The Beginning and the End

If I could go back to the moment I stepped out of that cab in Logan Square, I’d make myself get back in that car and shut the door. I’d look at that version me who now no longer exists, the one that had yet to meet Matt Karter, and I'd tell her don’t go. Don’t you dare meet that boy. She’d look at me wondering why and I’d just say because he will break you like you’ve never known.

I picture that girl, that me, getting into the cab, never meeting Matt, and I envy her ignorance, the bliss of not knowing what true heartbreak is. The kind that makes you wonder how you’re still breathing yet your mind is way too alive, stuck in a hyper-loop analyzing every single fucking thing that he said, that you said, that you did, didn’t do. And I imagine what she, what I, would be doing now.

I imagine I wouldn’t be here, eight months later, still gutted because I remember that boyish grin he had on his face when he told me, “I think it’s cute how much we like each other.” I wouldn’t hate myself, wanting more than anything to go back into time and do everything differently so that I’d be different and be a girl that he wanted. When somebody tells you, “I feel like I’ve known you longer,” after just a week, and then a month later says, “I’m sorry, I have unrealistic expectations that you can’t live up to,” it physically hurts.

The mental damage, well that doesn’t even set in right away. That’ll come when all hope is lost. In the beginning of the end there is always still hope. The mental damage will come after he says he misses you and kisses you like he means it and comes back for a bit, and you begin to believe again. When then, right on schedule, when your hope is nearly validated, you see a picture of him on Instagram with his arm over the shoulder of another girl, taking her out for an expensive dinner on her birthday. That’s when your mind will grasp onto the idea that you, after all, after all the things he said and did, just aren’t good enough.

I read that the physiological reactions to falling in love are similar to that of using cocaine—increased heart rate, hyper alertness, euphoria, energy. I’ve been trying to come off the high of Matt for eight months. Eight damn months. My method has been to ease myself from him by hanging out with other guys and binge drinking. And then, after a bad night, making lists on how to improve myself, which I follow through with for a bit until I get sucker punched by a memory of Matt dancing with me in a snow storm, and I text a stranger to meet up.

But it’s been like trying to replace cocaine with caffeine.

So here I am, smudged mascara on my hand from rubbing my crying eyes, a glass of wine next to my laptop, an incredibly long list of strange Chicago men in their early 30s who I stumbled across on dating apps, and a phone filled with their dick pics. All because I got out of the cab that night.

And I can still feel the butterflies.

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Beginning

The phone beeped on my tiny bathroom vanity. I’m on my hands and knees, splotches of grey paint on my legs and arms from painting my ugly bathroom floor in my “vintage” Chicago apartment. Setting my brush down, I stood up and looked at the screen where a message from Matt glared at me. I was newly minted 30, single, and letting my standards in men drop to those just passing as a decent time to drink with on a Saturday and then never speak to again. But Matt seemed more than a Saturday night drinking escape, at least judging by the smile that crossed my face when I saw his name pop up on my phone.

Matt and I met on Bumble a few days before. His photos were cute. Boyish grin, smiling eyes, dark messy hair, he went to MIT. He seemed nice. His profile actually said, “I’m a nice guy,” which looking back should have been a sign. A nice guy shouldn’t have to say he’s nice, right? If he was an asshole, would he have written, “I’m an asshole?”

Matt and I didn’t have the usual “how are you, what do you do?” conversations. No, this was fun, authentic, back and forth witty banter, the kind that makes you laugh when you read their response because they just fucking get you, making you think a little too hard about what to write back to hopefully get the same reaction on their end.

In one of his photos, Matt’s carving a watermelon, but not the way a watermelon is usually carved, you know by slicing it into triangles, or scooping out little balls. He had a large knife and was skimming off the rind like one would carve the corn off the cob. In the photo he’s wearing a yellow shirt and standing there with the biggest grin on his face. It was endearing as hell.

“What are you doing to that watermelon?” I messaged him.

“Carving it!” Matt replied.

“That’s not how you carve a watermelon.”

“How are you supposed to then?”

“I was just at the store and watermelon prices were insane. Ruined my day. I really wanted a watermelon. Fuck Jewel.”

“That sucks. You should protest.”

“I’m going to run for office with my political platform being corrupt watermelon prices.”

“You had me at corrupt watermelon prices. Here’s my number. Let’s take this offline.”

As I was saving his number to my phone, I accidentally called him and then promptly hung up when I saw it dial.

“Sorry,” I said. “I definitely didn’t mean to call you. “

“Yeah, that was a bit stalker-ish.” Matt replied jokingly.

I laughed and then forgot about him for a couple of days. That was until his phone buzzed on my bathroom vanity that Saturday night.

“When do you want to meet up?”

