It was my first week in college when I saw him walk into the cafeteria. A mix of Ralph Macchio and Andy Garcia, he was tall, dark and handsome — just my type. Better yet, he arrived complete with a leather jacket and overly-macho attitude that made this California girl experience that weak-in-the-knees moment one only gets when too young to know better.
My eyes followed him as he explored his dinner options while enthusiastically sharing my excitement with my new girlfriends as they teased me for acting very much like the giddy schoolgirl I was. Finally, after my new roommate dared me to go for it, I pretended to need something from the milk station where he stood, making a cup of coffee. I looked over and smiled and quickly walked to my table all the while hoping he was watching.
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According to the eight eyes at my table, he was.
I sat down and pretended not to notice as he made his way over to where my friends whispered taunts under their breath. When he approached the table, he boldly introduced himself, making sure to get my name first. He explained that he had just graduated college and was here to attend law school. He was an older twenty-two and maintained a confidence about him that I loved then, but now see as a massive red flag.
I hung on his every word, all of which dripped with a thick New York City accent. He asked me if I would like to go out with his friend that night and I said yes without question, volunteering my not-so-impressed roommate as a chaperone-slash-date for his.
That night, the four of us bonded over vodka cranberries and Britney Spears. As my roommate learned the many ways in which alcohol can sneak up on you, my new crush confessed that he had seen me a few days earlier but didn’t approach me because he wasn’t sure how to break the ice. He thanked me for my smile which he claimed, gave him an “in”. I had no idea what that meant back then but I was excited just the same.
At the end of the night, I took my very sweet, very sick roommate home and he explained that he wanted to see me again, first thing in the morning. By the end of that semester, he was telling me he loved me and asking me to meet his parents.
To say that I was “madly in love” with him would be an understatement.
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I took his neverending confessions of feeling the same way to mean that we were, in fact, “meant to be” as he often stated. Sure, we had our young dramatic fights and make-up sessions but with each one, it seemed we only became more attached to one another. It was young love at its most passionate.
We spent nearly every day together, studying for tests, talking about torts, heading out to Adams Morgan where we danced until the desperate need for pizza was so overwhelming that we stumbled out of the clubs.
When it came time to study abroad in Italy, I opted to stay with him in Washington, D.C. because the idea of being apart for eight months seemed downright hellish. I spent weekends with his family and took trips with his friends. He wasn’t always a perfect boyfriend, but who was? I trusted him implicitly and loved him wholeheartedly which made everything else seem workable.
By the time I graduated, we had our life planned out. I moved in with him for eight months while looking for a place in New York where I intended to fight like hell to make it as a full-time writer. He would work in DC for one year to gain experience before taking the New York bar and joining me in the city. Until that happened, we would take turns flying to see one another each weekend.It was a perfect plan. He helped me move into my loft in DUMBO and I brought him presents from the city he loved.
One weekend he came up and told me he wanted to marry me.
There was no ring, it was just an expression of love and a future plan, and I told him that, when and if he asked, the answer would, of course, be yes. He left that Sunday evening with plans to see me the following Friday. I decided I couldn’t wait that long and decided to surprise him that Wednesday.
“Hi Baby! Guess what? I am heading to the airport to see you early!” I exclaimed.
“No!” he blurted out.
It was an emphatic and desperate no. The kind of “no” someone yells when the door is being opened on a dark secret and there’s no way to stop a terrible revelation. Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for and I wanted to know why, right then and there.
Though he tried to tell me it was because of work, I knew that that kind of “no” had nothing to do with depositions and so I flew down anyway and planned to host my own.
Five hours later, I walked through his door and was met with flowers, open arms and an apology. He loved me. He was sorry. He was overwhelmed with his first law job and having me so far away.
He was full of shit and I knew it.
With my gut on fire, I casually looked around what I was sure was a crime scene and searched for clues. Not wanting to tip him off, I pretended to believe his explanations and even apologized for not trusting him (a lie that still makes my stomach turn). I made dinner and we decided to get ready for bed. I knew there was something to be found but finding it with him