Sitting next to him on New Years Eve, I could feel it coming. There was nothing wrong – nothing he had said – but I could feel it. As was always the case before we had another breakup, there was a change in the atmosphere and that heaviness and dread settled on me; I could smell the rain coming. He was slightly aloof, preoccupied, distant. When the ball dropped at midnight, and all of the couples melted together into their New Year kiss, he kissed me without the warmth and romance of the occasion; his arms loosely encircled me, he didn’t tilt his head to deeply kiss his girlfriend. His kiss was perfunctory. A means to an end. It even felt awkward. This was New Year’s Eve – Midnight – Old Lang Syne rang out in the background, laughter and happy chatter filled the room, couples embraced, smiling at each other, and “Happy New Year!” floated from mouth to mouth … but he wasn’t there with me. He broke his kiss and walked away from me, to another couple, leaving me standing there alone. I felt like an idiot and glanced around, hoping nobody saw that.

Here we go again.

God. I tried not to, and actually squeezed my eyes shut to “stop myself” from allowing the thought to even form – but my mind tumbled back to when I discovered an email from him to a particular woman, regarding one new year’s eve when they were very much involved, while he and I were also very much involved, but their relationship was totally unbeknownst to me. (She was the first woman I found out about, and the one that would return over and over, as I saw for myself in so many texts and emails back and forth over 2 years. He fell hard for her and she used him.) They had fought, she hurt him somehow, and he told her he was going to Switzerland to ski for the new year holiday, so he could “forget her”, but admitted in the email to her that he hadn’t really gone to Switzerland, he had actually stayed home, too hurt and missing her so bad that he rang in the new year alone, in regret over their breakup. … but the truth was, actually, no … he wasn’t home alone, missing her, he was with me, his girlfriend. He had slept at my house Jan 30th, and the next day, New Year’s Eve, we never left my bed. We stayed in bed together, literally all day long – sleeping, waking for slow romantic sex, fell asleep some more, woke up, ordered Chinese, ate in bed, watched a movie, laughed, fooled around some more, fell asleep, woke up and fooled around again … watched movies, ate junk food and just had the best day we had ever had together. Uninterrupted, romantic, totally unabashedly natural wonderful couple time. It was the best memory I had ever had with him yet. At 10 pm, we forced ourselves out of bed to attend his cousin’s annual New Year’s Eve party. He “couldn’t find his phone” all day, so I texted that we would make an appearance.

The party was a great time … until he went into the bathroom and stayed there for a while. He emerged later with his phone in his hand. I said, “Oh, you found your phone!” He looked at me puzzled for a moment and answered, ” … oh. Yeah, it was in my jeans.” His mood had darkened. He was “gone”. As the ball dropped that night, I leaned into him for the anticipated New Year Kiss, my arms around him, so happy, still floating from our most perfect day together. But his kiss was brief and distracted. He pulled his face away, cleared his throat and looked off into the distance. He was a million miles away. … that was the hour she contacted him (sending him into the privacy of the bathroom) and he realized he wished he was with her, as I found out later in that email. I had absolutely no idea she even existed. I was a fool. When we got home later, he wordlessly got into my bed, rolled over and went to sleep; a stark contrast to our day in bed together, only a few hours before. I inched closer to snuggle against him and discovered he was wearing his t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. He never came to bed dressed in anything. I got it, loud and clear, but I didn’t understand.

So this New Year’s Eve felt just like that night and I couldn’t help but wince inside. It was all too familiar. On the drive home, he was grumpy. He scolded me for not taking vitamin C, which would have warded off the cold I had. He scolded me for not doing a spread sheet on my finances. He scolded me for little things, suddenly and needlessly, obviously very irritated with me, almost like he was “building a case”. Hurt, I said it felt like he was trying to start a fight, and he said the dreaded, “If you’re going to accuse me of things, I’ll just do them.” So, I shut my mouth because that meant I was right, it was already happening, and the “Big Reveal” was only a matter of time. So I pulled the imaginary bag over my head and pretended not to know, so I wouldn’t “lose him again”.

In the coming weeks, it all ramped up, those little things that I’d seen with him before. He began to leave his phone on silent, so it wouldn’t vibrate when a text came in. He began to leave his phone in his coat pocket, or let the battery die, or keep it flipped over face down, or leave it in his car overnight … these “signs” were merely a repeat of our history. One night, he was supposed to come to my house to meet his cousin (who lived in town) so they could drive together to catch a very early flight the next morning for a short trip they had planned. He was supposed to eat with me, sleep at my place and get picked up at 4:45 am and head to the airport. Well, “work came up” and he had an “emergency work thing” that would keep him until “at least midnight”. But midnight came and went – as I knew it would. At 4:20 a.m. he came through my door and into my bedroom. I could smell his cologne, because he never wore cologne. I pretended to be asleep, willing myself not to blurt out what I was thinking. I felt my bed dip down under his weight as he sat next to me, placing his hand on my back. I rolled over and opened my eyes and saw that he was shaved, dressed nicely, soaked in cologne (which I assumed was to mask perfume on his body) very chipper and almost effervescent … not grumbling and recounting the work he had just finished and didn’t want to do anymore, as he ALWAYS did after a job somewhere that he had to squeeze in “last minute”. I said, “Why are you dressed up?” He said he wanted to look nice on the flight. But he was dressed in a button down shirt and jacket, hair done and smooth shave; that’s how he looks when he goes out. I immediately assumed he’d returned from a night out with a woman, probably ending in her bed. … because that’s how we began, and that’s how he looked in the beginning. I remember. I asked why he was wearing cologne when he never wore cologne … especially that much. He said he “felt like it”. I rolled back over and said, “You weren’t working.” He heard me and glazed over it, which is what he’d do when I was right. This guy was a master of deception and I was learning … but I let it go because I didn’t want to fight before he flew, because, God forbid, something happen. … and, well, maybe I was wrong.

