger by the time my eyes adjusted to the dim reception hall lighting. It already smelled faintly of sweat and alcohol. Loud music drowned out conversation and erratic lighting obscured faces into anonymity. It was a room to get lost in, but I’d never felt more conspicuous. 

“Woah! Julian?” a man called from Rebecca’s side.  

I whirled around with a start while Rebecca’s eyes danced suspiciously between me and the complete stranger pinning me with astonished recognition. 

“How do you know—” she began. 

“Hey man!” I cut her off. I can’t explain why, but it suddenly felt absolutely vital to go along with...whatever this was. I leaned into the man for a rough embrace, slapping his back as though we’d been friends since the good old days...whenever those would've been.  

“Oh my god!” he hollered to the general vicinity, “Guys, it’s Julian! Julian Freaky-Deaky Dunn!” 

My eyes shot to Rebecca whose face was a mosaic of confusion and concern.  

“I know, stupid nickname.” I shrugged, “Guys.” 

But in truth, my pulse was throbbing in my ears. If I’d pulled my hands out of my pockets, they would’ve tremored with the nervous adrenaline pounding through my veins. Because that had never been my nickname. 

People started crowding around me and I doled out greetings with gusto. Lots of them wanted photos with me, which I tried to decline, but flashes blinded me regardless. 

“No way!” girls nudged Rebecca, “How are you with Julian?” 

And I saw it chip away at her. Her shoulders started drooping as she drifted further and further into the periphery of the crowd gathering around me. That’s when I lost patience with the facade. I bolted through the mob, grabbed Rebecca’s arm, and shot toward the darkest, most remote table in sight.  

“Julian,” Rebecca moaned once I sat her down, “what’s going on?” 

“Listen, I—” I sighed as terrified tears welled in her eyes, “I meet a lot of people at the coffee shop.” 

She glared at me in disbelief and I dropped my head. I knew it fell utterly short of adequate, but she was already so upset, and this wasn’t the place to explain why I was terrified of the truth. 

“Ok, honestly?” I offered, “I don’t know any of these people. I just didn’t want to be rude to your friends. But, one of my baristas is good with social media. She’s been making TikToks. You know I don’t keep up with any of that. Maybe one or two went viral.” I rested my palm heavily on her knee, “Trust me, Rebecca, it’s either that or I look like someone famous...who’s also named Julian Dunn.” 

She softened slightly. Just enough. And I was able to keep her attention on me for the rest of the evening until Beyonce’s classic dredged up every woman with a vacant ring finger. She slunk off to the dance floor with a wily smile, and I seized the opportunity to pivot toward the couple across the table. Because there was no TikTiok barista. No doppelganger. No corny nickname. Not a shred of familiarity in any of these faces. But there was the...before. 

“Listen, this may sound a little dumb,” I started in a rush, “but, it seems like you know me...like everyone knows me. But...how?” 

I could feel the man’s jealousy as the woman literally dragged her eyes over me from head to toe with a hunger that sent my anxiety plummeting into panic. I hadn't been looked at like that in a long, long time. 

“You’re Julian Dunn, aren’t you?” she said as if that alone would explain everything, “Oh my god.” she plucked up her phone and bit her lip as she thumbed through Instagram, “This is you.” 

I snatched the phone, my legs clenched tight with horror. A bare-chested thirst trap taunted me from the screen as he teased at his pants and worked his muscles with sensual rhythm. It was so surreal, I jammed my thumb into the phone, scrolling to the next reel. The same man was drenched in water, his body—no, my body—completely bare while—. I let the phone droop between my knees as I rubbed at my face. Earlier that day, I was absolutely positive that I would never see those images again—had paid good money for that assurance. And now every single one of Rebecca’s friends were following a fake profile streaming my bare ass like it was casual entertainment. 

This is exactly what I’d meant when I said that life was complicated. I spent years naked for strangers. And it had always felt a little sick if I thought about it too hard. But it also felt, I don’t know...truthful. Taking my clothes off felt like stepping out of the shadows of polite denial and crowd-sourced norms, and for once in my life, being completely honest about humanity and its most deeply seeded darkness.  

And honesty paid. It paid to keep me off the streets when I failed my first semester of college. It paid for the startup years of my coffee shop. It paid for a better future—one where I would meet Rebecca and feel like there was some small way that I could deserve her. 

