This post is the second in a series. Please read the essay here first (with a new illustration), if you haven’t yet! 🙂
I was walking out of therapy, on a sunny Friday afternoon, when a text from Pete Benson caught me by surprise. He asked whether I was still living in Oakland and explained that he was in town for work until later that evening. He wondered whether I wanted to grab a drink with him.
Sure; what the hell, I thought. I agreed.
Pete and I had met over six years earlier, back in 2013, when I lived in Seattle. We dated for a number of months, but less than a year. Pete was my first respectful, mostly functional, semi-lengthy relationship. I met his sweet family and he met mine. We blended friend groups across afternoons at Green Lake, Thursdays at Finn’s, and tailgates at the UW stadium. We breakfasted on pastries in Olympia, where he grew up; we tasted wines in the Skagit Valley, where I did. And then, when I grew overwhelmed by the prospect of commitment, not yet having learned about Relationship-OCD, we parted ways.
We communicated here and there over the years, exchanging brief texts typically born out of nostalgia.
I met up with Pete in Jack London Square on a little patio, that warm and breezy late afternoon. Driving there, I wondered what it would be like to see him. My romantic feelings for him had long since retreated. And he was engaged to be married. But why now? I hadn’t seen him in probably five years.
He looked just the same as before. With flecks of gray in his dark hair, and a fuller face. But, mostly, he looked the same. We discussed life and work and family over beers. He told stories about his tiny niece, whom he clearly adored. We updated one another about the friends we had once shared – Sasha was pregnant, and Milo and Shohil had been married.
Pete spoke of his wife-to-be and of their wedding the next month. I congratulated him genuinely, lifting my pint glass in support of his successful love life. He asked about mine, and I told him about my boyfriend of the time, who just two weeks later would become an ex.
Before we departed – Pete had a plane to catch – I felt pulled to explain what I had learned about myself, about R-OCD, about why I hurt him and why our relationship ended. But I let the moment pass, not wanting for the release of my guilt to interfere with his life.
“I’m so happy for you,” I said instead.
I watched the pictures from their wedding trickle onto Facebook a month later, admiring the joy on Pete’s face. And then, I noticed this pang of sadness as the thought crossed my mind: Will I ever be the bride?
