We met at a boba shop on Santa Monica Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue, perfectly located between our apartments in the bustling heart of West Hollywood. I wore light-wash jeans with rips at the knees and a purple North Face long-sleeve shirt that said “Save the Polar Bears.” My beige jacket was fluffy and seemed excessive for a winter in Los Angeles. My dark brown hair was pulled back into two braids.
I sat down at one of the bistro tables, my nerves tingling. The crisp winter air flowed in through the open doors, bringing the thrill of a first date. A few minutes later, I spotted him on the street corner. He approached in light-wash oversized jeans and a black hoodie, his cap casting a shadow across his face.
As he stepped into the fluorescent light of the store, his bright blue eyes, lightly lined with black eyeliner, met mine. He smiled and I noticed how perfectly square his teeth were, except for his canines, shiny in a way that made me self-conscious.
“Nathanael? I said, a hint of hope in my voice.
“Hello, my love,” he replied, his British accent warm and inviting. He pulled me into his tall, thin frame, and I inhaled his scent – something like a chimney. “We’re almost identical,” he said, teasingly grabbing the collar of my jacket. A warm feeling came over me and I laughed, momentarily speechless.
After ordering my boba, I offered to play the games hidden under the tables. “I just won fourth place in my family’s Christmas poker tournament,” I said proudly as I shuffled the cards.
“Fourth?” He raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Yes, fourth,” I confirmed, nodding with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. He congratulated me, his amusement evident, and let me teach him blackjack while we waited.
We flirted and exchanged charged glances between rounds. After beating him three times, we went outside so he could smoke, the night air harsh against our skin.
The ride back to his apartment was short and I couldn’t stop laughing. I didn’t know if it was because he was funny or because I liked him – maybe both. Stopping in front of his building, he asked me what I wanted to do. It was already 11 p.m. This should have been harder for me to answer.
“I thought we were going inside,” I said.
Over the next five months, we had an informal arrangement that was as exhilarating as it was confusing. I found myself analyzing it often. I theorized that he learned the art of conversation through music. As for her talent for seduction, I think it was a mix of deep-seated insecurities and the kind of charm that comes with being a former rock star.
To say I was attracted to him would be an understatement. I was fascinated by his resilience, fueled by a diet of cigarettes and Coke Zero. How had he not broken down? But it was his intensity, combined with a surprising kindness, that really captivated me.
I was always nice, but I clearly wore it. In Nathan’s presence, my austerity seemed obvious and anything but cool. I imagined the type of girl he would fall in love with: someone who could dye her hair any color and still look effortlessly beautiful, turning heads wherever she went. When she smiled at him, completely smitten, every man in the room swooned with envy. She thrived on love, fitting effortlessly into his life, making it difficult to remember how they started dating. And then, inevitably, everything would collapse, leaving him in the rubble, as if she were a tornado sweeping across the Midwest.
I was a 6 at best, a little chubby, very sensitive and riddled with social anxiety. I have an aversion to relationships and monogamy because I don’t believe you can truly depend on anyone. I hate sleeping in other people’s beds and I can’t imagine spending all day with a man without developing at least some repulsion towards him. I’ve never been an object of envy because the last place I would be would be somewhere other men could see me, especially at that cool party last Saturday night or at Barney’s Beanery…ever. More importantly, my intensity was that of a gentle breeze.
I knew our casual arrangement would never change to more. Yet despite this, the longest I could go without responding to him was a day.
Five months later, I found myself on the floor, surrounded by the broken remains of the porcelain ashtray I had bought for him. He’d been talking about moving to a new apartment, so I’d bought it for him as a housewarming gift, hoping to add a touch of beauty to his favorite companion’s ritual. But then he didn’t text me for a whole month. In a fit of tears, I broke it, cutting my hands on the shards of porcelain.
Amid the broken pieces of my caring gift, revelations began to surface. I remember one night Nathan asked, “Why are women so angry with me when I don’t want to sleep with them?”
I replied, “Because rejection hurts.” »
Although his offhand mention of female attention was stinging, my response struck me as insightful. Rejection is personal; it cuts deep.
It seems trivial to compare rejection to an actual loss, but it can be just that: the loss of something you never really had. It breeds a unique kind of shame, the pain of wanting someone who doesn’t want you back.
I realized that I had never felt truly accepted by Nathan. I kept coming back, hoping he could alleviate the rejection I didn’t even recognize. The truth is that I was the only one who could do this by allowing this feeling to exist, alongside a myriad of other emotions within me.
And it got better. I learned that focusing on what didn’t just lead me to misery. When I decided to move on, I broke that cycle of negative thoughts. I didn’t consciously look for the things I loved about myself, but they appeared naturally to my surprise as I got back to life.
The author is a new resident of Los Angeles, more specifically West Hollywood. She loves Los Angeles and is grateful to live in such a diverse and vibrant city. Outside of work, she enjoys documenting her experiences through short stories and essays. To stay up to date with his work, check out his Instagram @lyssacady or @thenaughtypoet on Wattpad.
Los Angeles Business chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the Los Angeles area, and we want to hear your real story. We pay $400 for a published essay. E-mail LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find the old columns here.