3 Writers on Love Gone Bad

You want to know when I finally figured out I loved her? When I got sick.

The nurse at the college's health center told me You've got mono, and she was the first thing I thought of. How I wouldn't be able to kiss her for at least a month. The thought was impossible to bear. She wasn't back from break yet, and I hadn't heard from her since I left her at the airport. It was weird to think that four days ago we had been sitting in my bedroom, watching a movie like a real couple, and now I had mono and hadn't heard from her in four days. The thing that got me, though, the thing that proved I actually have some real human emotions, was that I started thinking about why I hadn't heard from her. If I had mono, maybe she had it, too. I felt like shit, and she might feel 10 times worse. And I started to worry about her. I mean, I was genuinely more concerned about her than about what was happening to me.

The strangest thing was, it wasn't a rational thought process. One minute, the nurse says, Yeah, you've got mono, and the next I feel this pain in my stomach because she might not be OK. I had never felt that way about anyone. I had never been scared because I didn't know what had happened to someone. And at that point, I might not have said it to anyone, I might not have even admitted it to myself, but I loved her.

This was two days before she left me.

My dad: "Shit happens."

Of course, she didn't have mono and she wasn't at home lying in bed in pain. She was back at school, doing who knows what, probably sleeping with him. She didn't call until two days after the diagnosis. I was relieved to hear her voice and hear that she was OK.

I had it all planned out, too, how we'd get through the stupid mono—there were plenty of things we could do without kissing. We'd make it through because that's what couples do—they get through the hard times. There were barely two months until graduation, and those were going to be our best two months, they had to be, I didn't care if I had malaria. Because after that we wouldn't be together, we couldn't be together, even if I loved her and even if I was afraid to admit it to anyone, even myself.

My mom: "You need to allow yourself time to heal."

I couldn't even admit it when she sat me down the next day and said, "I think it'd be better if for the rest of the school year we were just friends."

"That's just not possible," I didn't say. "It's not possible because I love you, and I've never loved anyone in my entire life and that means no, you don't get to just be my friend. I veto this decision. Motion overruled." Instead, I cried—because I had a fever and I could barely swallow and I didn't know where my life was going after graduation and my parents were getting divorced and we were together, goddammit, and it wasn't fair. I had worried about her. I had been more concerned about her well-being than about my own. I had transcended my selfishness and now she didn't even want me anymore.

I didn't say any of that. I gave her a hug, and I said, "I'm sorry if I ever hurt you," and I really meant that.

My sister: "Do you want me to beat her up for you?"

And then things got worse. Everytime I thought about it, I came up with some new thing that we would never get to do or thought of some tiny change in circumstances that would mean we were back together. And I learned more about him. He was in love with her. He said they should get married. She spent all her time with him—her roommates joked that she didn't live with them anymore. She was going to Europe with him. He had been on a soap opera, for Christ's sake. And he was going to be around. I was graduating, heading across the country, running away from possibilities, from feelings, running away from her even as I couldn't bear to be out of her presence. I was stupid. I was emotionally stunted.

Jason, from high school: "This is good for you."

All of a sudden, I realized I needed someone. I was sitting in my room, crying, and all I needed was someone to talk to. I looked stupidly at my phone, thinking about who I could possibly call, and for a moment I thought, "There's no one. There's not a single person who I have the level of emotional connection with necessary for me to talk to them about this." I hadn't made a single real connection with any of my "friends" in four years of college. At least half of my dorm floor was filled with people I went to the movies with, commiserated with over excessive homework with, ate dinner with—people I barely seemed to have anything to say to. I had somehow stumbled into this group of perfectly nice people who, after all this time, I barely knew. I couldn't knock on one of their doors crying.

One of my neighbors: "You just look so sad."

Eventually, I called Holly, one of the girls I had briefly dated and casually broken up with. I had had several relationships like that, short flings that took virtually nothing out of me emotionally. Holly and I, though, had been friends since breaking up almost two years earlier. For some reason, she was easier to talk to than any of the friends I had known for almost four years. It took awhile, but I realized I did have the level of emotional connection with a select few people to talk to them openly about my feelings.

Holly: "Anytime you want, you can just get on a plane and visit me."

In the next few weeks, I did things I never thought I would do. I cried openly when I talked about her. I went to the counseling center. I called on people for emotional support more than I had in years, possibly ever.

She said she wanted to be friends. The first time she came over, I didn't know if I was crying in pain because she was telling me about her trip to Europe with him or in joy because she was holding my hand while she did it.

