it's what we know
the secret to keeping me was to set themselves free
My friends,
I’m writing this letter to you from an apartment looking over a row of houses in suburban Toronto. It’s 7:30 AM, I’m still jet lagged - but this, tbh, is my favourite kind of jet lag. It’s not the one that makes you fall asleep in the middle of aperitivo, but it’s the one that makes you wake up at 6 am to watch the sunrise. All I hear is the sound of birds in the distance, and the little paws of Goose and Toulouse scurrying around on the wooden floor.
The Man at the Front has been more vulnerable lately. My feelings for him are confusing - he’s one of those guys where it’s never a full yes, but it’s never a full no, either. He’s always the person I look forward to seeing the most, the one person who I feel completely safe with. And maybe one of the few men in that city, who, I think, genuinely cares about my well-being.
After spending a week in Bordeaux, I had one more night in Rome before popping back into Toronto. So, on my final evening, I do my usual Roman routine:
Franco
Bar
“You working tonight?” I text the MATF from my hotel room.
“Yes. How was France?”
“Amazing.” I send him a few pictures.
“Did you eat? All I see are glasses of wine.”
I roll my eyes and send him photos of cheese and tomato gazpacho. “Happy?”
He sends a selfie. He’s sitting at a table outside with an ashtray in front of him. A cigarette hangs out of his mouth. Hot.
“I’ll see you later” I reply back.
-
Franco tells me I look more beautiful than ever. My eyebrows have been shaped and threaded, my hair is growing longer and thicker. I invested in a good facial in Bordeaux.
“I just want to look...glowy. And lifted. That’s always my goal.” I told the facialist.
And I have, in fact, put on a few pounds this summer. Some clothes are fitting tighter than usual. But I don’t mind. I know it’s a sign that my mental health is better.
I tell Franco that I’m hungry. He’s happy about that.
“Wine? Suppli? Pizza?”
“And bruschetta.” I add. I missed Italian food.
“Perfect. And maybe tonight - dessert?”
-
The last night I ever saw my ex-boyfriend was when he moved to Vancouver after our break-up. He had his own apartment. He was doing well in his career. We had been broken up for over a year, but I was toying with the idea of getting back with him. I don’t know what I missed, to be honest. Stability, maybe.
So, we played house. He’d leave for work, I had the day to myself. I’d go to spin, I’d go to the market. I’d drink coffee and happily wander in the rain. In the evening, I’d cook us dinner and we’d both sit on his balcony.
There was something off with him one night.
“I like coming home, and walking in, and seeing you. But I’ve always felt like…like you’re going to leave me for someone else.”
-
When I see the Man At The Front, I let out an internal sigh of relief. Home.
“Are you going to miss me?”
“You ask me this every time. I think you just have a fear of being forgotten.”
He’s not wrong.
“I like when you go to places like France or London, or even Milan. I like when you have those new experiences. You never seem that happy when you go back to Toronto.”
He’s not wrong, again.
“What makes you say that?”
“You always end up coming back earlier than you say you will.”
“Well. Maybe this time will be different.”
-
I’ve been back in Toronto for a few days. I had an appointment at the passport office, and desperately needed to drink something cold after. I stop in at a cafe for an iced tea.
My phone is at 6%, so I’m forced to listen in on a conversation.
“What makes you want to stay here?” The young woman asks the man sitting across from her.
Is he a work colleague? A date? A friend? I’m not sure.
“It’s what I know.” He answers back.
Men seem to love stability, and maybe a bit of predictability too. That’s really what I’m learning.
-
“Emily! How was France?” One of the hostesses pops her head outside and blows a kiss from the doorway. I tell her how much I loved it, and how peaceful and calm it was.
She sees my nails and lifts her hand up for me to see. “We have the same color. Red.”
“The name is Romeo and Juliet. The lady doing my nails told me it would mean that I’d find love in France.”
“And did you?”
I laugh. “Nope.”
She looks at me, and then at the Man at the Front. She winks and goes back inside.
