I see her coming, with her blonde hair, same baby face but with a serious look. She gives a slight smile and walks towards me. It’s her, the last person I ever thought I’d meet again, the first I wanted to see again. Yes, it’s really her.
The Little American.
The one who made me lose my mind for the first time, only to ghost me and disappear forever.
She greets me, sits across from me at the pastry shop table where we had arranged to meet. I look at her, she’s almost identical: same baby face, same straight blonde hair, same physique. Only her eyes are different: once her gaze was always light, a bit between two worlds, making it hard to tell if she was fully with you or in her own head. Now it’s deep, very mature, a gaze that shifts from sadness to anger depending on what she’s talking about.
I could be angry, sad, indifferent, or fed up. But instead, I’m happy. I feel strangely energetic, euphoric. I feel a pressure in my chest and a vitality I haven’t felt in a long time. For me, it’s closing an open chapter, maybe getting some answers. I’m also a bit embarrassed: it’s been 5 years. Exactly: August was when I met her, August is today when I meet her again. I’ve lived countless lives, I know nothing about hers. “Will she remember me?” I wonder. After all, I’m just a guy she dated for a month, casually and without much importance.
We share our lives, the relationships we’ve had, our journeys. Here and there, references and quotes from experiences we shared emerge, our trip to Croatia, the mirror-filled hotel like a porn set in Zadar, the funny photos we took together. So she remembers, almost everything.
I point out that she’s identical to how I remembered her, maybe just her arms are more muscular. I tell her that before she leaves, I’ll touch her butt to check if it’s still firm: I haven’t found one as nice since.
We gracefully touch on our wounds. We talk with the same level of confidence and intimacy as when we left, like two people who have known each other forever. She tells me about her last relationship, which lasted 4 years, where she loved with strength and great sacrifice (as usual, I don’t include details for privacy).
All the while, a question echoes in my mind. The same question I’ve asked myself for five years. The same question I waited to ask until I couldn’t hold back anymore:
“Why did you disappear without any explanation?”
I tell her she’s free not to answer, but if she decides to, she must be honest.
Her gaze clouds over, she tells me: “I was happy with you but I met someone else, I was interested in him. I should have told you. I’m an avoidant type, I’m working on it with my therapist today, but back then it was easier to disappear than to clarify things with you.
And I was also struggling with myself, I didn’t like the context in which we met.”
Mission accomplished!
Here’s finally the answer I’ve been waiting for years. What changes now that I finally have it?
Nothing.
Keep that in mind, dear friends who agonize over knowing the reasons for breakups… Nothing changes.
Then she apologizes. With a regretful and slightly embarrassed look. This changes things a bit: the apology warms my heart a little, like a caress that eases something unjust.
I send her the link to the blog, with the stories that talk about her. I clarify that I’m not the same person and I don’t feel the same things, that maybe I was a bit pathetic but that’s how it is. She’s very curious to read them. And I’m curious to hear her opinions about them. By the way, today I find the affectionate nickname I used to call her (“Slutty Baby”) jarring, so I’ve decided to rename her in all the stories as Little American (she’s originally from… Quebec).
The conversation flows lightly. We talk about women, men, relationships. She tells me she struggles to meet new men, that those who approach her don’t interest her, that she likes a “hunk” she sees at work, etc. I tell her how I live today, how I can express who I am more authentically, including my vulnerabilities, and how this has turned me into a magnet (but not with her, I realize I say these things because… I don’t want to seem still interested in her).
I suggest she install Tinder. She gets up and sits next to me, under the pretense of looking at my profile. Finally, I couldn’t stand that distance. I touch her, caress her. Much less than I would with any other woman, even one I just met: I don’t want to pressure her, make her run away again.
Still talking about Tinder, I ask her what kind of man she likes. And she basically describes me. Coincidence or shy flirt?
I notice she’s still hung up on her ex. I – even though I’m finally living my single life well! – haven’t totally gotten over the breakup with Honey Eyes. We could console each other. So I tell her: “I’d like to see you again, hang out.”
She looks at me and asks “With what expectations?”
I don’t want to scare her, I reply: “I don’t know, I’m living my single life well and I’m not looking for a relationship at the moment. I’d like to spend time with you, whatever happens, happens.” The truth? I don’t know, she still stirs up strong emotions in me, am I ready to fall in love with all the mess that comes with it?
She tells me “I’ll think about it.” Enigmatic, I didn’t understand what the right answer would have been for her.
Two pleasant hours have passed, I decide to leave. I say goodbye affectionately, hug her, and leave.
I go home, waiting in vain for a message from her.
I write to her.
Silence.
Ha ha, but we’re used to it by now!
It was still the closure of a chapter that had remained open for too many years.
And yes, the butt was firm and soft exactly as I remembered it.
