Hindsight

I move backward. Impossibly, the person in front of me, with whom I had been most intimate, was a total stranger. A stranger who held my heart in his hands, holding all the power of the situation, possibly aware of his impact, but seemingly not caring. As I took a step back, I wondered how he could do what he had done, how he could betray my trust, how he could take both our worst fears and make it real. His eyes swelled up and tears appeared; at least he felt something. His body remained stoic. No sign of intimacy, no invitation for reprieve, no possibility of reconciliation. And his words hung in the air. I’m in love with someone else, he said. Perhaps it was my own imagination, but he seemed resolute in his position. So, I headed home, and I grabbed a bottle of wine. I didn’t even bother with a glass. I drank until I felt I might have reached a limit. So, I slept. I dreamed about him, about a simpler time.

           I move backward. I see him, tears in his eyes once more as he furiously defends himself. My suspicions were wrong, he says. He could never betray me. I want to believe him. After that night, I did. After all, just because he had been spending a lot of time with a coworker, it didn’t mean he was suddenly unfaithful to the person he had declared he could never live without. We hug. We kiss. Our night fills with guilty passion, but both of us hold back, seemingly because of the guilt. But I know this will be hard to move past. We always do, though. We always get through it. The dream shifts.

           I move backward. I am standing in the living room, finding a pair of glasses that belong to neither me, nor him. I ask him about it and he plays coy at first. But I remember these. I ask him about Jordan. His face goes red and he “suddenly remembers” that Jordan had spent the night while I was away. Jordan came over, crying hysterically. I didn’t even ask why, but he seems to have a full explanation, knowing every detail of Jordan’s predicament that night. Fair enough, Jordan was new in town. I try to remain calm. I convince myself, despite everything, that all is well.

           I move backward. The dream shifts to the night I left. A business trip, shouldn’t take more than a couple days, I tell him. He seemed distant the day before I left. As if he were already preparing to spend the weekend alone. I tell him he could go out his friends. He tells me Jordan would be there, and I say that was fine. I trust him. But I know, deep down, I’ll feel better if other people accompany them while they’re out. So, I keep urging him to go out with a group, trying to be subtle. But the seed is planted.

           I move backward. I’m returning from a trip, and he greets me, a little less enthusiastically than usual. I ask him what’s wrong, and he shrugs, telling me he’s tired. We climb into the car and I offer to drive. The flight wasn’t long, I tell him, if he’s tired, I can take over. It’s more than an hour’s drive back home. He refuses, telling me he’s feeling well enough. I ask if this was about the conversation we had before, and he goes silent. We remain that way for the drive home.

           I move backward. He tells me he cannot stand being without me for so long. I take too many trips, he says, when I should be prioritizing our relationship. I tell him he’s usually absent when I’m home anyway. He’s usually playing video games or napping or watching a movie. Or, he’s out with friends or at the gym. I remind him that he’s been spending a lot of time with his new co-worker, Jordan. I was angry, I didn’t actually think anything was happening. But he gets defensive. And he gets loud. I finally leave, opting to take an Uber to the airport.

           I move backward. I spend the night alone. He is out with friends. I’ve tried spending time with his friends, but we simply do not get along. So, when he goes out, I stay in. It’s been a frequent occurrence lately. I sip a glass of wine, reading a book. This one’s about a goddess trapped on an island, meeting people passing by, but ultimately destined to be alone. I put it down and watch a movie instead, wondering what he’s up to. I check the time and decide to go to bed.

           I move backward. The dream shifts. He’s telling me about Jordan. This person who had just started working with him. Jordan, who had moved from a small, crime-ridden town. He wanted us to be a source of comfort, inviting Jordan over, and I happily obliged. He seemed so excited. He kisses me as I agree to invite Jordan for dinner. This will finally be the moment, he says, that he gets to become the source of comfort that he's always found in others. I agree to make a nice dinner, but I tell him I plan to head to bed early so I can be up for my next work trip.

           I move backward. Impossibly, this man who will become a stranger to me is everything. He smiles as I come home from my most recent trip. I walk out to baggage claim and he runs at me, scooping me up in his arms and kissing me. It was only a few days, I tell him. He puts me down. I felt like forever, he says. The dream shifts.

           I move backward. He’s moving the last of his things into my place. It’s a house I inherited from my parents that, until recently, had remained largely vacant. He didn’t have that much to move in. The van he had been living out of was now empty. He stood in the driveway, mourning the loss of his longtime home, but excitedly anticipating his new one, probably. I take my place beside him and he grabs my hand. I know this is weird, he says, but I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I tell him I would do anything for him and we kiss. Home is in his arms.

