regret from a rabbit hole

Taking grad classes in a Zoom modality can lead you down some pretty unexpected rabbit holes. I sat there tonight, blank in my brain as my classmates dissected their own counseling sessions with clients. It wasn’t their fault I couldn’t stay focused — it was the infinite world of the internet just beyond my Zoom screen. It takes incredible willpower to stay the course in these situations, and sometimes, I just don’t have it.

There is an intense soul-searching that takes place in moments like this. It makes me feel like we, as a species, are running around in circles in the dark, and I think about time… and life… and how I don’t make the most of what I’ve been given. Then, I shift gears and open Facebook. When you’re my age, a 30-something millennial-in-denial, you feel like Facebook has been labeled for older generations. Reserved for the less-than-tech-savvy crowd, which… of course, is not how I choose to identify. Then again, I started my Facebook back in the early 2000s, so I have too much invested. I mean, I’m essentially a Facebook historian at this point.

So, as I mentioned, I turn to Facebook. I add in some life events that I’ve been too busy to document. I take note of my likes and comments on the new selfie I posted of me in a yellow beanie. I cruise through my newsfeed just to see if there was anything that might arouse any sort of emotion. There was nothing. It seemed like a dead end. Then, my eyes drift upward. They’re met with the search bar. I’m faced with these questions: “What do I really want to see?” “What am I actually curious about that’s not being given to me on this plate of prescribed friend nuggets?”

I typed in his name. I hadn’t thought about him in years. Why should I? I’m in a serious committed relationship, living with a man I love. We adopted a dog. We’ve looked at engagement rings. Life is good. Life is so good that I felt the need to Facebook search a guy who I hung out with maybe three times and absolutely nothing ever became of it. I give myself grace. Human is what I am after all, and curiosity is a harmless tool… if you wield it properly.

So, I hit enter. Immediately, I scan his profile picture. A woman in a wedding dress — him standing beside her in a suit. His two daughters stand in front of them. They look superficially happy — the kind of happy inspired by career photographers with their “big smile” directives. I looked at his bride, the dress again, how hopeful and beautiful she looked. I looked at him, and I couldn’t help but ball my hand into a white-knuckled punch-to-be. I want to stand behind that camera, I want to cold-cock him in his face. I honestly imagined it to the point of the meat-packing sound as my fist made contact with his jaw.

Unable to convince my brain otherwise, I continue down this rabbit hole. I remembered a very specific day, three and a half years ago, when he took time off from work to drive out to where I lived and spend the day with me. It was a nice gesture, but just from sheer observation on social media, I knew he had been at least loosely seeing someone. I entertained it anyway. I remember the hike we went on. He kept making comments about how nicely my leggings complimented my curves and what he would do to me if we were in a different place. As a single girl at the time, the attention was welcomed, I didn’t hate it. I secretly wanted him to continue with his lines. Go ahead, guy, I thought — stroke my ego. Make me feel nice. (No one else was at the moment.)

On the way home, he wanted to stop by this used car lot. This particular dealer collected vintage models, and he spoke that language. We traipsed around the lines of old rust buckets, and he dreamed about owning this one and that one. I dreamed alongside him, and it felt good at that moment, like I belonged to someone — like he was proud to have me there by his side.

We eventually ended up eating lunch together. While we waited for our food, I watched as he flipped his phone over again and again. I had noticed it on the hike — his notifications going off incessantly. Text messages from the same person. Even with my shoddy eyesight, I could make out the shape of the name from a distance, so I knew it was the same person. I figured it was probably a girl, but he was here, with me, so I shrugged it off. He chose to ignore them. Over lunch though, I could see that the avoidance was getting to be too much, and he finally answered. Owing not a single thing to this guy, I knew I had nothing to lose. So, I asked him: “Who’s keeping tabs on you?”

He told me her name. He told me that she was in a rough spot in her life and had moved in with him temporarily. They were sleeping together, but they were not “together.” She was taking care of his daughters in his absence, but they were not “together.” She just bought more tomato plants for their garden, but they were not “together.” What he said next, I will never forget. What he said next made me realize that I had dodged a fatal bullet: “Do you want to get out of here and get a hotel room for the rest of the afternoon until I have to get back home?”

What he was suggesting was that I was the same kind of person I had only ever pitied in books and films. I remember looking at him and began to repeat a lot of what he had just told me. I had to process this out loud, for my sake. I explained that he had someone living in his house, taking care of the children that were his, not hers. She was assuming the responsibility of homemaker, expecting nothing but companionship in return, and here he was — sitting across from another woman whose existence is unbeknownst to her. He’s asking that woman to go spend a very specific kind of time with him in a cheap motel room until he goes back to her. He was asking this of me, and I knew that there was a strong chance he would ask this of me again if I didn’t whip out my hammer and nail it where it stood.

“She has no clue that you’re here with me right now, does she?”

He explained that she thought he was still at work. Honesty, I thought, what an incredibly refreshing quality in this guy.

It was at that moment I realized that this man had no sliver of a clue how insulting acting on his urges can be to all of the parties involved; how unbelievably insulting it was to think that I would be the person to scratch that respectless itch for him.

Yet there he was on Facebook, in that photo on their wedding day, standing beside her in her beautiful, intricately designed wedding dress. There he was, ready for his happily ever after.

Here I am, wondering why I didn’t reach out to her to tell her every bit of it when I had the chance.

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