His Roommate Confirmed I Dodged a Bullet

The day after Thanksgiving has always been one of my most prized days of the year. Thanksgiving, too, don’t get me wrong. But there’s something about that in-between day, where I never feel obligated to shop anywhere but from the comfort of my couch, that feels uniquely relaxing. Much like the days between Christmas and New Year’s, it’s as if the entire country has donned a “Closed” sign and it really is possible to step away from email and text and (now) Zoom.

A few years back I found myself in said position (nestled into the couch) with some sort of rom com buzzing in the background, my journal in hand and Chrome set to Shopbop. I was thinking back on a relationship I’d ended at the beginning of that year. Well, if one can even call it a relationship. It was one of those non-relationship relationships. Sex. Sleepovers several times a week. But no official commitment.

The “first” ending came when I woke up to my denial of my own needs. No longer able to pretend I “didn’t really care about wanting a relationship” I said my feelings had “changed,” when really I’d finally decided to stop lying to myself and to him. The second came a good 11 months later, on the day after Thanksgiving.

Towards the end of our time together, his texts and response times began to feel fishy. If you’d asked me prior to that, in the earlier days of the “relationship,” when cooking Blue Apron on the weeknights was the norm, if this person was sleeping around I would have assured you no. But days after phase one of ending things, I received a email from my former beau’s roommate. He’d reached out to get the name of a podcast I’d recommended months prior (an off-handed comment I’d made while gathered around the kitchen island one Sunday morning sipping coffee).

It was, not so shockingly, a podcast about dating. I’d always adored his roommate in a sort of little brother way. I was touched he’d reached out. I sent it along immediately.

In the process of going back and forth over email, he made an unusual request. He asked that I not inform his still roommate and my now former hookup that he’d emailed me. I made clear that’d be no issue because we were no longer a thing, to which the roommate responded:

Good. You dodged a bullet.

I won’t bury the lead here. My spidey sense sent up a raging flair. I immediately knew I wasn’t the only one frequenting the bed of this guy. The roommate quickly confirmed that after I assured him I wouldn’t breathe a word to my ex. They were still living together and he was concerned what that would do to their living dynamics, understandably so. I was far less concerned about sticking it to this guy and more so concerned about where I could get an STD test and fast (praise you City MD).

But this is not a story about cheating or to school you in practicing safer sex.

A few months after the roommate’s big reveal and relief that all my STD tests came back negative, my ex popped up in my phone.

Hey Clara– I’ve been thinking of you. I know we ended things but I really enjoyed our time together. I’d love to be friends. Would you be up for a coffee sometime?

Oh goodness no.

My stomach dropped. Tears welled in the corner of my eyes. It was the dead of winter and I was wrapped in a full length down jacket, but I felt naked.

The text landed right as I was walking into a yoga class. I deleted it immediately as if the speed at which I did it could somehow lessen the impact. I hit my mat and did my best to push it out of my mind.

But over the following months, his words would occasionally rattle in my head. Friends. Coffee? Really enjoyed.

Bury. Bury. Bury.

And then, Thanksgiving. This holiday also happens to fall between my birthday and the final days of the year. There’s just enough time to make one last dent in the present calendar year while also taking stock of what I don’t want to carry into the future. The memory of his text bubbled to the surface.

For a long while, I told myself I couldn’t respond. I had to protect the roommate. The precious soul whose gift went far beyond alerting me to potential health concerns. He was like a messenger of sorts, breathing subconscious knowings into my inbox: You weren’t wrong, Clara. You weren’t wrong. And also, wake the fuck up and stop settling.

But I knew their apartment lease had come to a close back in August. So that wasn’t really an excuse anymore.

Closure is an inside job, to be sure. If we’re lucky, it involves the other. But even when it does reflect some communal attempt, we’re still left with our own regrets, our own messy feelings, our own evolution.

I was so used to managing closure on my own. With this guy — with every guy. But that’d also become a crutch. A way to mask my feelings and just “move on” while avoiding a difficult conversation.

So I wrote an email. An email to acknowledge I knew what went down and that it hurt me. An email to say it really stung to receive that text. An email to say it wasn’t ok. An email to stand in my anger and pain so that I could then put it down.

Shortly after I sent it, I met a wonderful man on Hinge. We dated for a few months, clinging to the phone over Christmas and wishing each other a breathy New Year. We parted ways in March after coming to terms with our differing feelings about children, but boy was he a balm in comparison to the previous guy.

Maybe that email worked some wonders after all.