Notwhat happened, but what Ilethappen with Cupid. I totally let down my defenses with him. And for what—one measly orgasm?
Okay, that’s not entirely fair to him. It was an amazing orgasm. Everything about the experience had been amazing.
And that was exactly the problem.
Because I’m not supposed to be letting my guard down with this guy. When he first shot me with that arrow, I thought maybe I got lucky and was immune to it. But after those first few hours, I started acting strangely. Not at all like myself—so it must be the arrow’s doing.
That endsnow.
I have a conference to attend and a presentation to nail. I don’t need this extra distraction right now.Just keep it together for another six hours, at least. Don’t screw this up.
My head is scrambled, my body is still vibrating, shot full of a potent mixture of arousal and adrenaline—and a poisonous fucking arrow. It’s safe to say I don’t check into the conference with the best mindset.
I’ve spent my fair share of time at these tech conferences over the years I’ve been in the industry. As much as they try to bill themselves as new and exciting and different, they’re all fundamentally the same.
You have: a sad continental breakfast of filmy half-size pastries; endless mediocre coffee; hours of sessions in windowless rooms where the drone of presenters is the only thing between you and falling asleep. However, at the end of the day, these events aren’t about professional development so much as they’re about meeting other people. Networking. An opportunity to step away from work (unsupervised) and talk to people in the industry who have aspirations like yours. Other programmers, founders, even investors.That’sthe real reason I’m here. The key advantage of getting this speaker slot isn’t just to stroke my ego; it’s making myself more visible to people who want to invest in my vision.
But do you know what’s definitely not the point of attending a conference in Vegas? Banging the near-stranger you met the other night, who’s the real-life,actualCupid sent on a mission to change your mind about dating and love.
With that in mind, I throw myself into the next few hours with an enthusiasm I usually reserve for watching bad horror movies and eating junk food at home alone on a weekday night.
I introduce myself. I hand out business cards. I attend the sessions. I knock my presentation out of the park. I even make connections with a couple of potential investors.See, Cupid? People agree with me—maybe you should shootthemwith your magic arrows too.
And then, when I think I can’t be doing any better, that thought goes flying out the window. Because I spot him: Bryan McCoy.
My ex.
The one who broke my heart so thoroughly and completely that I swore off love forever.
In a small, perverse way, I think that perhaps I should thank him. For showing me in my twenties how cruel men can be, how much time and energy and effort they’ll suck from you without giving any in return.
For revealing the true nature of love: that it takes and takes and takes.
In that way, Bryan set me up for who I am now—independent, successful, determined.
But in a larger way, Bryan made me someone else—closed off, suspicious. Determined to the point of being unyielding.
Which is better? Which is worse? And how will I handle coming face-to-face with the man who changed me so much, for better and for worse?
I’m thinking all of this, mind whirring, as I watch him approach the refreshment table. Here I am standing alone, refilling my coffee cup for the fourth time that day, hopelessly praying that he notices me—and that he doesn’t.
I’ve become so absorbed in my runaway thoughts that I forget I’m pouring very hot coffee into a cup. When it overflows and runs over my fingers, I let out a loud “Ouch!” and jump back from the offending liquid. And when I look up, I see Bryan see me, take in the scene, appraising, before letting his eyes float right past me. As if I don’t even exist.
Like a punch to the gut, all of those feelings from that night five years ago—when I realized our relationship was over forgood—come flooding back.
I turn on my heel and book it out of the room, conference-issued tote bag connecting with my abandoned cup of coffee and leaving a mess behind. Whatever. I can’t be bothered. If anyone knows about leaving a mess behind, it’s Bryan. This time, maybe he’ll clean it up.
Everything was going so well, I thought. I had turned the trip around, despite my mistake with Cupid last night. In less than a minute, I came undone—because of alookfrom my ex. Now all I want, I realize, is to find Cupid and seek his comfort. I want him to tell me jokes and do sweet things and look at me the way he looks at me, like heseesme.
Pathetic. I’m pathetic. I couldn’t control myself with Cupid, and now I can’t control myself without him.
Stubbornness, at least, comes naturally to me. It’s this stubbornness that keeps my legs moving, carrying me from place to place as I pretend—toward myself and others—to be a tourist.
Here I am, a sightseer in Las Vegas for the first time, just taking in the attractions. Nothing more. Oh, do my eyes look watery? That’s the reflection of the lights. My face looks red? That’s the heat. I’m walking with the air of the terminally broken-hearted? No, no.
You must be mistaken.
Like this, I wander to a hotel that looks like New York City, another that looks like Venice, then Paris. And I think about how I’ve never been to those cities in real life—how I’ve barely traveled at all. About how much of my life has been dictated by the path set out for me by someone else, by what was expected of me. Ruled by school, then work, then Bryan, and then work again. And how comfortable I was—am—with yielding control to others.