As I wasn’t yet trying to play hard to get, I quickly informed him that I’m free tomorrow, but also later tonight, if that worked for him. He responded that he was out with a friend tonight but would let me know. I figured that tonight wouldn’t happen but wrote back, “Ok,” took my wine and continued to paint my floor.

Two hours later, around 8 pm, I stood outside my bathroom surveying the results of my newly grey floor, and well into my second glass, when my phone buzzed again.

“I’ll be free in an hour if you want to meet up.”

Crap, I thought, I’m covered in paint, a bit drunk, and am going to have to Cirque du Soleil my way across my bathroom to get into my shower.

“Ok, that works!” I replied. And we made plans to meet at a bar in Logan Square in an hour.

He was spontaneous, another thing I’d come to love about him.

An hour later, and another glass of wine down, I'm sitting in the back seat of an Uber and arriving at the bar Matt chose in his neighborhood of Logan Square. Nervous, but feeling cute and nonchalant because I figured this guy would turn out to be a blimp in my week, let a lone my life, and I had three glasses of wine swirling in me. I was feeling good.

“Are you here yet?” I texted Matt as I stood outside a rowdy looking, heavy metal club thinking, “What the fuck is this place?” Matt responded that he was almost there, so I waited. A few minutes later he tells me he’s here.

“Where?” I asked, as I’m there and not seeing him.

“Outside.”

“Um, what’s the bar?”

After we realized the intended bar was on the other side of the street from the heavy metal bar where I stood at making friends with the doormen, I ran my hands through my hair, shifted my skirt, and crossed the road toward a boy standing near a garbage can. He stood there waiting with his hands in his cardigan pockets looking nervous. When he saw me walk to toward him he smiled a smile that I swear to god was made for me, and said, “hey!” in this adorably upbeat way.

When I think of the phrase, “love at first sight,” I’ll always think of that moment.

Matt wore a blue cardigan over a blue T-shirt with a fox on it. I wore a short, grey Free People skirt, a cute, baggy T-shirt from Anthropologie, and these hippie, heeled booties. When we walked together toward the bar, our shoulders brushed. We walked way too close for two people who just met. (A week later, Matt would tell me, “It feels like I’ve known you longer.” I’ll smile and say, “Awe, sappy,” but I’ll think right back to this moment when we walked way too close for two people who just met, and agree.)

The bar Matt chose was, thankfully, a far cry from the first bar I ended up at. It had a beach theme and a DJ standing in front of a projection screen of Island images.

We went straight to the bar where Matt ordered us beers and talked (and talked and talked) to the bartender. That would be my first experience with Matt’s love of talking to anyone, his love of being the center of attention. Pretty much, Matt would flirt with his own parents because he couldn’t help it—he was charming. I, on the other hand, am introverted and shy. And already mesmerized by this guy.

With beers in hand, we forewent a regular seat and went and sat on this moving swing that faced the DJ. I’m not sure what we talked about, but I remember we didn’t stop. We laughed, and flirted, and made fun of the DJ for having to stand in front of those stock video clips of Island scenes, joking about how he forewent Vegas and LA to come play at this empty, island themed bar in Chicago.

After a few drinks, Matt asked if I wanted to go back to his. He explained that he just moved into his place, so it wasn’t set up, but he could make us cocktails. He loved to make cocktails, he said. I hesitated, acting like I wasn’t sure, but the moment I saw him standing on the sidewalk, I knew I would never say no. So we got in an Uber and headed over to his apartment, a place I would come to know all too well.

Matt’s apartment was a brand-new building in Logan Square. He had a top floor, corner unit, two bedroom, two bath. There were still boxes sitting unpacked in his living room and he quickly apologized for the mess. I took my shoes off and said I didn’t mind and walked around while he went and grabbed some gin from a side table in his kitchen.

“Hey, want to cut this lime up for me?” He said, as he pulled out a lime from his fridge and busied himself getting me a knife.

As I cut the lime, Matt walked over to his record player that sat in his living room on top of a cabinet filled with music that cool people listen to, meaning I knew under a fourth of them. I heard him open the top of the player and fuss with it, then Billy Joel’s, “She’s got a way,” came through his speakers. Matt came back over to where I was cutting the lime at the counter, grabbed my from behind, turned me around, took my sticky hands in his, and danced with me in the middle of his kitchen.

For the second time that night I couldn’t stop the smile that ran across my face, or the vibrations happening in my chest.

We drank too much, and danced, and talked and laughed and had sex. I remember we had sex without a condom, stupid move, I know, but I was just finishing up my period and we both live in the moment, maybe get lost in the moment a little too much, which is why when we were together, the rest of the world seemed so boring.

The next morning, I woke up, hung-over and needing a tampon. I went to the bathroom and came back, explaining that I had to leave.

“No!” Matt said, still under his covers, pulling me into him. “Stay for breakfast.”