Lisa, another ex: "You're quite sharp, interesting and funny, even when you're depressed."

And I'll tell you the scariest thing I realized: This was how it was. This was what you dealt with when someone you cared about left you. This was what people dealt with all the time. This was probably what I had forced someone to deal with in the past. I didn't know how you did it. I wondered if it had been better when I didn't have any feelings.

But mostly, I wondered about her. I wondered what she was doing, what she was wearing, what she was thinking and if any of it was about me. I wondered if she thought he was better in bed than I was. I wondered if she'd come back to me. I still worried about her, just a little. I probably won't ever stop.

A few weeks later, I call my friend Jon, whom I've known since I was 10. I haven't talked to him since it all happened. I leave a message, a normal hey give me a call that says nothing about how I'm feeling. Later that night, he calls, straining to be heard over people in the background.

"I'm on my way to Vegas," he shouts.

"Oh, I totally forgot about that. Well, just give me a call when you get back."

"No, it's OK. Free long distance. So how's it going?"

"Not too good, man. I've got mono."

"Oh, that sucks."

"Yeah, I know. What's going on with you?"

"I had that surgery on my chest last week."

"Oh, right. Are you doing OK?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine, no big deal. So what else is going on?"

"Eva broke up with me."

"What? What was that?"

I raise my voice. It's embarrassing. "Eva! She dumped me!"

He gets it. "Oh, shit, man. I'm sorry. What happened?"

"I don't wanna tell you the whole story over a cell phone. Give me a call when you get back home."

"I'll call you from the hotel tomorrow."

"No, don't worry about it. Call me later in the week."

"No, man, I wanna talk to you. I'm here for you, dude. You know I love you."

"Yeah, I know, thanks. Give me a call tomorrow."

"I will. Hang in there, man."

He hangs up, and I wonder, did I remember about the surgery? I didn't remember about the trip to Vegas he'd been telling me about for two months. Eva has an eight o'clock lab tomorrow and then no classes until the next day. Then she's got a full day, classes from ten to four and a student-publication meeting at nine. I used to worry that she didn't get enough sleep before those early labs. I sit at my computer and check my e-mail, in case she's sent me something.

Love gone bad? Does it ever go another way? So far, no. But on at least one occasion, I was a less-than-wonderful person, which might have had something to do with it.

Six years ago, during my freshman year of college, I started dating a guy, Mike, who'd been a friend for several years. There'd always been a lot of flirting between us, but we lived an hour and a half from each other, which seemed like an impossibly huge distance in high school. But by college, living in my first aparatment and feeling in general like a person finally in charge of her own life, I decided it was time to give it a chance.

Great idea, Maria.

It turned out he was way more into the relationship than I was. We had been close friends for years, but almost as soon as we started dating, he started the I Love Yous, which were sort of sweet and sort of creepy. Then he started saying things like, "I could marry you today and be happy for the rest of my life." When I replied, "Ha ha, that's funny," he said, "No, no, I've felt that way for years. In fact, I've been thinking you should move here and we should get married, maybe in a couple of months." We'd only been together for two months, I was 19 and this was more than I could handle. I started to think perhaps we shouldn't be together.

That's when my behavior went from less than wonderful to downright horrible. My friend Ron—who was also friends with Mike—convinced me it would be better to break things off over the phone immeidately rather than wait. So that day after classes, Ron came to my apartment to make sure I didn't chicken out. When we got there, I figured I needed a drink for courage. Then another. In fact, perhaps five drinks would give me enough courage. I really did feel bad and kept hoping that each beer would make it seem a little easier. Didn't work. By the time I called Mike, I was sloppy drunk. I told him I thought we should probably take a little time off, and he asked if I'd been drinking. That was embarrassing, and I admitted I had, but that I would feel the same way sober. He was really upset, and after some pleading with me to reconsider, he told me to think about things some more and call him again in a couple days. Feeling bad, I agreed.

I'd like to say my bad behavior ended there. But I didn't call Mike for more than a week, so he started calling me. Instead of talking to him, I took the cowardly route and sent him a short, snarky e-mail saying that I had not changed my mind, and that I never would. He sent an e-mail saying that he couldn't deal with my behavior, but that he loved me, and I should contact him if I ever pulled my head out of my ass. I knew at this point that I was an unforgivably bad person, and even though I often missed his friendship, I couldn't call.

I'd like to say my bad behavior ended there. But few months later, I saw Mike at a music festival, and though he tried to be nice, I freaked out—from guilt, mostly—and resorted to the cold, dismissive behavior I often find myself projecting at inappropriate times.

