We’ll Fade Away
love (or something like it) on borrowed time
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When he told me his friend Dave was putting in a good word for him at Skinner Electric, I still had hope. Maybe word of mouth wouldn’t pan out. Maybe it was too late and they’d already filled the opening.
A few weeks later, when he told me he had an interview lined up, I still had hope. I mean, he’s talented, but maybe he wouldn’t be quite qualified enough. Maybe there would be better candidates. Maybe the hiring manager just wouldn’t like him because he is, actually, kind of a dick.
When he told me he had a follow-up interview the next week, I still had hope. Maybe they would low-ball him on the salary. Maybe there were still better candidates lined up.
When he told me they’d offered him the job and he accepted it, I said, “That’s awesome! I’m really happy for you.” I tried to smile. I also tried not to look him in the eyes so he wouldn’t know I was being insincere.
If I was being honest, I would have said, “I think you’re making a mistake by quitting your current job. And it sucks you’ll need to move away because I’m going to miss you.”
The interesting thing is if he were moving across the country for this job, or even not-all-the-way-across the country but some place that’s a plane ride away, this would all feel easier. It’d be cut and dry: he’d be moving far away, and we would not be willing to keep this up, and that would be the end of this strange pseudo-relationship type thing.
Maybe if he were a plane ride away but somewhere visit-worthy, with sunny beaches, or delicious food, or good art museums, I’d see him on occasion. Like if I were passing through town on a business trip, or had a long weekend and money to kill. But the general idea would still be crystal clear because our pseudo-relationship is not significant or strong enough to survive plane ride distance. We’d be over. The End. Fin.
Unfortunately, he’s not moving a plane ride away. He’s moving a two-hour drive away.
And that’s even more torturous because it’s not a clean and easy break. It’s a slow and painful tearing off of the Band-Aid.
“What are the odds you’ll come visit?” he asked one night, as we discussed the inevitable. “Probably not often, huh?”
“Of course I’ll visit,” I said, “What are the odds you’ll actually invite me?”
His response indicated caring or feeling, like the idea of him inviting me was obvious. “Why wouldn’t I invite you?” he asked. We were drinking wine which is probably why he replied this way. He only talks like this when he’s drinking. Otherwise, he’s nearly emotionless.
“Don’t put this on me. I’m telling you I will come visit, but you need to invite me. Like, actually ask me, ‘how about you come up this weekend?’ and ask me a few days in advance so I don’t make other plans. You can’t just try to hit me up at eight o’clock on a Saturday night.”
“Well, yeah. I can do that.”
“Jane will be away for all of July, too,” I said, trying to make it a two-way street, “I’ll have the place to myself so you can stay with me on weekends. July is beach weather, so it’d be perfect.”
“Good point,” he said, “That could probably work.”
He paused for a second, thinking, then added, “It sucks that I won’t be able to walk to the beach anymore.”
“Yeah it does,” I said.
I wonder if he’ll miss the beach more than he’ll miss me. I wonder if I’ll actually cross his mind on some random Wednesday or Thursday and if he’ll ask me to visit. Even if that happens once or twice, I wonder how long it will then take for it to fizzle out. Will every weekend turn into every other weekend? Will it turn into once a month? And then never again?
How long will it take for the end to actually be the end?
As his starting date approached, and he still had yet to pack one single box, sublet his current apartment, or look for a new place to live, I began to regain some hope we could hold on to this relationship thing for a little while longer.
“You’re going to commute every day?” I asked another night, appalled. Two hours one-way sounds like hell to me.
“I’ll have a company car. Getting up early is gonna suck, but I’ll just have to make it my routine. I can listen to books on tape or something. Or learn another language,” he said, sounding not only like he was trying to convince me, but also convince himself.
“That’s gonna get old quick,” I said, ever the optimist.
“Nah. Rent is cheaper here. I’ll move eventually, but I want to stay for the summer. You can’t beat summers here.”
He was right on both of those points.
In my head, though, I was giving him two weeks. Two weeks of a commute from hell, and he’d be packing.
Now here we are, three weeks into this new job, and he is, more or less, packing.
I was at his apartment the other night and as he poured us wine, he said, “Here, look at this sweet place.”
He pulled up a realtor’s website on his computer and showed me the house.
“Three bedrooms, cool little finished basement, fireplaces on both floors…” he described it as he clicked through the pictures.
I sipped my wine as I felt my stomach turn over.
“That looks great,” I said. I looked at the pictures blankly, avoiding looking at his face. Again, so he wouldn’t know I wasn’t being sincere.
He’s occupied over a year of my brain space, my time, my emotions. We’re not in love and he’s not even my boyfriend, but we’re something. And we’re clinging to that something. Maybe we should pull a Seinfeld and end a good thing while it’s still good, but I don’t think it’ll play out that way. We’re going to see it out through the bitter, ugly end.
We’re seeing each other on borrowed time right now. He should’ve moved weeks ago, but he’s still here. We should’ve said goodbye weeks ago, but we’re delaying the inevitable because everybody knows saying goodbye sucks.
Soon though, he’ll move. I’ll visit, two or three times probably. Maybe he’ll visit me twice, too. And then, summer will be in full swing and I’ll be busy. He’ll be busy. He’ll meet new people, new friends, new girls, and I will be the past. I will be that girl he saw for a year. I’ll send him funny stuff on Facebook, and he’ll take three days to reply. I’ll Snap him, he’ll Snap back, and then the Snaps will be gone forever too. He’ll call me and I’ll miss it because I always do. I’ll call back and then we’ll play phone tag and then we’ll fade away. I’ll probably grow to resent him a little for not putting in more effort, and maybe he’ll do the same. I’ll look back and think I wasted a year on him. I’ll be bitter.
In the meantime though, while we’re holding on to borrowed time, we’ll just pretend everything is fine. We’ll pretend two hours won’t break us. We’ll drink wine and fall asleep together and when we wake up in the morning, I’ll refrain from looking at the clock because I’d rather not know how much time I have left with his arm wrapped around me.
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