My Shit's Fucked Up

              I was doing my intake paperwork at the place I was doing my practicum, And at one point, I saw one of the ladies, I'm not sure what her job was, shuffling through some pictures of clients, and I noticed one. I told her. "For what it's worth, I know her. She's a friend of mine. Is that going to be a problem?" she seemed momentarily flummoxed but simply said
"No, It shouldn't be a problem."

              I've learned enough now to let you know who this person was, but I've also learned to be very careful about what I divulge of her. Suffice it to say, I'd see her in groups, and I developed a crush on her. I'd known her for a few years. Even went to her wedding, but I'd never felt these feelings. Soon it was time for the World Series to begin, and I asked her if she wanted to come watch with my baseball friends just to see this side of me.

              By the end of the night, everyone had left, and it was just the two of us sitting on the couch talking. The crush started elevating. She was so smart and witty and beautiful. But I saw no how to proceed.

              I'm not sure how we arranged it, but somehow she came over another night, and we lay in my bed in the pitch dark, listening to music and talking for hours. Nothing happened; we didn't kiss or anything; we just took turns sharing music,

And then the next night happened. We traded music, and we started to kiss. I was so afraid that I didn't have a condom. I felt that was my responsibility, so we just kissed, and I just ate her pussy over and over again; it was perfect; I think she came a few times. At least she said she did.

A couple days later, we talked about it. She said she was confused that I didn't try to have sex with her. I explained about the condom deal. She said she couldn't imagine a guy caring that much about her even considering it. We laughed about how chivalrous I seemed to be. But I guess it worked because eventually, we did have sex. I still didn't have any condoms, but it seemed fine. We decided we wanted to choose a song that would be playing at the exact moment when I finally entered her. It was a Warren Zevon song. I can't remember what song it was at this point, but maybe she'll remember.

And so, this became our pattern. She'd come over. We lay in my bed in the pitch dark, listen to music and have sex. The sex was amazing and just kept getting better. But it's where I fucked up. We never did anything else to speak of. I took her to the movies once, and I'd make her things. I'd make her key lime pies. I'd make her lasagne. I hade her pieces of furniture and beautiful cutting boards which she still won't use because she doesn't want to ruin them. I kept telling her I could always refinish them back to normal in minutes, but there they sat. In her room, on the shelf, I'd made her.

At Christmas, I bought her son a computer. I really liked him. He's a really cool kid, and I knew that there wasn't money coming from anywhere else to get him a new computer. We bought all the parts and built it ourselves. God, it felt good.

But I never did enough to keep her. It was just sex and giving her things. I think I was afraid to become an actual boyfriend even tho I desperately wanted it. I just blew it. Eventually, she stopped coming around so much. Part of me was relieved, but most of me was devastated.

One night she texted me about an ex who had decided to come out to LA because he still loved her. This was him doing something for her. There was some story about him rebuilding a Volkswagon Beetle years earlier and somehow crashing it. Somehow this seemed incredibly romantic to her. I'm still unsure of the mechanics of all of this, but clearly, she still loved him, and he was willing to make a grand gesture and move here and resume their relationship. I was cold-cocked. I didn't let on. I think I answered the text in a couple days and just said, "good for you." What else can you say? Just another girl who I'd loved that I'd let slip away.

We'd keep in touch sporadically, and I'd never ask about him at all, and she'd never mention him. I assume they're still together. I hope so because then something awful happened, and she needed someone to be there all the time for her. And I'd missed my chance.

Her Dad got sick. I'd met him once or twice and really liked him. He was a drummer and a cool guy. I wrote a poem about this and pointed out that he hated Bowie but LOVED the Velvet Underground. She still had one of his original VU Banana t-shirt to prove it. I was drinking at the time, and I'd do that thing where I'd send her drunken texts professing my love for her. So inhumane. But still, we texted now and again. It seemed like her Dad might be pulling through.

He seemed to wax and wane like my Dad did, but he came home from the hospital at some point. She told me that he was home but basically needed round-the-clock help. I offered to spend time with him if it would help. I remember feeling like such a fraud for even putting it out there. But I did mean it. I would have done it. She told me I "was a good man." Fuck, no. No, I wasn't. She said she loved me, and I told her the same.

I kept thinking of her new boyfriend and started to be grateful he was around. Or at least I assumed he was. I was happy she had him. In an odd way, I came to love him too for taking the place next to her that I'd clearly fucked up. I'd blown it, but at least she wasn't alone.

I kept drinking, and it got worse. I'd just lie in bed with all the lights out, and all the curtains closed and just wait until it was late enough to go get something to drink. I'd drink at night and shake away the shame in bed the next day. I'd have to rally at times to do sessions, and Jesus, the guilt I felt then. Trying to help clients get sober while I knew they thought I was well on the other side of it. Every aspect of my life felt like a fraud. Even my dogs seemed to lose some faith in me. We just know.

And so time went on, and I'd made some sort of peace with how I'd blown it with her. Why couldn't I have done things with her? Why didn't we go anywhere? Why did we never go away for the weekend? I just cared about having her over and having sex and talking for hours. And we did talk a lot. Some of the best, most meaningful conversations I'd ever had. At some point, I told her I wanted to take things to another level. I told her I loved her and wanted to be her boyfriend. She said she wasn't ready for that. I know it meant she didn't think I really had it in me to pull it off. I'd certainly not given her much evidence of being there for her except my bedroom and buying her love with things I'd make for her. And so, that was it. This new guy came into the picture, and I just folded. Christ. How can one person fuck up love so many times?

One day I got a text from her. It just read, "My Dad's gone." I threw my phone out of reach and just started shaking my legs in the dark bedroom. I knew how much this was destroying her. I knew she had the same ultimate fear of life without her Dad that I have about my Mom. I just wanted to hold her like a friend. I just wanted to help her do whatever it is people do when they become so shattered. I was grateful for her boyfriend. He'd know what to do.

We still text every so often. I still love her dearly, but it's the Saudade. The Portuguese call it the "exquisite pain." the feeling of intense nostalgia and memory of someone or someplace or thing that you've loved intensely combined with the absolute knowledge that it's gone forever. Just feels like pain to me.

I'll let her read this before I let anyone else read it. I want to know that she sees all of this at least partly like I do, or at least she believes that I see it this way.

I fell in love with you, and I blew it. It's an awful thing. But I truly hope you're happy, at least sometimes. You're definitely one of the good ones.