           I move backward. We lay on top of his van, wrapped in each other’s arms. Blankets line the roof of the vehicle, but the greatest sense of warmth is him. I feel his chest rise and fall, and I unknowingly match my own breath to his. Without realizing it we are completely in sync. For a moment we are one being with two hearts, both yearning for the same thing: total intimacy. I feel his breath on my hair as I rest my head on his shoulder in the crest of his neck. The stars above us twinkle with impossible brightness, but for the first time ever, the celestial objects seem insignificant compared to this moment shared with him. I feel my body at ease. My legs feel like lead, and my waist sinks into the blankets on top of the metal. I feel every inch of him that is touching me, and I let our bodies connect, with each part touching each other feeling like parts to a whole, rather than that of two people. I feel his body as if it were my own. I move my arm across his stomach and focus only on the rhythm of his breath and the beat of his heart. We don’t need words. We rarely had. For this moment, we were one. And to prove it, as we look into each other’s eyes, almost simultaneously, we whisper the same thing. “I love you.”

           I move backward. He is telling me about his encounter with police last night. Someone had tried to break into his van. He asked police to help, but they would only point out how he shouldn’t have parked where he had anyway and that he was technically trespassing. His life is doomed to be a series of roadblocks, he says, it’s impossible to move up. I offer him a place to stay. Permanently. We have only been dating for six months, he tells me. It feels like I’ve known you all my life, I say. His face lights up with the biggest grin. He invites me out camping. One last night in the van before he gives it up and moves into my place. I tell him to keep the van. Maybe we can go on adventures.

           I move backward. The dream shifts to months earlier, the first time I leave him. He drops me off at the airport in his van. I remember the first time we met, when a friend introduced us, and later, when I first laid eyes on the inside of the van, and we immediately climbed into bed together. He tells me we’ll have so many more stories to tell when I get back. It’s only a few days, I say. It’ll feel like forever, he tells me. We kiss and I depart, thinking only of him the entire trip. My co-workers tell me I seem distracted. One even says that I’m in love. Not me, I say, but there’s certainly someone special. But I have my boundaries, and he has his.

           I move backward. Inside his van, on the bed in the back, we rest. A night of passion, this one particularly exhausting, and yet we both feel restless. So, we stay up and chat. He tells me about his attachment issues, likely stemming from losing his parents so young. What a coincidence, I say, I recently lost mine. I tell him of my trust issues, and how I seem to be betrayed by everyone I come across. What a coincidence, he says. His last few relationships ended with his partner cheating on him. We both reveal how we had been single for years before meeting each other. In that moment, we decided to stay faithful to each other. We put a label on Us. Betrayal was not an option.

           I move backward. He tells me about his van. But he’s not a bum, he says, he freshens up at the gym frequently and dresses in nicer clothing that he can really afford to give off the appearance of wealth. He doesn’t want to be seen as a bum, he says. In fact, he has a nice job with amazing co-workers who always offer him a place to stay. He usually refuses, he says, but he does secretly hope to do the same one day. To give someone a place to stay when they desperately need it. I tell him he’ll get there and ask to see the van. He gets nervous. Maybe on the sixth date, he says. That’s fine, I can wait. 

           I move backward. The dream shifts. My co-worker is introducing me to her good friend who she met in a bar. She’s not into men, but knows I am. Maybe we’ll hit it off, she says. I tell her it’s unlikely. I’ve been single for a while and plan to be for the foreseeable future. But we begin talking and it’s an instant connection. He seems to understand me in a way no one else does. He talks about himself, but frequently asks about me, not out of obligation, but seemingly because he is genuinely curious. I begin by withholding most of the truth. I give him as many fragments as I’m comfortable with. But little by little and suddenly, all at once, I give him everything. Scared that I’m driving him away, I decide to do it first. I’m happy being single, I say, and don’t want to change that. That’s okay, he says, me too. I reveal that I wasn’t expecting to like him. Me neither. Well, I should go. So should I. We walk out together.

           I move backward. I’m suddenly home, drinking a glass of wine. I feel empty. Alone. Although I tell everyone I am happy being single, I know I cannot handle being alone for long. I take out my phone and swipe through a dating app, making a few matches. Not worth the effort, I tell myself. I’m not ready to date. I need to work on myself. I feel unlikable. How can I make anyone else like me when I don’t even like me? Sighing, I pour another glass and I drink.