Stories Aren’t Over ’Til They’re Six Feet Under

I met Ryan on a chilly January night outside the Longshot, the local watering hole of choice for the alcoholics in my hometown. All I knew is that they had Sailor Jerry, which I was really into at the time (😨). These were some of my best days — days when alcohol was still fun.

I sat down in one of the plastic Adirondacks out front, next to a bucket of sand that was evidently functioning as an ashtray. I saw Ryan sit down next to me almost immediately. I don’t remember much of our conversation. You’d have to ask him, I know he remembers very vividly this conversation, he has told it to me many times since. My memory hasn’t held onto the words, but the feelings I felt in those moments have.

He told me he was a regular there. I thought I was a regular, yet I hadn’t seen him around. He noticed me though, he said. I seem to recall looking relatively good that night so I accepted his compliment without an ounce of self-deprecation. I think it was the first time in my life I ever had done that, because I remember from then on making a point to simply say “thank you,” smile, and leave it at that. No disparaging remarks. Take it and move on.

It was cold in the Valley so it must have been the absolute dead of winter. I stopped paying attention to the chill as his company warmed my cold, dead soul. He told me he was an Aquarius. He was turning 24 this month. I knew some Aquarians. They were alright. I guess I could give him my phone number.

I didn’t expect him to call. He did, and we spent a few months dating. Ryan was just a guy I met at a bar, but he ended up being one of the sweetest chapters of my life. Sometimes those things happen. You just cross paths with the right person at the right time, there is no rhyme or reason. It is true of my past that the love affairs that have been cut short, are the ones I’ve left with the thought, “what could have been?” They wonder about me. I wonder about (some) of them too. Ryan I wonder about a lot. We could have worked, absolutely.

Undamaged potential, just waiting to chance to blossom.

I spent the majority of our time dating protecting him from being murdered by my on-again-off-again cockblocker of a boyfriend, and telling him what an arrogant prick he was. Although *I* had never seen Ryan around this bar before, my sister had, and she knew ALL about this individual. According to her, he “forced” my sister’s friend to give him a blowjob then discarded her. Knowing this friend’s character, I had my doubts it was anything less than mutual. I proceeded with Ryan, cautiously, but always had to deal with my sister in my ear telling me he was a piece of shit.

The rest of our courtship was spent reminding him that he’s too good for me. I was in a state of utter disbelief that somebody this good could genuinely want a relationship with me. I could detect NO latent mental disorders or severe familial dysfunction that he hadn’t properly dealt with. His brother had died tragically and that was a healing process but I felt like he was a pretty normal dude, he wasn’t like the guy I had been dating the past 4 years who flipped out on me every two seconds and tried to punch dudes on the street if they dared to look at me. Not only was Ryan good though, he was also too hot to be true. He was into fitness and shit so I guess he had a pretty nice body. All I knew was he knew how to fuck really well. I just couldn’t comprehend how I had managed to score this person who was so…worthy. This person was a high-quality person. I am a high-quality person. I’ve only known shitty people, but this is the one. The one who ISN’T a shitty person, maybe. This is what girls dream of, and in the few precious moments we shared that spring,

I had it.

He’s who gave me the greatest compliment anyone has ever given me — “you’re the only woman I know who can wake up looking as beautiful as you.” For some reason I believed him when he said that, but I couldn’t really let myself believe that someone like him could ever like someone like me.

He ended our courtship abruptly when my cockblocker of a boyfriend threatened to “skin [him] alive.” Yes, that’s right. My EX-boyfriend approached the dude I was dating, ever since we mutually agreed to date other people, and threatened to murder him. This is the caliber of man I am able to hold onto for 4 years.

He also cost me what could have been a really beautiful love story. It is a chapter I often revisit looking back at my life. One of the few memories I have that was unspoiled by excessive drama or other things that need to be healed.

Last year he and I happened to find ourselves in the same area code for the first time since the year we met, 2009. He took me to the airport with my cat to catch my flight back to Boston, where I had finally decided I would stay after a little bit of a diversion in the M to the ODESTO. Or whatever the fuck the thugs call that shithole.

He confessed that he loved me then. In 2009. He would have been with me. But I didn’t want to be with him, he thought. Wrong. I felt absolutely trapped by a man who scared the shit out of me. What was I supposed to do, become the NEXT person he threatens to skin alive? No way. I didn’t have much choice, dude. Doesn’t mean I don’t think about all those things too…

Doesn’t mean maybe I didn’t love you then too. I acknowledged the pre-love stage, as defined as “important enough to have a dedicated tag in my LiveJournal.” I’m not going to write scads about some dude I go on one date with, but he took on enough significance to earn a tag.

I knew at the very least that I COULD fall in love with Ryan, even if I knew I would never let myself. I was too scared to give my heart to someone I felt might be reckless with it. The sad thing is, of all the men I’ve crossed paths with, he was probably the one LEAST likely to have hurt me. I wish I had just let my guard down. He was worth giving a chance.

We could have worked.

I like to think anything is possible, and nothing is done until it’s done. Right now he’s sitting 3 hours behind me in Pacific Daylight Time feeling less and less sure about proposing to his long-term girlfriend. He reports the problem isn’t that he doesn’t want to marry her — it’s that she doesn’t want to marry him. “That’s always been the case,” he adds.

“She wants to leave me but can’t, so she makes me do more and change who I am for her.”

“Yeah. That usually goes well,” I reply.

He laughs. He asks who I’m dating. I say nobody. He asks again, and I again I tell him I am not dating anyone.

“Come on over!” I say, as we both realize that even though 3000 miles separate us today, maybe he will come over someday. Nothing is impossible.

Stories aren’t over ’til they’re six feet under.