It’s been a while since I’ve met someone who clicked with me. My new pal feels the same way – maybe more so. He likes my sense of humor, my way of looking at life, my sobriety, our mutual fatherhood and interests in life beyond the suburban horizon. He declares we might be “long lost brothers.” I remind him I already have one of those, and not by choice. Choice is everything, and friends are better that way. I like “friends,” he prefers “bros.”
But my new “bro” wants to get inside my skin, climb up my spine and dig around inside my head. We talk and share thoughts. He wants more. He tells me about his ex-wife and current girlfriend. I listen. There is an expectation of reciprocity now. I’ve spilled my secrets, now reveal yours. It’s what “bros” do. But, I only share the details of my life with a very select group of people.
One day, as our daughters play in the snow together I tell him about an old girlfriend who lived nearby. Her family owned motorcycle ski mobiles. The point of my story was how fun they were to ride. What’s her name? How long did you go out? Why did you break up? Where is she now? It’s ancient history and I’m candid. She and I met in college. We dated for years. I dropped her off from a movie and never saw her again. She called the next day and said we were done. Heartbreaking, but not unexpected. Life went on. I searched for her online a few years back figuring we could be Facebook friends or something; never found anything though. And that’s OK.
The next day, he sends an email – “Check it out!” Inside, a compiled biography, contact information and a photo of a face I never expected to see again. It’s her, clearly – aged, matured, but still very much her.
And it’s a funny thing to look at someone you loved once. It makes you wonder what the feeling is. I used to love her. Today I rarely think of her. I still have a box of love notes she sent. The best guitar I own – and still occasionally play – is one she bought for me. I have photo albums of pictures of her. There was a chance we might have gotten married and had children together. This was the woman I’d travel to Nantucket almost every weekend for a year to visit. I remember talking to her on the phone every night to compress the distance. I remember the day I met her – on a trip to Six Flags one summer day. I remember losing my virginity with her in her college dorm room while her friend was at a party. I remember sneaking off with her late at night to have sex on the lush green grass of the golf course across the street from her house – out in the open under the stars and moon. I remember the scuba diving trip to Key Largo we took – what an adventure that was. I remember the good times and the bad ones. I remember her honestly admitting she couldn’t didn’t know if she was with me because she loved me or because she was afraid of being alone. And, I remember our last phone call – her crumbling resolve and my increasingly desperate pleading.
A single photo triggers all those memories. But what about love? I remember loving her. I remember how I felt, how the feeling grew and blossomed … and eventually wilted like an unwatered plant. It’s all just memories now – some sharp and strong, others distant and hazy.
What was he thinking? I delete the email. He sends two more which I don’t bother opening. Delete. Delete.
Weeks go by and my friend finally brings it up. “So?” Enough time has passed so I soften my criticism with a dash of humor. He looks a little deflated. So be it.
I don’t condone the boundaries crossed, but I think I understand his motives. We are the closest thing we have to solid (local) friendship. I think through whatever intimacy we share, he sensed something in me – a longing perhaps, a wistfulness … and assumed this old girlfriend was the object of some unrequited love and desire. He was only trying to be helpful, because that’s what bros do for each other.
Except, he got the wrong girl.