We met at a boba shop on Santa Monica Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue, perfectly situated between our apartments in the bustling heart of West Hollywood. She was wearing light-wash jeans with tears at the knees and a purple North Face long-sleeve T-shirt that said “Save the Polar Bears.” My beige jacket was fluffy and seemed excessive for a Los Angeles winter. My dark brown hair was tied up in two braids.
I sat at one of the bistro tables, my nerves on edge. The crisp winter air came through the open doors, bringing the excitement of a first date. A few minutes later, I saw him coming around the corner. He approached in light-wash oversized jeans and a black hoodie, his cap casting a shadow over his face.
When he stepped into the fluorescent lighting of the store, his bright blue eyes, lightly lined with black eyeliner, met mine. He smiled and I noticed how his teeth were perfectly square except for his canines, shining in a way that made me feel self-conscious.
“Nathanael?” I said, with a hint of hope in my voice.
“Hello, love,” he responded, his British accent warm and welcoming. He pulled me towards his tall, thin body, and I inhaled his scent, somewhat like a fireplace. “We almost agreed,” he said, grabbing the collar of my jacket mockingly. A wave of warmth spread through me and I laughed, momentarily speechless.
After ordering my boba, I suggested we play the games hidden under the tables. “I just won fourth place in my family's Christmas poker tournament,” I said proudly, shuffling the deck.
“Four?” He raised an eyebrow and a smile appeared at the corners of his mouth.
“Yes, fourth,” I confirmed, nodding with a mix of pride and embarrassment. He congratulated me, his amusement evident, and let me show him blackjack while we waited.
We flirted and exchanged dirty looks between rounds. After hitting him three times, we went outside so he could smoke, the night air cutting into our skin.
The walk back to his apartment was short and he couldn't seem to stop laughing. I wasn't sure if it was because it was fun or because I liked it, maybe both. Stopping in front of his building, he asked me what I wanted to do. It was already 11 at night. It should have been harder for me to answer.
“I thought we were going in,” I said.
For the next five months, we had a casual arrangement that was as exhilarating as it was confusing. I found myself analyzing it often. I theorized that he learned the art of conversation through music. As for his talent for seduction, I think it was a mix of deep-seated insecurities and the kind of charm that comes with being a former rock star.
To say I was attracted to him would be an understatement. I was fascinated by his resilience, fueled by a diet of cigarettes and Coca-Cola Zero. How had it not collapsed? But it was his intensity, combined with surprising kindness, that really captivated me.
He had always been kind, but he kept it simple. In Nathan's presence, my austerity seemed obvious and anything but cold. I imagined the kind of girl he would fall in love with: someone who could dye her hair any color and still look effortlessly stunning, turning heads wherever she went. When she smiled at him, completely in love, every man in the room would faint with envy. She thrived on love, integrating effortlessly into his life, making it difficult to remember how they had started dating in the first place. And then, inevitably, everything would fall apart, leaving him in the rubble, as if she were a tornado sweeping through the Midwest.
I was a 6 at best, a little chubby, very sensitive and plagued with social anxiety. I have an aversion to relationships and monogamy because I don't think you can really depend on anyone. I hate sleeping in other people's beds and I can't imagine spending all day with a man without developing at least a repulsion towards him. I have never been an object of envy because the last place I would be would be somewhere other men could see me, especially at that cool Saturday night party or at Barney's Beanery… ever. The most important thing is that my intensity was that of a gentle breeze.
I knew our casual arrangement would never go any further. However, despite this, the longest I could go without responding to him was one day.
Five months later, I found myself on the floor, surrounded by the shattered remains of the porcelain ashtray I had bought him. She mentioned moving to a new apartment, so I bought it for her as a housewarming gift, hoping to add a touch of beauty to her favorite roommate's ritual. But then he didn't text me for a whole month. In a fit of tears, I broke it, cutting my hands on the porcelain shards.
Amidst the broken pieces of my thoughtful gift, revelations began to emerge. I remembered one night when Nathan asked, “Why do women get so mad at me when I don't sleep with them?”
I responded, “Because rejection hurts.”
Even though his casual mention of female attention hurt me, I found my response revealing. Rejection is personal; cuts deeply.
It seems trivial to compare rejection to a real loss, but it may be just that: the loss of something you never really had. It generates a unique kind of shame, the pain of loving someone who doesn't love you back.
I realized that I had never really felt accepted by Nathan. I kept coming back, hoping it would ease the rejection I didn't even recognize. The truth is that I was the only one who could do that by allowing that feeling to exist, along with many other emotions within me.
And it got better. I learned that focusing on what was not only led to misery. When I decided to move forward, I broke that cycle of negative thoughts. I didn't consciously look for the things I liked about myself, but to my surprise, they came naturally when I resumed life.
The author is a somewhat new resident of Los Angeles, specifically West Hollywood. She loves Los Angeles and is grateful to live in such a diverse and vibrant city. Outside of work, he likes to document his experiences through stories and essays. To stay up to date on more of his work, check out his Instagram. @lyssacady or @thenaughtypoet on Wattpad.
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.