“I can’t, I really need to go.” I said.

“Why? Come on. Stay.”

“Ugh, fine. I need tampons!”

“Oh, want me to get some for you? There’s a Walgreens down the street.” Matt offered.

“No, it’s okay. I’ll go get some and be back.”

I left his apartment and walked toward Walgreens, taking this opportunity to mass text my friends, “I’m in love. I’m just woke up in this boys bed and now I’m walking to Walgreens to get Tampons and I think I’m walking the wrong direction and I’m hung-over, but I don’t care. I’m in love.” I wrote.

“How do you get into these situations? I love you.” Brittany said.

“Get back to the cute boy making you breakfast!” Dani wrote.

When I got back to Matt’s building, Tampons and Gatorade in a plastic bag, I realized I didn’t know his last name in order to buzz him, so I gave him a call. After one ring, Matt picks up without even saying hello and says, “Karter.”

After I’m buzzed in, I stood in the elevator and remembered I don’t remember his floor, so I gave him another call. Again, he picked up with out saying anything, just “511.”

I laughed and hung up.

The door to his apartment was ajar, so I walked in. He’s shirtless and wearing light blue basketball shorts, a record was playing on his records player, and he’s chopping up vegetables for omelets.

He smiles at me.

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After

It hadn’t seen Matt since October 4th.

It was early December and we had plans to meet up at this Indian café in Logan Square for brunch. I’d never been there. Matt is one of those people who has a list of cool places to go in his head, a decision maker people are more than willing to follow. So I followed.

It was snowing that Sunday. I had spent all morning getting ready and decided to wear black pants, a black sweater, brown slouchy boots and this yellow hat I knit. I got in my car, nervous has hell, and drove to Logan to meet up with him.

I wish I could freeze that feeling, that moment of excitement knowing that in a few minutes Matt will be there and we’ll fall back into our easy banter. I loved going to see him, he was my most exciting destination.

I parallel parked in a street spot near the restaurant, took a last look in the car mirror, turned off the engine, and stepped out.

Matt was sitting in a booth in the restaurant. Cute as ever. He wore a hat and a sweater and had ordered an Indian coffee drink with liquor in it.

When I sat down, he smiled that smile I first saw that first night, that boyish grin I’ll never forget, and said, “hey!” He looked nervous, possibly as nervous as me, and we fell into our thing.

We joked with the waitress, we joked about the waitress; we made small talk that seemed anything but small. And, for a perfect while I could breathe again, as if those past weeks of utter fucking misery were just a rough patch.

After we ate—we ordered different dishes and shared them—he asked if I wanted to continue to hangout. I said yes and my gut flipped. I felt like a firecracker had been let off inside me and the sparks must have shown in my eyes, in my failed attempt to hide my smile, and my nervous laughter. He doesn’t want to leave me, I thought.

But of course I had to hide all of that and said, as nonchalantly as possible like I could take it or leave it. “What do you want to do?”

And so we decided to go to his house to watch Last Week Tonight.

Walking to my car in the snow, both of us in our puffy black coats, we walked closely and our shoulders rubbed. Like how it was when we first met, that indisputable feeling of being drawn to each other.

It’s a strange sensation to walk into the apartment of a guy you dated after you’ve broken up. Everything is so known, like you were just there yesterday, but you no longer have the right to it. I guess there’s strangeness in the familiar.

His place looked just how I’d remembered; expect that the bottle of wine that I had once brought over and had sat dormant since was now empty near the kitchen sink. He wasn’t a wine drinker and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know who drank it, so I didn’t ask.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” I said while taking off my boots.

“It’s over there,” Matt pointed to his guest bathroom to the right.

I looked at him with my head cocked and what I hoped was a sly expression on my face. “I know, I’ve been here before remember?”

How quickly somebody can become a guest in a place they were once a host.

I came out of the bathroom and Matt was sitting on his brown couch. I had always thought this couch was ugly as fuck. A big, suede eyesore in two different shades of brown, but it was comfortable as hell. Above the couch were three framed posters that I had helped Matt hang. In front of the couch was the coffee table where we ate eggs that first morning.

The memories flooded me and I happily held my breath.

Matt had positioned himself in the middle of the couch and, as a way of emphasizing how much I didn’t care about him anymore, I sat huddled up in the left corner with my feet tucked under me and a pillow on my lap.

A position and emotional stance that would both come undone about 15 minutes into watching John Oliver.

Slowly, Matt leaned toward me and casually propped his feet on the coffee table, allowing his legs to casually flop a bit to his left. A then slowly, my feet shift from under me and crept over to his thighs until they were touching him.

And then we did that flirt dance. You know, the one that you do with somebody when you both pretend not to know what’s happening but you do know?

Well I thought I knew. But I had no fucking clue.

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To be continued