The Date Where I Hit the Self-Destruct Button

Don’t Try This at Home

On Thursday afternoon, I Snap Mike* an unambiguous message:
Are you gonna tie me up tomorrow night or what?

He replies:
I don’t see why not.

That was my attempt to pin him down for plans Friday night. His response expresses interest, though it’s a little vague. It’s frustrating because I’ve been the initiator of contact lately and I don’t want to cross the Cool-Crazy line by being pushy about date/time/location. So when Friday rolls around, I, for some reason, decide to play the Fucked Up Text Game. This is like a game of chicken, but for texting.

I tell myself I won’t text him. I’ll just wait. Let him text me first. If he’s serious about seeing me, he’ll text first.

Or, if Dylan* texts me first, he wins. I spend Friday night with him instead. This is a dangerous game to play, I know, but at the time it seems logical.

Around 4, I hear from Dylan. He asks if I want to get drinks after work. I tell him I need to go to the gym first and I’ll let him know when I’m done. But I’m just buying time. I’m really hoping I’ll hear from Mike by the time I’m done at the gym. It’s not that I don’t like Dylan, and it’s not that I don’t want to see him. It’s just that Mike takes precedence. Dylan is a genuinely great guy and I see a lot of potential for some thing between us, but the timing is kind of bad.

By 7, I’m done at the gym, showered, and on my way to meet up with Dylan. Still no word from Mike. I assume he’s busy, or he fell asleep, or he has some other excuse. To be fair, I know he’s in the middle of packing because he’s moving out of his apartment — literally — the next day. It’s perfectly reasonable, in my mind, that he’d be too busy for me that night.

After 8, I’m one or two drinks in at the bar with Dylan, and I sneak off to use the bathroom. I take out my phone in the stall and see a missed call from Mike and a text: I’m finishing up some stuff, but be at my place by 9:30?

Why couldn’t he have just sent that message earlier? Why couldn’t he take 30 seconds out of his afternoon to confirm our otherwise tentative plans? In an attempt to assert some power, I send a passive-aggressive reply because that’s how the Fucked Up Text Game works:
I didn’t hear from you all day. I assumed you were busy. I’m out drinking right now, so I’m like 90% sure I won’t make it to your place tonight.

He replies right away with a long-ish rant. He’s angry. Why would I assume he didn’t have time for me? He bought wine. It’s his last night in his place. He even said yesterday he wanted to see me. He understands I sometimes have other plans, but did I really just blow him off on his last night here?

The thing is, he’s not wrong.

I was totally in the wrong. Or, at least mostly in the wrong.

The truth is I wanted to see him and I used Dylan as a Plan B when I should’ve just texted Mike earlier asking when or if he’d be free. But instead, I tried to play some stupid game that, in retrospect, would only ever result in a lose-lose situation.

I make my way back out to the bar and keep talking with Dylan for a while. I put out some feelers, “What time do you work tomorrow?” “The band goes on at 11, think you wanna stay for it?”

I’m trying to figure out if there’s a graceful way for me to exit, if there’s any graceful way for me to say, “Thanks for the drinks! I’m not going home with you because there’s someone else I want to see more than you!”

Dylan must sense my growing discomfort. He can tell something is off. I’m easy to read sometimes, I guess. “What’s going on?” he asks.

“I’m an asshole,” I say.

“I’m an asshole, too,” he says, with a little bit of a laugh.

“No, I mean. I’m really an asshole, though,” I say, without a hint of a laugh.

“Why?” he asks, “Because you’re using me?”

Shit. I guess he knows my game. I should just come out with it.

“I’m not using you,” I say, “I like you… I just probably shouldn’t have come out tonight, I think. I have this thing going on…”

“What? Like, you’re fucking someone else? That doesn’t make you an asshole,” he says. He’s not indignant or angry or anything. He’s level-headed and reasonable.

