All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(26)

As we stood on the sidewalk I asked in a hopeful tone, “Do you feel better now that we’ve talked?”

“No, I actually feel worse.”

I walked him to the subway off of the Seventh Avenue stop. The stop that we used when we lived together.

“Do you remember the last time you spoke to my dad?”

“Actually I do. He literally threatened my life and then told me he loved me.” He laughed. “It was the strangest, craziest phone call I had ever gotten, but it ended with ‘I love you.’?” He shook his head.

“He loved you because I loved you.”

Until I didn’t.

According to my family, when it came to romance, I have always picked “eight balls,” those who are just this side of crazy—possessing some sort of mental or alcohol disorder, but most likely easy on the eyes. In twelve-step programs, they refer to this as your “picker” being broken. You pick the wrong partner because your brain automatically gravitates toward dysfunction. My last eight ball was the man I had just left at the subway. Years earlier, my colleague Emily had been prepping a narrative short film titled Picnic Table, and had asked me and Paul to serve on her crew. We spent a long day together in a dingy casting facility in midtown Manhattan where Craigslist hopefuls struggled to charm their way into an unpaid acting gig. It was as grim as it sounds. We subwayed back to Paul’s Park Slope apartment afterward and started drinking whiskey. I am not a whiskey gal. I despised the taste, but my brain recognized it as alcohol and thus a liquid to be consumed. My weapon of choice was always white wine—pinot grigio or champagne. Not quite as cool as whiskey, I know. But that night I decided to follow along with the crew and watch John Ford’s The Searchers while drinking a tumbler full of Maker’s Mark.

At some point, the whiskey started to turn my skin warm and made Paul look like he was my type. I decided quickly, then and there, that it was a good idea to sleep with him. On day one of the project. The next morning, I felt far less confident in the quality of said decision. As we were doing the sheepish let’s-put-our-scattered-clothes-back-on dance, we agreed that we would go to breakfast. We got to the bagel store and I mumbled a passing joke that he should pay for my bagel as he had been given my ultimate lady gift the night before. Fortunately, the awkwardness gave way and we were able to talk and find some commonality.

Paul was my age, twenty-four, and a video editor by trade. Lately he had gotten knocked off course and forced into a gig where he had to spend eight hours a day taping demo reels for third-tier actresses. He used to date a beautiful woman, but had been single for a couple of years. He decided to get back in the game and was looking for his next girlfriend.

Anyone who has been single for more than a week knows what a slog dating is. I was done with the merry-go-round and thought it might be a good move to try this whole monogamy deal. We started dating in January and formed a relationship based on a mutual love of simple pleasures, like pop culture and football. He was smart, funny, and could make a mean batch of spaghetti carbonara. I thought I had found my dude. My dad and stepmom were thrilled by the match—I typically dated out-of-work musicians, and Paul seemed like a guy who had his head on straight.

That summer I was staying in a windowless box of an apartment near Paul’s place. In the summer heat, the $700 a month I was paying felt like at least $400 too much. After Paul and I had been dating for six months, he asked me to move in. I was tempted by the idea of saving a shit-ton of money by combining our rents.

I called my dad for his input. While he was not an old-fashioned kind of guy, I wasn’t certain how he would react to the idea of me living with a boyfriend. After I ran the idea by him, he simply and emphatically said, “Do not do this. You are not ready.” He told me that if I valued the relationship, that I should wait another year or so before making such a significant move. I listened, and then ignored him.

I moved into the apartment that Paul shared with three other roommates. It was a homey and warm house, filled with people who liked one another. I would soon find out that the only person in the house that Paul had a problem with was himself.

As soon as the locks clicked behind me on that first night, a different Paul emerged. I learned about his hatred of his job, his life, the people that walked in front of his car as he drove us both to work. In truth, I, too, had parts of myself I would’ve preferred to keep hidden. I was living with someone, and my freedom was gone. No more casual flirting with people outside the relationship, something I had done often in the past.

I started avoiding Paul, staying late at work while he would sit at home. I would often come home drunk, not having much to say to him. I felt stifled and he felt ignored, a toxic combination.

After being together for ten months, I decided to bring Paul to Dad and Jill’s for Christmas. It was shocking for them to see how quickly his mood could shift. He would go from polite and talkative to someone who berated me for sport. I returned the favor with firepower, in front of them. When we had both had enough, Paul went outside into the backyard to smoke some weed. I apologized for his behavior, saying he had just quit smoking cigarettes and was “really tense.” My dad narrowed his eyes, and said, “Be careful.”

A couple of months later I started working on a longer documentary project that required some travel to L.A. I was prepping for an interview when I got an email. It was a forwarded message of a months-old email exchange I’d had with my friend Marc. He had sent me a bare-chested picture that showcased a new tattoo. I responded positively to the tattoo and to his body. Paul had found the flirty email on a tablet I had thoughtlessly left behind. I called Paul immediately and started with a falsely chipper voice, “Hi, babe, how are you?” He immediately told me to check my email, and I heard a click. My phone beeped and I had a new text message: a simple “fuck you” glowing on the screen.