Chapter IV: A Love Story

I feel I cannot do this story justice without speaking to the good times. Our love was a whirlwind romance, or so I thought. He acted; put on a show starring as what we all thought was the perfect boyfriend, fiance, and future husband for many years.

There were red flags back then, I realize now. Though love is blind and so was I. A product of past turbulent relationships and a believer in love, I took the opportunity to fall and fall hard. I didn’t want to look back.

We bonded over music; a private part of my life many people don’t know is there. I’ve played the piano since I was five, and it always got me through the best, but mostly the worst of times. During high school and college, I began writing songs. Tons of them. No words. Just notes. Words didn’t come as easily back then. Piano did. I guess because sometimes there are no words; just feelings. Though, I must say it has been nice finding a voice for this tragic tale. It is a large part of why I emotionally function after the trauma; trauma he still tries to inflict on my family and I to this day, almost a year later.

I had known who he was. We had worked for the same company and he began hanging out with my group of friends there after I had moved firms. I still kept in touch with everyone, so he and I formed a friendship as well. I knew he was dating her, he said they weren’t serious and always made comments to the others about how she wasn’t the ‘one’ and was just convenient. I had been dating someone else at the time and didn’t think much of it.

One night, a group of us got drinks in a hotel lobby. There was a piano there and in my tipsy state, I let go and just started playing. He soon joined me on the bench and we just started playing together. There’s actually a picture that captured this moment as our friends could feel the intensity in the room; completely palpable. It was truly magical; like everything just clicked and someone got me for the first time; understanding what I meant by my songs with no words.

This moment just haunts me now.

As the months passed, we got together. Things clicked almost immediately. Within the year, we had said our “I love you’s,” met the parents, and even bought a home together. People may have been surprised by the speed at which we progressed, but “when you know you know,” we both would say. We had discussed marriage and children in the first few months of dating and knew we both wanted the same things in life.

I had one of our mutual friends warn me at the beginning not to trust him; that he wasn’t a guy a girl like me should get involved with. I didn’t know what to make of it at the time. I knew he had a rough exterior, but I thought his softness and sensitive nature he had showed me in private was his true self. I wish I would have listened to my friend. I later figured out what they meant.

There were many things that I loved about him. He paid attention to the details. The little things that girls hope for. Flowers for no reason, dance classes, surprise tickets to the theater sitting on the entryway table when I got home on a Friday afternoon after a long work week. And love letters.

Love letters; so many fucking letters. On yellow sticky notes. Every morning he wrote them; a small yet significant reminder that I was loved and life was all coming together; meant to be.

I still have them all in a plastic bag. I’ve often wondered what to do with them. Send them back? Burn them? Send them to her? Perhaps, I just set them in the trash; exactly where he set me. Something pushed aside that you never think about again. Where does trash even go? Lord knows Chicago doesn’t actually recycle. Would someone find them? Find them and be inspired by a love that was all a lie? I can’t even imagine a worse fate for the lies he spewed at me for over three years.

The last month of my ignorance, April, the letters continued. The same way they did every day for the past three years.

“Good morning, baby. I hope you have a good day at work. You’re the love of my life and I can’t wait to marry you. Don’t work too late today.”

Such a farce, I realize now. Him just stuck in a muscle memory act of pretending to care, to love someone. He wrote them even when he was mad. I recall the incident of the green dress.

On a trip to Seattle, after his blowup and the exact day he drove over an hour in my car to see her and sleep with her, I bought a green dress.

I wanted it for his birthday. I wanted to look pretty and find a way to make him notice that I only wanted his attention. I wore it on a special night with my family and him to Alinea and to our one-on-one birthday dinner. I recall so clearly how upset he was. He yelled at me; accusing me of buying this dress to wear with my male coworkers on my Seattle trip. I recall swearing to God that I had never worn it before. And even after I professed my love and that I just wanted to look nice for the occasions we had coming up, he rolled his eyes and in his signature sarcastic tone, “Yeaaa, okay…”

While he barely spoke a word to me that night; I still got the love note the next morning. I never knew how to feel. I started feeling unsafe, insecure in a relationship that once brought me such inspiration and joy. Fortunately, I was about to be off his emotional roller coaster.

He confessed 4/27/18.