Later, as we divided everything we owned and I packed up our past, I found a photo between the pages of a book. It was from his birthday that year, a group of us at dinner. He sat on one side of the table, smiling, wearing a red tie around his neck. I was on his left and she sat on his right. He’d compared us, side by side, for months. I’d lost a competition I had no idea I was in.
Divorced and cynical, I moved to New York, eager to forget what I was leaving behind.
I buried my hurt as fast as I could. My Colombian complexion set against Irish blue eyes quickly caught the attention of men. To them I was exotic; to me they were identical. Their names varied, but their desire to withhold information remained the same. I was convinced that no matter what they said, if I looked hard enough, I’d find that they were all like the man I’d left, the one that left me. My doubts disgusted me, but no one had yet proved me wrong.
Until my first date with Philip, a writer I’d met on a subway platform. We shared sake and exchanged stories. He began with his own hour-long confessional. I sat shocked, but he went on. He’d lost his virginity at 19 and regularly snuck into a double feature. He downloaded music illegally and had a six-year-old daughter. Instantly, his secrets were scattered on the table yet strangely it didn’t stop me from needing to uncover more.
Three months into our romance, my prying rituals were in full swing. While he was in the shower, I checked pockets for receipts, smelled clothes worn the night before. Early mornings, before he woke, I slid open his iPad, uncovering a dormant Twitter account, cute animal e-mails from his mother and a tagged photo on Facebook of him and a busty blonde a month before. 37 people liked this, I did not.
Voicemail meddling revealed bad blood between him and his parents. Debt collection notices were stuffed into envelopes and piled under his desk. An old unused passport in his underwear drawer exposed his disinterest of adventures abroad. Those details were all red flags that I had dismissed. I’d been too busy checking his Internet browser to realize how incompatible we might be.
I lay in bed awake one night, waiting for his snoring to begin. I wiggled out from under his heavy arm and softly tiptoed out of the room. The hunt began in his office, through folders, binders and photo albums. After I finished, I neatly tucked away proof of magazine subscriptions and a happy childhood filled with awful sweaters. I hurried to the guest bedroom next. Holding my breath, I lifted the mattress, or at least I tried to. I carefully unpacked shoeboxes, and shook books by their binds. I knew I should stop. And I would, once I found what I was looking for. I always searched for the same thing, the other woman. Either the one he hadn’t let go of from his past or the one he was sneakily starting a future with. Disappointed by another room, I walked over to the couch defeated and anxious. Maybe I had let this go too far. Maybe there was actually nothing to be found. I leaned back, wondering if I should check the freezer again. I felt a pinch against my leg. In between the cushions was a leather journal I’d never seen before. Jackpot. I pulled it out and opened to the dog-eared page.
I haven’t said it yet but I love her. He scrawled in sloppy script.
Later, as we divided everything we owned and I packed up our past, I found a photo between the pages of a book. It was from his birthday that year, a group of us at dinner. He sat on one side of the table, smiling, wearing a red tie around his neck. I was on his left and she sat on his right. He’d compared us, side by side, for months. I’d lost a competition I had no idea I was in.
Divorced and cynical, I moved to New York, eager to forget what I was leaving behind.
I buried my hurt as fast as I could. My Colombian complexion set against Irish blue eyes quickly caught the attention of men. To them I was exotic; to me they were identical. Their names varied, but their desire to withhold information remained the same. I was convinced that no matter what they said, if I looked hard enough, I’d find that they were all like the man I’d left, the one that left me. My doubts disgusted me, but no one had yet proved me wrong.
Until my first date with Philip, a writer I’d met on a subway platform. We shared sake and exchanged stories. He began with his own hour-long confessional. I sat shocked, but he went on. He’d lost his virginity at 19 and regularly snuck into a double feature. He downloaded music illegally and had a six-year-old daughter. Instantly, his secrets were scattered on the table yet strangely it didn’t stop me from needing to uncover more.
Three months into our romance, my prying rituals were in full swing. While he was in the shower, I checked pockets for receipts, smelled clothes worn the night before. Early mornings, before he woke, I slid open his iPad, uncovering a dormant Twitter account, cute animal e-mails from his mother and a tagged photo on Facebook of him and a busty blonde a month before. 37 people liked this, I did not.
Voicemail meddling revealed bad blood between him and his parents. Debt collection notices were stuffed into envelopes and piled under his desk. An old unused passport in his underwear drawer exposed his disinterest of adventures abroad. Those details were all red flags that I had dismissed. I’d been too busy checking his Internet browser to realize how incompatible we might be.
I lay in bed awake one night, waiting for his snoring to begin. I wiggled out from under his heavy arm and softly tiptoed out of the room. The hunt began in his office, through folders, binders and photo albums. After I finished, I neatly tucked away proof of magazine subscriptions and a happy childhood filled with awful sweaters. I hurried to the guest bedroom next. Holding my breath, I lifted the mattress, or at least I tried to. I carefully unpacked shoeboxes, and shook books by their binds. I knew I should stop. And I would, once I found what I was looking for. I always searched for the same thing, the other woman. Either the one he hadn’t let go of from his past or the one he was sneakily starting a future with. Disappointed by another room, I walked over to the couch defeated and anxious. Maybe I had let this go too far. Maybe there was actually nothing to be found. I leaned back, wondering if I should check the freezer again. I felt a pinch against my leg. In between the cushions was a leather journal I’d never seen before. Jackpot. I pulled it out and opened to the dog-eared page.
I haven’t said it yet but I love her. He scrawled in sloppy script.
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