I felt comfortable being called “weekend girl” and even coined the nickname. We met running on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica. Our first date followed: a run through Pacific Palisades. We talk about food. Our second date: dinner. We talk about running. I was getting out of a complicated romantic relationship and starting a new job, so a casual fling seemed appropriate. We had infinite common interests; making plans was easy. He was the best kisser I'd ever met, but I still liked my solo weeknights.
It continued like this for a few months. There were sleepless nights, laughter and lovemaking. I didn't care where he was on a Wednesday. I had a dark, dumpy one-bedroom apartment further south on the overlooked part of Bundy Drive, and he had a well-appointed, well-lit two-bedroom apartment, so we spent weekends at his house or, occasionally, at the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs. Things were light and fluffy until he made a proposal.
“Do you want to be adventure partners?” he asked as we ate dinner in the hotel bar.
“Well, yeah, I like that title. Does that mean I'm not the 'weekend girl' anymore?”
“Adventure Partners” sounded good, but it was vague.
“I was thinking we could clean out a closet in my house and you could spend more time in there.” He looked forward.
We organized the closet the following weekend. I was wearing a t-shirt and only my underwear, while he was wearing shorts to sleep, no shirt. We agreed it was a fantastic Friday night. I woke up in the morning to the warm California sun and hot coffee drunk on the balcony. Realizing that the outdoor space had enough light to drain some tomatoes, we headed to the nursery to complete our nest.
I had lived in several apartments with limited outdoor space, so I never knew the color of my thumbs. We uprooted three healthy tomato plants and three pots. We added plant food and tomato cages to the cart. The staff offered their expertise several times and I wondered if they were wearing something that screamed “gardening newbie.” We declined the help because it seemed easy enough; Put the plants in the ground and water them.
Two wonderful months later, we received some tomatoes and a lot of love. We were planning adventures, date nights, and what we would cook with our farmers market forages. It was effortless. We spent most of our time just the two of us, but we were slowly integrating our respective worlds and families. I was happier than ever and felt lucky. You should be grateful when your biggest problem is the sad looking tomato plants on your balcony. Something was wrong.
Back to the garden center we headed, bringing a leaf as a specimen. They said we had an unidentified pest and pointed us to neem oil. We came back with our babies, and when we started spraying, there they were: horny worms. They were bright green with little stingers on their butts and were as long as my index finger. There were dozens of them. We loaded them into a giant glass jar, but it was too late. My green dreams were now caterpillar nightmares. Maybe we should have asked more questions at the beginning? How did I not realize this before?
“Do you want froyo?” I loved mochi and thought that would cheer me up.
“Sure, I'm just going to take a quick shower.” He put down his phone and jumped. I went to grab my mascara and saw the white and blue messages light up.
“I wish I was with you tonight, but Em's here.” No name, just a number. I scrolled up: breasts but no face. Who was this girl?
I didn't move to Los Angeles to become an actor, but I certainly put on a performance that night. I let the phone go off without saying a word while the shower turned off. We ate the yogurt and went to bed early. I lay like a mummy and wide-eyed next to him during the sleepless night. At dawn, he had a plan.
I spent the next morning on his iPad reading strings of text. “You're so beautiful,” or “I'd love to take you out to dinner,” or “I'm not with that girl; you're the one for me.” There was nudity and sexual messages and I love you. And so many people. I gasped and shook as I read the first few lines, but as the minutes passed it became more like entertainment. It was over two hours of reading material. I was hungry and had planned to get my nails done, so I grabbed the wallet I'd left on the table and helped myself to a champagne lunch and a mani-pedi.
I got home before him and got ready for the fireworks. The bubbles and “five more minutes” foot massage helped boost my confidence.
“Baby!” He exclaimed, excited and clueless.
“Baby!” I parroted. “I just finished reading your iPad! What a productive morning!”
She was calm as he paused.
“Oh my God. Get out. I can't believe you violated my privacy,” he screamed.
I responded without getting defensive. “It's sad. I thought I loved you. But it turns out you love 13 other people, and that's not going to work for me.” With calculated confidence, I ordered him to take my things out of the closet. I was eager to return to my safe, dungeon-like apartment.
“I hope you get help. You look like you need it.” I really cared about him and it was hard to walk away.
It was a lot to take in in a short time, but I'm grateful for the lessons. For me, integrity is paramount and asking questions from the beginning is imperative. Even when dating gets tough, I won't settle for anything less than the truth. This summer, I'll accompany planting basil, dill, and marigolds with my tomatoes and an occasional spritz of a natural insecticide.
The author is an entrepreneur and is working on a book about overcoming betrayal. He divides his time between Los Angeles and Michigan. She is on Instagram: @emilybrynwilliams.
Los Angeles Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your true story. We paid $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. You can find shipping guidelines. here. You can find previous columns. here.
