I was driving her home. The talk we dreaded just a day before went better than expected.
We knew it was over; there was nothing to add, but we didn’t want the night to end. So, standing in London’s rush hour traffic following diversion routes and avoiding road closures felt like a gift. We listened to our favourite songs and talked about what might have happened if.
If we had met at a different point in our lives, if I hadn’t felt broken after my marriage collapsed, if she wasn’t leaving the country soon, if I was ready for something more than “let’s have fun with no strings attached,” if…
But there are no ifs, no life. There’s just life, and it’s often like drawing without an eraser. This is the first and final draft. There are no developmental edits and no remakes. Close your eyes, walk to the pool's edge, jump, and swim—or don’t.
Whatever happens, happens. Whatever doesn’t, doesn’t.
“I have to be honest with you, though,” she said as I made a U-turn after I missed the turn towards London Bridge. “Not that it matters now.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, finishing the turn and slowing down at the street lights, my leg tired from constant breaking and acceleration. “Say it.”
“I often felt like you weren’t dating me. It was more like you were dating The Girl, and I was just one who happened to occupy her place. It could have been anyone else in my place, and you’d do all the same things…”
I wasn’t looking at her and was watching the light. My mind rushed through the past several weeks. A spontaneous trip to Brighton. Late-night movies. Discussions, stories, music. Binge-watching our (my?) favourite sitcoms. Lots and lots of wine. Her friends, my friends, board games. Bedroom. Her place, my place. Fun times. Many of these things felt natural, but that wasn’t the point. The point was that it felt natural because it was what you’re supposed to do when going out with someone. It’s what I’ve always done. It’s like following a script on dating that you’ve created and seen work in the past.
And that was the whole problem.
“Right,” I said. I think you’re right. It might be what I meant by ‘I am not ready yet,’” I said, pushing the gas as the light switched to yellow and green. I felt I was nearing some insight but couldn’t grasp what it meant.
We were now driving through Tower Bridge. I’ve passed it many times in the past five years in London, but I’ve never seen it this close or driven across it. It was beautiful, fairy-tale-like, the lights of Canary Wharf reflecting in the Thames on one side, the Southbank teeming with Friday nightlife on the other.
“Beautiful,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said.
I was buying myself time. I was also thinking. Just an hour ago, I told this great, smart, funny, gorgeous girl I was not ready. I wasn’t sure what I wasn’t ready for, but I felt it.
Not. Ready. Yet.
And now she cracked it. Of course!
The symptom of my not-readiness was that I still dated people as if they were my ex-wife. I was dating people not consciously but out of inertia. Moreover, I did the same things with these people in my previous relationship. I expected them to like the same music, movies, and things my ex-wife did. I even sought Ukrainian girlfriends, perhaps out of a need for something I missed, something that felt like home but wasn’t anymore. And as a result, I wasn’t seeing her for who she was. Instead, I was (subconsciously) using her as a rebound. A placeholder. As a way to “get at” my ex-wife. To forget. To feel better about myself. To build self-esteem. To remind myself that I am fun, handsome, loving, charming, all of the things I forgot I was in the past several months. Thinking about it made me feel like an ass.
“It’s okay if I am your rebound, though,” she said as if reading my thoughts. We crossed the river and were now around the area of London Bridge. The navigator showed five minutes to the destination in green, which meant we escaped traffic jams. “You’re my rebound as well.”
“How so?” I asked. I already knew she didn’t have a boyfriend before she met me.
“There was this guy. He treated me badly. And we kind of lost touch. And my feelings for him reminded me of my feelings for you. But he was an asshole, so we never got closure. But tonight, I had closure for the both of you.”
I smiled. “That’s good to hear. Yeah. Yeah…”
We drove the remaining four and a half minutes in silence. Neither of us wanted to say anything else, not that it mattered. Liz Gilbert once wrote that soulmates are people you meet for a certain period to see your reflection in them. They show you a part of you and then escape from your life. They are always temporary. You’d never want to date a soulmate, though. Dating your reflection can get tricky. Was this girl my soulmate? I wasn’t sure. But she showed me something I needed. And it was probably one of the most amicable breakups I ever had. Mature, no grudges, still feeling mutual respect, kindness and tenderness towards each other and the lessons we gave each other.
“Thanks,” she said when I stopped by her house. “For you.”
We kissed.
“I’ll see you when I see you?” I said.
She nodded. “Probably not.”
I smiled. Of course.
She left.
I sat there for a few seconds, absorbing the moment, staring at the empty shotgun seat.
Life is funny. You draw without an eraser and never know what the picture will look like. You never know what people will become characters in your life and whether they’ll stay for as long as you want them to or just become episodes in the TV series of your existence.
I sighed, put on some music, and drove home.
Thanks for reading. If you enjoy my writing, consider supporting my work by making sure I get my caffeine intake for the day. That would help me stay alert, notice things around me, and write about them the only way I can: with radical honesty. Cheers.