We met at a boba shop on Santa Monica Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue, perfectly located between apartments in the bustling heart of West Hollywood. I was wearing light-wash jeans with rips at the knees and a long-sleeved purple North Face with “Save the Polar Bears” written on it. My beige jacket was fluffy and felt overkill for LA winters. My dark brown hair was tied into two braids at the back.
I sat down at one of the bistro tables, my nerves tingling. The crisp winter air flowed in through the open door, bringing with it the thrill of a first date. A few minutes later I spotted him turning a corner. He approached wearing oversized light-wash jeans and a black hoodie, his hat casting a shadow over his face.
As he stepped into the store’s fluorescent lights, his bright blue eyes with a thin layer of black eyeliner met mine. He smiled, and I noticed that his teeth were perfectly square except for his canines, so shiny that I felt self-conscious.
“Nathanael?” I said, a hint of hope in my voice.
“Hello, my love,” he replied in his warm, inviting British accent. He pulled me into his tall, lean body, and I breathed in his scent, a chimney-like smell. “We almost look good together,” he said teasingly, grabbing the lapel of my jacket. Warmth spread through me and I laughed, momentarily speechless.
After ordering boba, I suggested we hide under the table and play a game. “I came fourth in my family’s Christmas poker tournament,” I said proudly as I shuffled the deck.
“Fourth?” He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes, number four,” I confirmed, nodding with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. He congratulated me, clearly enjoying himself, and let me teach him how to play blackjack while he waited.
We flirted between rounds and exchanged excited glances. After I hit him three times, we moved outside so he could smoke, but the night air stung my skin.
The walk back to his apartment was short and I couldn’t stop laughing. I didn’t know if it was because he’s funny or because I like him, but probably both. We stopped in front of his building and he asked me what I wanted to do. It should have been more difficult to answer since it was already 11pm.
“I thought you were going in,” I said.
For the next five months, we continued our bewildering yet refreshingly casual arrangement. I often found myself analyzing him. I hypothesized that he learned conversation skills through music. As for his talent for seduction, I think it was a mixture of deep-seated insecurities and a certain charm that comes with being a former rock star.
It would be an understatement to say that I was attracted to him. I was fascinated by his resilience, fueled by a diet of zero cigarettes and coke. Why didn’t he crack? But what really attracted me was his intensity combined with amazing kindness.
She was always kind, but dressed plainly. In front of Nathan, my celibate life was obvious and not at all cool. I imagined the type of woman he would fall in love with. She is a woman who can dye her hair any color and still look effortlessly beautiful and attract attention wherever she goes. When she smiles at him, completely smitten, all the men in the room will faint with envy. She valued love so much and integrated herself into his life so effortlessly that it was hard to remember how they even started dating in the first place. And inevitably, it all comes crashing down, leaving him stranded in the wreckage like a tornado rolling through the Midwest.
I was six years old at most, a little chubby, very sensitive, and suffered from social anxiety. I have an aversion to relationships and monogamy. Because people believe that they can’t really rely on anyone. I hate sleeping in other people’s beds, and I can’t imagine spending an entire day with a man without having at least one dislike for him. I have never been the object of envy. Because the last places I go are places where other men can see me, especially last Saturday night or a cool party at Barney’s Beanery… never before. Most importantly, my strength was that of a breeze.
I knew our casual arrangement would never go any further. Despite this, I could go a day at most without replying to him.
Five months later, I was lying on the floor, surrounded by the shattered remains of the porcelain ashtray I had bought him. He said he was moving to a new apartment, so I bought it as a housewarming gift, hoping to bring a little beauty to his favorite friend’s ritual. But then he didn’t email me for a whole month. I broke it in tears and cut my hand on the porcelain shard.
Amidst the fragments of my thoughtful gifts, revelations began to surface. I remembered the night Nathan asked me, “Why do women get so angry when I don’t sleep with them?”
I answered, “Because rejection hurts.”
I found my answer insightful, even though his casual mention of female attention stung. Rejection is personal. It cuts deep.
It seems trivial to compare rejection to real loss, but it could be exactly that: losing something you never really had. It creates a unique kind of shame, the pain of wanting someone who doesn’t want you back.
I realized that I had never felt truly accepted by Nathan. I kept coming back, hoping he would alleviate the rejection I didn’t realize I had. The truth is, I was the only one who could do that by letting that emotion exist, along with the countless other emotions that were inside me.
And it got better. I learned that clinging to something you are not only leads to unhappiness. When I decided to move on, I was able to break the cycle of negative thinking. I wasn’t consciously looking for things I liked about myself, but once I resumed my life, they appeared surprisingly naturally.
The author is somewhat new to LA, specifically West Hollywood. She loves LA and is grateful to live in such a diverse and vibrant city. Outside of work, she likes to record her experiences through short stories and essays. To keep up to date with her work, visit her on Instagram @lyssacady or @thenaughtypoet on Wattpad.
LA Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in the LA area in all its glorious manifestations. We want to hear your real story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email [email protected]. See submission guidelines here. Past columns can be viewed here.