I shoved the phone back to the woman who still devoured me with her eyes, and I threw my napkin on my plate. I checked to make sure Rebecca was still blissfully dancing to Single Ladies, and I stormed out of the ballroom, throat tightening as I frantically dialed the all-too familiar number. 

“Frank Bassina.” answered a rakish voice. 

“Frankie, you have to take them down.” I ordered my old manager without preamble. He was the only person on this planet who could’ve dug them up after professionals had assured me they’d been scrubbed from the internet and anywhere else they might have been sequestered. 

“Sh—Julian? Is that you?” 

“Yes! My videos. Take them off the internet NOW!”  

“Hold on, do you know how viral they’ve gone? Millions of views, man! TikTok is about to write me a fat check. YouTube too!” he cackled triumphantly, “There’s no way I can take them down.” 

“They’re my videos. I took them offline years ago, and you’re going to do the same immediately or I will sue your ass into the Salvation Army shelter.” 

“Julian, man, if this is about royalties, we can make an arrangement. I’ll give you a cut. Just like old times.” 

“I don’t want a cut! And I most definitely do not want old times! I need you to take. them. Down.” 

Frankie stuttered, “I—I just can’t do that. I really need the business. I’m—I’m sorry.” 

“Then that fat check better cover a fucking exceptional lawyer!” I had barely hung up the phone before I launched it across the parking lot in a blinding rage. 

I crouched on the sidewalk, taking deep, measured breaths. It’s always been difficult to feel a black-and-white kind of way about those videos. Watching them again was a war of shame and pride. Shame for how much of myself I’d sold off to whoever was willing to pay, but pride in knowing I’d had the strength to do what needed to be done to survive. The coil of feelings had always been difficult to untangle. But what wasn’t difficult was the absolute certainty that Rebecca could never see those videos. It wasn't so much that I thought she couldn’t understand; more that I never wanted her to have to try. I wanted Rebecca to have her simple, tactile world. I wanted Rebecca to believe that the universe was a kind and generous place...because I believed in Rebecca. 

Sure, I would eventually muscle Frankie into taking down the videos. But I didn’t have eventually kind of time. I raked my hands through my hair in impotent frustration. All it would take is one person out of the hundreds in that room to thrust a screen in Rebecca’s face, and the best thing in my life would be over. I flat-palmed a concrete column twice before collecting myself and sauntering back inside.  

I was just in time to see the bouquet go gliding in a sloppy arch over a clawing mass of women, only to land in a hand gracefully and calmly laid open to receive it. Rebecca blinked up at the bouquet now in her palm and she spun around, searching for me. We locked eyes and the way she jittered with elation filled me with a well of hope so deep and untainted, I could almost forget about the before. I could almost believe. I opened my arms to her, and I fully intended to whisk her away however I could until I found a better place—a better way—to tell her the unbearably complicated truth.  

But that’s when the bride came barreling toward her, screaming ecstatically. Rebecca swerved into her friend’s embrace before attentively tuning in to something playing on the bride’s phone. 

I took an involuntary step forward. Just one. Because I didn’t have to know what the video was to see it in her beholding eyes—the way they went flat along with her smile. Her eyebrows furrowed and she worried at her bottom lip. Her grip tightened on the flowers as her head slowly began to shake at the screen. 

I’ve never known a heartbreak so unbearable as the one I watched Rebecca feel in that moment. My mind was a string of curses so loud that I couldn't think; I’ve never hated a group of strangers more strongly than in that singular moment. But all I could do was stand there like an idiot watching my girlfriend watch the man she loved dance at the strings of the lustful millions. I just stood there frozen as our simple, private life, lived exclusively for one another, imploded in on itself. And there was nothing I could do.  

Except to walk away.  

I didn’t tell her goodbye because I’d already hurt her enough. I didn’t take one last look because I knew I didn’t deserve one. I got in my car and I peeled out of the parking lot and I said a silent goodbye to the apartment balcony sunsets and the gaping photo album and the shelves overflowing with well-loved paperbacks. I said goodbye to all the ways I could’ve told her but chose not to because life with her felt too perfect for a truth like that. I said goodbye to everything that could’ve been. Because I was capable of exposing my body to total strangers, but I wasn’t strong enough to bear the pain of Rebecca’s broken eyes fixing on me as she tried to forgive my betrayal.  

Not when I knew that it would never be ok. Because as hard as I tried to erase those years of my life, we never truly outlive our pasts. No matter how much we want to believe.