to us. and to everything.
it's been a summer of changes
“Regeneration.” The Man at the Front says to me.
I’ve just told him how this was the first summer, in a few years, that I haven’t spent in longing. In tears, or even the slightest bit heartbroken over a man. There hasn’t been any dates since that springtime rendezvous with Hot F. There was that one night stand (6 hours, to be precise) - with a bartender from another bar (lol) at the beginning of July. But that was it. Basta.
“But I’m not mad about it at all. It’s been…peaceful. Maybe it’s what I needed.”
He nods. “Want my opinion?”
“Well even if I say no, you’re going to give it to me anyway.”
“Maybe it was what you needed. But…I think you’re a little bit bored.”
-
Last week was my one year anniversary of To Writing By the Sea. I like reminding myself of these one year newsletter anniversaries. And of course, they’re not anniversaries in the traditional sense. It wasn’t a marriage, a birthday, or some other societal-made milestone.
But rather, it was a night that became a pivotal moment of self growth. Of regeneration.
At its core, Writing By the Sea is a real conversation between two former lovers, who, had no choice but to form some type of “friendship” after the end of their affair. It’s a moment where, all of the games, the outside influences, the fighting, the tension, the “I hate you/I love you, I hate you because I love you” the push, the pull - all of it is stripped away. And it’s just these two, old souls - sharing a real, and meaningful conversation. With no other intention, and with no other motive besides them being their 100%, most authentic selves.
And these two souls, they know the trajectory of their relationship. They both know that this conversation, in a crowded bar, is going to be as intimate as they will ever get. So, you make the most of what the universe has allotted you with. You reminisce. You remember the good things, the things they taught you. And you vow to always wish the other person well.
And can I tell you why, I’m so happy that - one year later, it’s become the most viewed newsletter? It’s because it also represents why I choose to write about these men, and these love stories in general.
Because I refuse to make anyone that I’ve ever loved, a villain in my story. And To Writing By the Sea is a reminder of that. It’s a hey, let’s put the swords down. Let’s remember why the universe connected us in the first place.
Let’s remember what we had, and let it form into something new.
Growth. Regeneration.
-
“Can I tell you something?”
I’m leaving Rome for a while (again), the bar is closing for the August holidays, and I never have anything to lose while being honest.
“Tell me.” The Man at the Front passes me his cigarette.
“I’m still really insecure about everything. About what he thought. And about what everyone else thought. I never wanted it to look like…that I was naive, and that I was coming here because I was waiting for something to change.”
“Listen, Emily. We’re all insecure about things. We’re human beings. And I know the full story. And he knows the full story. But the problem is, if they ever asked him about it - they wouldn’t get the truth.”
I nod.
“But if anything - you still coming, and you still being here. Proved that it was never really about him.”
You see? Roman lesson #1. You can heal yourself in a place that hurt you. You just have to be fearless enough to confront your hurt head on.
“Can I ask you something? With Hot F., and with The Manager. When I was telling you about them and what was going on between me and them…you were never really as bothered as you were, versus when I was telling you about PN.”
He opens his mouth and pauses. “I’m really protective over you.”
I nod. “I know.”
“And I felt like he was playing a game.”
-
Back in December, I’m having a conversation with my spiritual friend.
“He felt something, Emily. As much as he could allow himself to feel. He felt something.”
-
I fiddle with the E on my bracelet. I count the tiny jewels that surround it. I look up at the Man at the Front. His white button up and 6’5 frame. His dark brown eyes. How, no matter what happens. And no matter where I’ve been. No matter who I’ve been with. He’s always there. Willing to listen, willing to understand, willing to accept, and willing to remember.
That’s love, isn’t it? And maybe not in the sense of a traditional partnership, or a traditional love story. But it’s just another facet of it, really.
“Sometimes I think about us.” I don’t know where I’m going with this statement, other than I feel like it needed to be said.
“What do you mean?”
I shrug. “What would have happened if…in another life, maybe. If we met under different circumstances. A different time frame. And I think, you might wonder about that, too.”
He nods. “The what-ifs. I used to live in those. But, I realized something - they’ll swallow you, if you let them. And with you…” He smiles. “I’ve learned that I need to keep both my feet on the ground.”
It’s a conversation between two former lovers, two souls, who know the trajectory of their relationship.
-
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed. It’s my usual end-of-the-night routine. It’s 3 AM, and I’ve ordered a McDonald’s double cheeseburger, medium fries, and a Coke Zero. I’ve taken off my makeup. I’m texting my best friend.
“I wasn’t expecting him to say that.” She texts me. “About him playing a game.”
“Me neither.”
“He wanted to keep you within reach. But it ended up being unfair. It was just an unfair situation to all.”
-
“So. In this latest season of Emily in Rome…”
“What a long season.” I look up at the tower in the centre of the parking lot. “A drawn out one, too. We thought it was the finale in May.”
“The people are invested. Where is she going next?”
“Maybe she’ll fall in love.”
“I expect a wedding invite.”
“Oh don’t worry.” I smile. “I’m inviting this entire bar.”
“Well. There might be a few tears shed.”
It’s quiet between the both of us as people start to exit.
“You know what? We never actually figured out who lived up there.” The Man at the Front nods to the tower.
“Rapunzel, probably.”
My Uber pulls up.
“I’ll text you.” The Man at the Front tells me.
I don’t know when the next time I’ll see him again is. I say one thing, and the Universe always plans another.
“Promise?”
He holds out his fist. I roll my eyes and gently tap mine against his.
“Promise.”
And in my little white dress, I slide into the leather backseat. I close the door and lean my head against the glass window. Three years of that white brick wall. Three years of these little white dresses. Three years of that god-damned tree lined street.
These summer memories have a way of sticking to us. These stories of lovers to friends, and of friends to lovers. In the summer, fear evaporates into the air around us. We’re left feeling hazy, but we’re left feeling free.
Nothing really changed, did it?
Except for us.
And except for everything.