Love Hangover

We were creating the greatest love story never told. It was damn near perfect. Twenty-plus years of friendship as the foundation? Check. Vibes on a hundred thousand trillion? Check. My family loves and adores him? Check. We match each other’s fly? SUPER CHECK! We have conversations about things deeper than celebrities, clothes, shoes, and other people? Check. We have conversations about celebrities, clothes, shoes, and other people? Check. I love his children like my own? Check. The list goes on and on and on. In my mind there was no one better for me than him, and I told him so, to which he replied that was his truth as well, no one better for him than me. We just worked, and always had.

We were really close in high school. Somehow every year we always ended up sharing lockers. His idea, of course. It was like our little home: neat, organized, tidy, and decorated with a pair of his smiley face boxers to add his flair and presence since it was always my locker we shared. We had most of our advanced classes together. We were both super smart, but we hid it well because we were fresh as hell fashion wise. LOL. He would fall asleep in class; I would wake him when the teacher started looking a little antsy, and I would fill him in on what he missed. I always looked out for him. I’ve always loved him. I honestly can’t remember us not being friends in high school. I can’t even recall our first conversation. We are both the elder children with one same sex younger sibling. We talked about how popular our little sibs were, and how we felt like the younger ones; we talked about our childhoods; we talked about life. We had real life adult ass conversations as teenagers, both wise and beyond our years due to both trauma and natural gifting. During our senior year of school we stopped sharing lockers because his girlfriend hated me and made him “move out”. My boyfriend was jealous of our relationship, so I had to explain to my best friend I had to leave a little space between us because I was working on my relationship with my boyfriend. Life went on, and we didn’t keep in touch too much after high school save for the occasion check ins. Once I got divorced we picked back up like we never fell off. He was involved in a serious relationship, and I had the honor of naming his first child. We had never hooked up romantically, ever. We never kissed, never touched, never even mentioned being together. It was all love and purely platonic, at least on my end.

 

Life happened, and he was struck with an awful tragedy. I would call and reach out when I felt his spirit was low. We shared a telepathic, ESP type bond. I would think about him, and he would text or call. He would think about me, and I would do the same. It was trippy but oddly comforting. I loved everything about it. We started communicating more and hanging out just a smidge more, and then it happened. One night we went out for Mexican food. My children were with their dad for the Thanksgiving break, and his children were away as well. After we shared a meal we went back to his place and binge watched Dear White People on Netflix. He fell asleep during a few parts, and in between bouts of sleep and watching the show, we talked. We talked about life, each other, our traumas, spirituality, and any other non-superficial topic that organically came up. I was falling, and apparently he had fallen years ago. The next morning I needed to leave to help my mother with Thanksgiving dinner. We teased, and he leaned over and kissed me, and I kissed him back. Sex was on the menu, but it wasn’t served because I wasn’t ready. I hadn’t showered since the morning before, and I had been drinking my ass off, so my scent wasn’t right to me. Virgo women. LOL. He held me like his life depended on it, and I melted into his embrace. It felt like home. He didn’t want me to leave, and I didn’t want to leave, but…Thanksgiving. After I helped cook and clean I slept through dinner. He and I made plans for the next day. We went to see Creed II and headed back to his place to finish Dear White People, only this time the tension was thick. Sex was served, and it was awkward as all hell. Good as any delectable meal served with perfectly cooked scallops, but awkward because we had finally crossed the line from friends to lovers. 

I fell fast and was trying to catch my footing while maneuvering from friend to lover to hopefully in my heart of hearts…wife. I had no reservations about him or the relationship, but I was trying to process it while just savoring the fact I felt I had finally found my forever. I could take my shoes off and relax my soul because I knew he would never hurt me. He had always been gentle with me and I with him. We were perfect for each other. Less than a month into being lovers we were presented with a possible pregnancy. The moment was surreal. After he planted his seed the commentator on the television said, “And the fertilized egg is carried into the…” We had been watching Blue Planet, I think. I asked him repeatedly what he wanted to do, and he always hit me with, “It’s your body. I learned a long time ago not to tell a woman what to do with her body.” I was torn. Everything in me wanted to have his baby if we were pregnant, but I had been a single mom most of my adult life, and I didn’t want to bring another child into the world unsure of where the father and I stood. I took Plan B. I cried. I cried some more, and I cried even more. I told him, and I immediately felt him leave me. I asked if it was something we could work through or if he was done. He said we could work through it. I reached out numerous times for us to at least talk about it and gain clarity on where we stood. Nothing. For New Years Eve he left. He didn’t tell me, but I knew. I felt him. I knew he was with another woman. I felt it. I cried ALL night because I felt him leave me. I felt the betrayal before it was even spoken. He wanted the baby. After all my asking and his vague replies, he admitted he wanted the baby.

I have had my heart broken before, but never like this. This scattered my heart to pieces, broke me down to the core, pierced me to the marrow of my soul. This shit hurt. It hurt worse than my divorce. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone. When we made love I would pray my yoni give him life and be what he needed it to be. I prayed we ascended, and afterward he would lie in my arms and between my thighs for what seemed like eternity as I feather stroked the skin of his arms, back, and shoulders, play in his hair, and listen to him breath as he went in and out of states of peaceful sleep and rest. I would kiss his beautiful lips, hold his face in my hands and declare how beautiful he was, play in his beard while he communed with God inside me. Beautiful is an understatement. I keep trying to figure out why I can’t get over this, and its because I shared my innocence with him. I shared my vileness with him. I shared every range of me with him. I loved him from a place void of space and time. I loved the me in him. I loved the him in me. I loved him from the space and frequency in which God resides. I loved him with no reservations. My love was the truth. You should know the truth by how it feels.