“Want to know something?” I ask him. “I think all of my exes hate me.”
“Well you leave. You come back. They fall in love. And then you leave again.”
-
Is it part of girlhood to be scared of being too much? Too mouthy, too emotional, too confident, too materialistic? Too starry eyed over the sense of possibilities, too obsessed with what we have and what we don’t? Too curious? Too much of a free spirit? Or are we too much of a spender, too much of a waster? Of someone else’s money, and of someone else’s time?
My ex boyfriend’s father told him - “Emily wants a life that I don’t think you’ll ever be able to give her.”
And I always wonder if maybe that was one of the reasons why he cheated. For your father to insinuate that your girlfriend will never be happy with what you have to offer. Or for your father to insinuate that what you have to offer is the only way a girl will love you.
The things our fathers say to us have a secret way of living in our bones, don’t they?
-
“I’m really emotional tonight. I don’t know what it is.”
“It’s because your heart’s here.” The MATF notions towards inside of the bar and looks sad. And I don’t know what he means by this. I don’t know if he’s alluding to PN, to the bar, or to Rome in general.
He once asked me if how much a money a man made mattered to me. I said when I was younger, maybe in my early 20’s, I thought it might have been important. But I never really gave it a second thought. I came from a family of teachers. We had enough to be comfortable. And now? I’d rather just be in love.
“I know it seems like sometimes I don’t appreciate you. But I just want you to know that I do. I really, really do.”
I’m thrown off by his vulnerability tonight. The phrase “I appreciate you” - says a lot, and it says enough. To me, “I appreciate you” represents that infinity loop. A love that is cyclical. It doesn’t represent the traditional love story. The one that starts and ends in the way that society modelled to us. The “right” way to love. But rather, it represents something more powerful. It’s a love that started, and a love that has no end. It’s a love that is rooted in deep affection for someone - in the sense of who they are, versus what they are going to offer you.
Loving someone is terrifying - but what’s even more terrifying? Holding on to someone else’s love for you.
-
At the beginning of this week, I was supposed to meet up with Our First Muse. OFM is different than my ex-boyfriend. We dated for a brief moment in time, 7 years ago. OFM is the one who repeatedly tells me that I am the right person, but it was just always the wrong time - and when I told PN that story, he responded with, “that sounds like an excuse.”
After going back and forth on whether or not we should meet up for martinis (as per his suggestion), he decided to bail one hour before.
Here are my thoughts:
The thing about OFM is this. Him and PN were the only ones I would have given up everything for. And I know that love isn’t about giving up who you are, but I do know that it requires some sort of sacrifice. And I would have figured out how to stay in one place for either of them. I would have figured out how to ground myself. I would have made decisions and goals and finally took my future seriously, because there was someone who was dependent on my existence, not just my own self.
Both lives I could have led with either would have looked different. I picture me and OFM in bed on a Sunday morning, sometimes. It’s a king sized bed with a white duvet and lots and lots of pillows. It smells like coffee, made with some rare and special bean that he’ll specifically order online and only drink. The machine automatically goes off at 7:57 AM. So that by 8:00, the coffee is ready and we don’t have to lift a finger. He’ll take out his novel and read for a bit. I’ll lay my head on his chest. He’ll play with my hair, and I’ll start talking about a couple at dinner last night. The age difference, for one. “What do they even talk about?” I’d ask. He’ll close his book, because observing and discussing other couple’s relationships is a shared pastime of ours. “It’s a good thing we’re nothing like them.” He tells me. “There’s always something to talk about.”
What always attracted me the most to PN was that he wasn’t offered a life like OFM. He didn’t come from wealth or privilege. I wouldn’t wince at the way he talked about money. I think PN would have been the most content by the sea. Away from everyone and everything.
I know me writing about PN was always a point of contention for OFM. Not only did I move on, but I was actively writing about and wasn’t shy about my feelings for someone else. Someone who didn’t have a fraction of the wealth or opportunities he did.
But I wish they knew. I wish they all knew. That the secret to keeping me was to set themselves free.