“Well, yeah, that’s it. But, it’s more complicated. This guy’s a dick. Like, he’s all wrong for me. I know it. And it’s probably gonna end soon anyway. We’re in that awkward, awful ending stage of things, but… I’m sorry…” I trail off because I don’t know how much detail is reasonable to disclose.

“So, he’s like your boyfriend?” Dylan asks, starting to sound more irritated.

“No, no. Not my boyfriend. Jeez.”

“How long have you been seeing him?”

“A little over a year,” I say. I realize this sounds terrible.

“A year!?” He’s taken aback.

“But it’s not a thing. Not at all.”

“You’re just fucking? And he knows you fuck other people? And he does too?”

“Yeah, I say. Pretty much.”

“I don’t understand why you’d see a dick anyway,” he says, which is the nicest answer ever, “You deserve better.” He means it sincerely.

I do.

But I don’t want better.

I like Mike. He might be a dick a lot of the time, but he’s important to me. And I’m an asshole anyway, so maybe we’re just perfect for each other.

Dylan goes to the bathroom and I text Mike: I’m coming over.

He’s still pissed off: Don’t. I won’t answer the door.

I don’t care. I need to see him. I need to apologize. I need to explain myself and tell him how important he is. I feel like I’m in a romantic comedy, and he’s about to take off on a plane to another country and I need to rush to the airport before he departs to tell him everything I feel. Just so he knows.

I reply: Give me 5 minutes of your time. Or give me 0 minutes. I get it. But I’m still coming over. I wrote you a letter so I’ll just leave it in your car.

I did write him a letter a few days earlier. A “goodbye” letter of sorts, because he is moving away, and because a letter is more my style than some long conversation. A “hey I really like you and I’m glad we met and spent the year together and did some crazy shit and please keep in touch because I suck at keeping in touch but you’re important to me and I want to know about your life and where you end up and who you fall in love with” letter.

When Dylan comes back from the bathroom, I frantically take off. “I’m sorry,” — I probably say that a million times — “You can call me a bitch, or whatever. I know this is fucked up, but I need to go right now.”

I turn and leave without looking back.

When I get to Mike’s, he lets me in. It’s around 11 now and he’s about three-quarters of the way through the bottle of wine we were supposed to share.

I explain myself, including that I was playing the Fucked Up Text Game and how I know that was stupid. I apologize. But I also say he should’ve just texted me earlier. He sucks at communicating. I didn’t know he thought we had plans because he never really confirmed it.

We’re both, in some way, at fault maybe. I leave the letter on his desk and tell him to read it when he has time.

We have sex. We snuggle. I sleep over.

The next morning we’re lying in bed together and he says, “I will say this once and only once and we will not talk about it ever again…”

“Okay…” I say.

“I can understand why you did what you did yesterday. You weren’t entirely wrong.”

I smile. “Thank you,” I say. I kiss his shoulder.

We snuggle the morning away.

Saturday afternoon, I get a text from Mike:
I’m not doing the whole words thing. But I hope you know I didn’t plan on never talking to you again after I move. I might even share some of your thoughts about the past year or whatever.

He’s referring to my letter. I reply:
I didn’t expect you to do the whole words thing. And I’m glad I’m not alone in feeling that way.

He texts back later:
Sooo… your place tonight?

Yes, Mike. My place tonight.

I blew it with Dylan. Royally blew it, I’m sure. How would I feel if I went out with a guy and he ditched me part way through the night to go see another girl? I’d be pissed off, to say the least, even if I could understand his dilemma.

That Friday consisted of a series of poor decisions, but I did come away learning something. Like, I really need to stop with the stupid text games I don’t even enjoy playing anyway. And I guess it means something that I’d rather screw things up with Dylan than with Mike. Even if I had screwed things up with both of them that night, I wanted Mike to have that letter.

I mean, I’ve been doing all this writing about him… it was about time I did some writing to him, too.

* Names have been changed, of course, to protect the innocent.

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For other pieces in this Publication, check out https://medium.com/navigating-the-sea-of-singledom