Our meeting was not pretty; He wrote psychological thrillers, not romantic comedies. I appeared on their suggested profiles on Instagram. He followed, and I, an aspiring actor who astutely noticed the CAA tag in his bio, followed. No matter how tired you are of this city, that hope of being “discovered” is stubborn. I ignored all the other hungry actresses I followed. I ignored the absence of tagged posts and friends in her photos.
At our first date, I had been sober in AA for 10 months and had been celibate for a year and a half. I had sworn that the next time I had sex it would be the antithesis of all the sex I'd ever had before: sober, consensual, and with genuine mutual trust and care.
He took this oath seriously and I thanked him. After two months of hand-holding and dry humping, hiking in Malibu, making out in Yamashiro, and dressing up for Cinespia at Hollywood Forever Cemetery, I finally let him put the P in the V at an Airbnb in Joshua Tree. We had sex under the stars at the end of October, and in the morning we did it again on top of a rock in the middle of the park.
On the way back he bought me a vegan Van Leeuwen and from then on we were pretty hooked.
He spoke about his past infrequently, but responded when asked. He was born in Virginia, he told me, where I'm also from. But soon after, he moved to Beachwood Canyon with his parents and younger brother. He promised to show me the house he grew up in one day. He went to UCLA and had been living in Hollywood with his brother since they graduated. He mentioned some friends, but I never saw them.
I reasoned that he was in his 30s and worked in a lonely, every man for himself industry. And he had his brother, with whom he was extremely close, although I had not met him yet either.
By Christmas, I was getting restless.
He told me he loved me right when the ball dropped on New Year's Eve. A week later, the January wildfires arrived. We escaped together and my worried father on the east coast paid for a hotel room further south. We made romance out of tragedy and took our time on the way back when evacuation orders for the Sunset Fire were lifted. Driving down PCH, he made a U turn into a smoothie shop.
“We used to go here all the time when we were kids,” he said. He then took his credit card and told me to order two shakes. I figured this nostalgia must have distracted me from the fact that my weak stomach couldn't handle dairy in such large quantities.
Still, I ordered one; He didn't want to tone down his inner child's indulgence. I vomited afterwards, but it was worth it; I was grateful that they included me in such a happy memory of theirs.
The initial chaos of the fires subsided and he still hadn't met anyone in his life. We were close to six months. Although I never felt suspicious. Just restless.
He took my impatience in stride and talked about my plans to meet his younger brother soon. Later, he reasoned that he was waiting until after my birthday; I didn't want to ruin my celebratory state with the truth.
An anonymous woman online was the first to attack, just a week earlier. It was in one of those Facebook groups. You know: Are we dating the same guy? Los Angeles LA.
I was in my bathroom when I got the alert. He did not grow up in Los Angeles, the woman wrote. He lived with his twin. He didn't go to UCLA. He will never commit to you.
When he came back, all I could do was hand him my phone. He didn't turn away from the screen in shock. He simply sat on the bed, took a deep breath, and repeated the same monologue he had delivered to all the young actresses before me.
It was true. His brother was not two years younger, but two minutes. They were twins. He did not grow up in Los Angeles, but in Virginia and then throughout the United States. He didn't go to UCLA, but to a university in Virginia.
He said he and his twin were in cahoots in this strange lie. They had been telling women about it for years. He said the industry would take him more seriously if he were from here. He said people were prejudiced against male twins. (Huh? I thought.) He looked at me with his sad postpartum blues and shared how he told these innocuous falsehoods, ultimately out of deep self-hatred.
My pity overcame my pride and we stayed together for another month and a half. I fought for us. He wanted to fix it, to give him the love he said he had never received. I had also done horrible things to satisfy my self-hatred. But look at me now!
Being a positive influence became a new addiction. I gave him “All About Love” by bell hooks, which emphasizes the need for honesty in all partnerships. I kindly suggested therapy. We distracted ourselves by maxing out my AMC Stubs to watch all the Oscar nominated movies.
But the questions kept coming and my confidence was crumbling. It was not the content of the lies, but the ease and frequency with which they were told.
“What's up with that smoothie place?” I asked abruptly one day. “It was just a place of random turmoil.” He smiled. I'd like to say that was the end, the realization that he let me get physically sick from his lies, but it wasn't.
That same month I moved to Silver Lake and he helped me a lot. He went on tour with me, built my bed and brought all my clothes from Hollywood. And that's what's so frustrating: As sickly as it was, it was also sweet. As much as he seemed psychotic, he was also romantic. Like this city.
In the end, my suspicions outweighed my compassion. I finally called him out on all the Instagram meanies I followed and he exploded, accusing me of self-sabotage. The sad thing is that I believed it. It took a long call with my sponsor to understand that my doubts were valid and that I deserved someone who would work to regain my trust when it had been broken. He wasn't capable of that.
We had no contact for a week and then met up for Thai takeout in Silver Lake Meadow. He had finally read “All About Love” (supposedly) and claimed he had made an appointment with therapy. I told him that maybe he could call me at some point. It was bittersweet and strangely cinematic. We kissed and then walked in opposite directions.
I cried for a week and hoped for about a month. But just like with substances, the situation seemed increasingly strange and sordid the further I got from it. We met again in the summer. He had quit therapy and taken up smoking, and I caught him stumbling into some random lies again. I definitely ended it over text.
At first he joked that “the worst thing you can call someone in Los Angeles is an imposter.” I wish I had noticed that line as foreshadowing, but like any good mystery, the clues are only apparent in retrospect.
The author works as a freelance production assistant and at the reception of a local yoga studio. She lives in Silver Lake. She is on Instagram: @margaretkeanee.
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.
