Our calendars rarely lined up, but I liked him so much I was determined to make it work.
So I met him for lunch dates at food trucks in the city. I'd go to his apartment for late-night study sessions and meet him for obscenely early breakfast dates at the diner. I was running on a concerning amount of caffeine and an even more concerning lack of sleep, but I didn't care. He was so open about how much he liked me and how wonderful he thought I was. I had dated men who, while not cruel, were sometimes so emotionally constipated that Paul felt like a breath of fresh air.
In between all of that, we fell in love. I was in deep, feeling like the luckiest girl in the world that this man chose me.
So,wheredid the cracks start?
I keep thinking back, going over and over in my brain, trying to find thata-ha!moment. For the life of me, I cannot pinpointthe time he turned from my Paul, my sweet, caring fiancé, to... whatever made him betray me.
Is it my fault?
Did I do something that made him do that? Was there some moment where I did something I considered innocuous, but it was paramount to him, and his feelings turned? Did I mess up somewhere, and I don't evenknowwhere? Am I an awful person who can't even recognize her own mistakes? Was this just a way out for him?
My brain just goes round and round with these thoughts, and the only thing I accomplish is giving myself a migraine.
Did love truly make me that blind, or was this a complete out-of-character, momentary slip from Paul?
Either way, it would only explain the reasons behind his actions. It sure as hell wouldn't excuse them, because Paul had options. He was scared, I get that, but he could have talked to me, or his parents, or a therapist, or someone who's been in his shoes.
"And the surgery—losing your breasts—it's—that's... it's a problem for me."
His words cut deep. It's one thing to think something like that, it's another thing entirely to say it to my face, whileI'mthe one who has to deal with it. I remember how my brain couldn't quite understand the cruelty pouring out of his mouth.
Losing my breasts was aproblemfor him.
That'swhat made him cheat on me.
And now, because of that, I think that I'm somehow less.
"No, it's okay, Paul. You've got the green light from me. I wouldn't want to fuck someone titless anyway. It's totally understandable for you to cheat on Sophie."
Were those the words he needed? Forsomeoneto enable his actions, formeto absolve him of his sins?
Well... I won't. I will not absolve him. I will not forgive him—not now, maybe not ever.
Like I've discovered, anger feels ahellof a lot better than sadness. Anger will keep me going for a while. I'm not naive enough to think it will sustain me, and I know that at some point, I'll have to let go of all of it, but for now, it's okay.
One thing I know for sure—I willnevertrust Paul again.
Every word he's spoken to me in the last six years now sits under a microscope, and I wonder how much of it was ever true. He wanted people to tell him what he wanted to hear. Had I been doing that our entire relationship—just feeding him the words he craved and inflating his ego?
Was that what he had been doing to me?
Was I so desperate for love that I melted into a puddle for his pretty words and intimate touches? Were his promises just accruing interest that his actions couldn't pay back when it actually mattered? Did I roll over and show my belly, make myself vulnerable enough for him to destroy me like this?
I know hindsight is 20/20, and I can repeat that to myself over and over, but was I also willfully ignorant?
I don't think I'll ever know the answer to those questions, especially since I have no desire to ever see him again for the rest of my life,however long that may be.
What I do know for sure is that Paul had many options, and he chose the one he knew I would never forgive. I told him,explicitly, at the beginning of our relationship, that cheating is my hard boundary.
Paul O'Connor betrayed me, and I wantnothingto do with him ever again. But, if I can be grateful for anything from Paul right now, it's Donna and Richard O'Connor.
Inside the gift bag, I smile at its thoughtful contents. There are my favorite bath bombs, the warm, vanilla-scented onestucked neatly in the tissue paper. The smell of them makes me hum in pleasure.
There's a soft emerald green blanket that feels like a dream, plus a plush cream-colored bathrobe and matching fuzzy slippers. Hydrating face masks and a giant tub of my favorite moisturizer. A silk eye mask and neck pillow. Peppermint oil for nausea.
Every item is perfect anduseful.