"I just want to be your friend," he said. "I understand that things will never work for us, but I still care about you." Then he turned and left, and sadly, that was the last time I saw him. I've never regretted breaking up with him, but I cringe everytime I think about the way that I did it.

Jennifer was stunning. No, really. I know every guy thinks that the woman he's with at any given moment is attractive, but we had dates interrupted by men who just had to pay her compliments, which she gracefully accepted.

We met while I was apartment-sitting for a friend in Vancouver, Canada. I'd just had all my wisdom teeth pulled and graduated from film school—two events not altogether unrelated, at least on a metaphorical level. Most of my meals consisted of protein shakes, but I took breakfast across the street at a cafe called Hemingway's (I was a huge fan of Hemingway). The cafe had a huge selection of omlettes (I was a huge fan of omelettes), perfect for the swollen, narrowed passage I then called my throat. Jennifer was the waitress there every morning. Blond hair, green eyes, a body undeniably feminine in all the right spots (I became a huge fan of Jennifer).

Hemingway's was almost always empty on weekday mornings. I worked afternoons at a downtown hotel, and Jennifer was trying to make it as a jazz singer. She let me listen to one of her demos once and she had a wonderful voice, smooth and silky, warm like a single-malt scotch.

Looking back on it, I realize I never consciously made a play for her, and this is likely the only reason we ever got together. I'm something like a love rhino—and I don't mean that in a good way. I'm a blind, bumbling creature, more likely to charge into the one tree in the middle of an empty savannah than I am to purposely charm someone into bed. (Just ask my wife.)

At any rate, one night found me at the cafe's bar as Jennifer was closing. Then it found us having a late-night dinner at a sushi restaurant where the little plates traveled a circuit around the bar atop a chain-driven conveyor. The night finally averted its eyes, I hope, when we tumbled into Jennifer's white-sheeted bed.

I was utterly, utterly smitten. Utterly. I encouraged her singing career. She'd have sex with me. I would take her out dancing. She'd have sex with me. I'd bring her a bouquet of flowers at the cafe. She'd ... hey, I was 23 at the time and there wasn't much else to my idea of a mature relationship.

But then I started to notice little things. Like when I'd call her and she'd hang up and call me back from the pay phone outside her building. Or when we'd go out for a walk along the water's edge, and she'd think that the man brown-bagging it in his car was tailing us. Or when she told me that Neil Diamond had hired people to follow her and maybe even have her killed. Little things like that.

But she was just so goddamned gorgous, it didn't matter to me that she was crazy. Heads turned when we walked down the street. We never had to wait in lines at restaurants or nightclubs. I'd sit up in bed on those Saturday afternoons, watching her sleep, amazed I was where I was, and then she'd wake up, nudge me over, and a short while later, I'd be the one in need of a nap.

Around the same time, I was trying to find a way to put my BFA to use, apart from the lure of becoming a barista. I had come across news of a local company churning out B-movies for Texas drive-ins and other high-minded demographics. The scripts involved a lot of girls in bikinis, villains wearing Mad Max-inspired costumes and setting off flash-pots under the same beat-up Chevrolet, which would later be spliced into entirely different films.

The only problem was that I was having a hell of a time tracking the company down. The name wasn't in the Yellow Pages, Google had yet to be invented and the couple of news stories floating around were annoyingly vague on details as to PO boxes. At one point, I even drove out to a suburban townhouse and left my resume and sample reel on a doorstep that belonged to someone with the same last name as one of the producers.

Jennnifer and I had recently finished having sex and decided to head down to a nearby farmer's market for some fresh air and something to eat. The helicopter that passed overhead made her a little nervous as she told me how someone had called her the other day but hung up when she answered. Standing out in the plaza, the summer wind lightly stirring her hair, eating our fresh croissants while the gulls screeched in the air, I tried to reassure her that it had simply been a wrong number. To get her mind off it, I told her about the film company I was trying to locate and the sort of silly movies they made.

"If you have anything to do with them, we're through."

She said it just like that. No questions, no desire for explanation from me. Simple cause and effect.

I couldn't believe it. I think I might have even laughed. (Actually, I'm sure I did; I'm just trying to paint myself in a better light.) I tried to explain that the movies were harmless, but that it was too good of an opportunity for me to pass up. Jennifer walked off toward the water to feed bits of her croissant to the gulls. The woman who thought she was being stalked by the man responsible for "Hello Again" and "Forever in Blue Jeans" had just dumped me. That was the last time I remember seeing her.