THE EX-BOYFRIEND
The last time I had a proper conversation with my ex-boyfriend Sam was five years ago as he was ending our relationship in front of a stranger. It was a Sunday morning in my apartment and I had called the handyman, Peter, to do a few jobs in the living room and bedroom. That was pretty much the total sum of my flat, so there wasn’t a lot of privacy to be dumped. Sam was explaining how he felt pressured and had to call it a day. Peter didn’t speak much English but my constant stream of snotty tears was enough to convey how awkward the whole scenario was. Trying to retain at least a shred of dignity, I retreated to the bathroom to sob on the toilet (lid down). Later, Sam explained how he was doing the right thing – the longer he let it go on, the worse it’d be. I think I was still in my pyjamas; I definitely hadn’t showered yet. It wasn’t my finest moment. The next day Peter called me to check I was okay. The sweetness of the gesture and how utterly tragic I felt made me cry all the way to the train.
But as I head to the pub to meet Sam all these years later so we can discuss our relationship, I look back and think: I’m so glad that happened. I’d known of Sam through mutual friends from back home; we’d grown up around the corner from each other, but he was three years younger, which kept us worlds apart in our teen years. He’d just moved to London when I bumped into him at a friend’s party. I was 26 and he was 23. We started chatting; he was sweet, funny and slightly off-the-wall, all pluses in my book. He had eyes so large and blue, they wouldn’t look out of place on a Disney prince. Meeting up with him again, those eyes are just as
big as I recall, but they have little effect on me now. I don’t find catching up with him weird. The bartender offers him a shot-glass sample of an ale; I joke it’s all he’s getting. He smirks and the conversation is easy from that point, even as we go over how it all began and ended.
Like all good romances when you’re twenty-something, it started with a kiss. Then there was a date, and a second date where we drank a good amount of wine and giggled a lot. But it was quite early on in the third date when Sam casually asked me how my week had been and I dropped a bombshell on him, which we both recall vividly as we settle into the beer garden. I’d just learned my mum had been diagnosed with blood cancer. “It was one of those shocking moments you feel in your chest, you know?” says Sam. But, at the time, this was a third date with a nice, handsome boy who made me laugh, so I quickly diverted the subject away from the all-consuming, crushing fear I felt for my mum. I didn’t want this to be his problem and that was pretty much how I kept it for the next eight months. I was pleased to have some nice eyes and witty chat in my life while my mum was being violently ill in a cancer unit.
Looking back – with my mum currently in remission, at a distance afforded to me by age and counselling, and in a fulfilling relationship with a man I met three years ago and recently married – I admit to Sam I didn’t know how to talk about my problems then. I’d thought the best way to handle trauma was to pretend it wasn’t happening and build a life around distraction. Sam, with his fluttering eyelashes and his sweet gestures, proved an effective distraction. As a result, by the time he broke up with me and I was crying hysterically in the bathroom, I was a sad girl, but the tears were not only for him. He says he was nervous to bring the subject up with me at the time. “I found it difficult to help you out and felt you needed solid support. I’m not sure I was mature enough to give you that.” Sam perceived my needs far more clearly than I had.
Of course, we didn’t break up because my mum had cancer. Sam was younger than me and had just started his career in a new city, so timing was against us. My friends were finding life partners whereas his were mostly single. He tells me now he wasn’t ready to commit but, really, if I’d paid more attention to what was going on, that was clear. I just didn’t look closely. We weren’t seeing other people but we only saw each other once a week and, if I’m honest, I was more into the idea of a boyfriend. I tell him, somewhat awkwardly, since I met my husband I’ve realised how a relationship should be and ours perhaps wasn’t a real relationship. We were friends who fancied each other. He agrees.
Making my way home after we meet, I feel a sense of relief. I can have a pleasant chat with an ex, although I never anticipated anything different as Sam was, and still is, a good guy. I realise why it didn’t feel strange to meet him as friends because that’s what we were then. I was simply in so much pain I didn’t have the strength or the insight to see I was fooling myself into thinking we were more. But mostly, I’m relieved that I was dumped in front of a handyman that Sunday morning. I should call Peter and tell him I’m doing well.
“It didn’t feel strange to meet as friends because that’s what we were then. I’d just fooled myself into thinking we were more”