The Boyfriend Chronicles: Eric Two

The Boyfriend Chronicles: Eric Two
September 1998 – early 1999

When asked who I would choose if I had to select a future husband from among my ex-boyfriends, my answer is always Eric Two. Although I’m well aware of my tendency to recollect the past in a rosier shade than it occurred, I really do think he was the best of the lot. I didn’t think so at first, but at the end I was fully cognizant that the deficiencies in that short but beautiful relationship were mainly mine.

We met at a large company where I was temping and he was a full-time graphic artist. The second floor of the big building was crowded with at least two hundred artists in two shifts, most of them around my age. My romantic life was a little hectic, including Brett, two different Patricks, and Craig (although not all at the same time – even my emotionally masochistic nature has its limits). I was on-again/off-again with Brett, and deeply committed to flirting with Patrick, who was impeccably gorgeous but a regrettably lousy kisser. It’s safe to say I was a little high on myself at the time. My October 1 diary entry for 1998 included the observation, ‘I can’t believe the amount of attention I’ve received…I feel so powerfully desirable, so sensually dynamic that I can hardly contain it.’ At least I had the sense to understand, ‘This can’t be good for an ego that’s already pretty well developed.’ The woman I am now is still a little disgusted at the girl I was then, but we all have to start somewhere, I guess.

The day Eric and I met, he’d wandered into the training room looking for Pat. I probably flirted with him; I only knew him as Pat’s friend and it would have been just like me to cozy up to him only to get closer to my mark. The flirting couldn’t have lasted long, because what I remember about that first meeting is the sense of utter amazement at the depth and breadth of the conversation. I know we talked about the meaning of life and I know it was an easy, comfortable exchange. Before that week was out, I discovered he had 1) more talent than the job would ever require, 2) a delightful sense of humor, at once witty and candid, and 3) a pretty serious girlfriend. The girlfriend didn’t matter, more because I didn’t have ‘those kind’ of designs on him than the usual reason, which was that she was a small obstacle in my campaign to overthrow her man. I had so little respect for the tenuous nature of love back then.

I can’t remember the first time we hung out together. What I do remember about us is pretty ephemeral. I remember the cobblestone-paved streets that led to the big old house he shared with two other guys. I remember the front porch where we smoked cigarettes after eating takeout from a local café. I remember riding around in his red Grand Am, looking at old houses and talking aimlessly about whether or not it was possible that ghosts were real. I remember jumping a neighbor’s fence to skinny dip after a night of drinking. I remember how we laughed. I remember how every conversation with him, every second of his company, fed my soul and charged my brain in a way few people ever get to experience.

I never intended to date Eric, even when his girlfriend took him for a walk in the park one afternoon and left him there with a broken heart. We must have already been good friends, because I remember he told me about it the day it happened. I didn’t love him enough to be indignant then. I was so fucking self-absorbed. The damage she did hung between us always, even the first time he kissed me in the back of a crowded bar. He waited for a moment when the rest of our party was distracted, then gently pulled me from the barstool and gathered me to him. He was a good kisser. He had a strong, square build that made me feel small and safe, and he always treated me with respect in all the ways that really mattered. We only slept together once or twice, because I wouldn’t commit. I was still too hung up on myself, too distracted by the attention of other men, to realize how lucky I was. It was the only time in my life I have encouraged or been given so much attention, and I am aware that it is this distraction that allowed possibly the best thing I ever had to escape.

We developed a rhythm uniquely ours, sinking into it and letting it flow. One chilly night as we walked along the waterfront, he pulled me into his big coat and kept me warm against the wind. It wasn’t so much a romantic gesture as a protective one. We had pizza at Pizzeria Uno before a movie and we laughed so hard we almost fell out of the booth. It was easy to ignore the stares; we always behaved like that in public and were used to them. We sat in his living room one evening, his head in my lap, and talked about the futures we wanted. We agreed on how important it was for kids to have discipline, and he cited his rambunctious nieces and nephews as a cautionary example. Then he paused and in mock wistfulness sighed, “I can’t wait to beat my kids.” I laughed until tears ran down my face. He got a kick out of making me laugh like that.

There were no dramatic scenes, no bitter arguments, no ugly words or cold shoulders, but for all the amazing moments we had strung together like lanterns in a garden, there was one dark moment I can’t forget. I remember standing outside the building one afternoon, telling him I couldn’t see him anymore because I wanted to get serious with Craig. He was on his way out, wearing his beaten leather jacket with his knapsack slung over his shoulder. I remember his disappointment, but I don’t know if he said it or I saw it in his face. Either way, I knew I’d hurt him and I still didn’t have the character to be appropriately regretful. If he held it against me, he hid it well, because we continued to spend time together even after Craig’s painful disappearing act that Christmas.I sensed the hurt he carried, but I chalked it up to the damage his girlfriend had done. In all my oblivious self-centeredness, I assumed when he emerged from under the ruins of his broken heart, it would be into my welcoming arms. I was wrong, and I deserved it.

I had changed jobs already when we started to drift apart. Then one day he called me and told me he was seeing someone else and wanted to get serious with her. It was almost word-for-word the same speech I’d given him months earlier and I felt as though I’d been kicked in the gut. I probably didn’t try to hide it, and I know we weren’t friends anymore at the end of that conversation. The last I heard of him he was touring Europe and had a serious girlfriend, then nothing more.

I found him again recently, and discovered to my delight he’d been looking for me, too. Any far-fetched notions of rekindled romance fled, however, at his ecstatic announcement of the impending birth of his son. He married his European girlfriend three years ago and is now happily up to his ears in family life and a challenging job in another city. Once I got past my initial disappointment, I couldn’t help but be genuinely happy for him. I doubt the friendship will ever progress past the twice-a-year-update phase, but it’s enough that we continue on good terms. I still think of him as an extraordinary man I’m lucky to know. He was probably the best boyfriend I ever had, on nearly every level, and the one of whom I was least worthy.

I don’t know if anyone gets two of those in a lifetime. I squandered the first on the altar of my narcissism, b

ut I hope to God if I’m ever given another, I don’t waste it by being such an ass.

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