He came back after a few days, more aloof than before. That week, he came over in new clothes, chatty, giddy, unusually happy … but it had nothing to do with seeing me. He undressed and got into my bed to watch t.v. I got under the covers, too, and laid my head on his chest, so glad he was back, missing him so much. Suddenly, I got a waft of strange perfume on his skin. I turned my face into his chest and inhaled. I said, “Who’s perfume is that on your chest?” “Hhmm?” he answered, startled. “That perfume on your skin is not mine. It’s a sweet fruity body spray or something.” My heart was slamming in my chest. He sighed heavily. “Hun, if you’re going to accuse me of cheating, I’ll just go out and do it.” Oh no you don’t. “No,” I said, “but if you’re seeing someone else, as I suspect, just see her … not me, too.” He said, “I’m not even going to engage.” I got out of bed to grab something from the kitchen, wondering if maybe I was going crazy. I mean … maybe. Maybe I was losing my mind and I was pushing him away in the process. Then he said, ” … so, what perfume is it? What perfume do you smell on me?” (Why was he asking what perfume it was when he just said there was none there.) Bingo. He just admitted it. Here we go again. But, in true Shannon fashion, I pulled that imaginary bag over my head to block my senses. I wasn’t ready to lose him again. And, who knows. Maybe it’s fabric softer I smelled on his chest and belly. I mean, it could be …

A couple of weeks later, he left his phone in my car after driving with me, and I ran out to grab it for him. On the screen was a text from “Leslie”, asking about his father. My stomach curled up. Here we go again. I handed him his phone and said, “Leslie is asking about your dad. Who’s Leslie?” He grabbed the phone and mumbled that she was a “client”. (Yes, I know. Monica was a “client”. Sonia was a “client”. Erin was a “client”. Bridgette was a “client”. …and I’m sure at one point or another, I was also a “client”.) Why, I don’t know, but I asked why she – a client – was asking about his father. (I assumed he used his father as an excuse to blow her off, as he had done with me in the past, using various other people in his family as an alibi to his absence.) He quickly tapped his phone to delete the text and said she was asking about his dad because hers had the same surgery … or something. I didn’t want to fight, because these fights always ended in a painful breakup and I was putting off the inevitable. Then he shut his phone all the way off because obviously more texts were coming, and I pulled the invisible bag over my head. Butterflies swarmed in my stomach and warning bells clanged loudly. … but, maybe she really as a client. I mean, he was with me … and not with anyone else … he would’ve been with her if he wanted her … right? Maybe it’s me.

2 weeks later, he came over after days of being unreachable – “busy” – “so swamped”. He got into bed, I followed, and we cuddled up like we always did. As I laid beside him, chatting with him, I discovered he had dramatically groomed himself … you know what I mean … in a way that he only did when he was with someone else. (As I had come to figure out.) He never groomed himself down there for me. He never wore cologne for me. He never shaved for me. He never did anything to impress me, except for our first few intimate nights together, all those years ago. But not since. I didn’t require it … he didn’t need to impress me any more, I guess. Immediately upset, I pushed off of him and pointed out that he only grooms himself like that for other women, and no wonder he’s been MIA and buying new clothes and so happy all the time. He argued his way out of it, flipped it over on me and said “never again” can he “be himself” because I’ll just “accuse him” of cheating, and how ridiculous is that? He sat up, threw back the blanket and threatened to leave that minute, which threw me into a panic, because I hated when he’d storm out and vanish on me … so I shut my mouth and dropped it. Very strangely, he calmed down and moved past it as if it hadn’t happened at all … and we had our night. We dissolved into each other as we did so effortlessly, for hours, like always. If nothing else, this man and I were the most compatible lovers that ever were. It was, sometimes, all we had. And that night, he touched me and held me as if we had never fought at all.

But this time, for the first time – after all of the previous lies that I chose to ignore – this time I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t. It was as if I could smell her, and taste where she had been, and still feel her on him. She wasn’t there, but she was there. He touched me and I internally recoiled. When he kissed me deeply, I wanted to wiggle away from him. I couldn’t stop thinking about how he had groomed himself for this woman and then came to me, too. I couldn’t stop thinking about him with her, whoever she was. I couldn’t stop the flashbacks of all the times in bed with him, over all the years, when I could sense someone else. I couldn’t stop thinking about how he would sigh and tell me what “amazing” breasts I had after he had returned from days and days “working”, and only said it because he had been in bed with a woman who didn’t have what I do. I always knew it. I couldn’t stop thinking about the times when I could smell “something” on him in bed after he had returned from days away. The times I found an earring that wasn’t mine. The condom wrapper. The glass with the frosted pink lipstick. The gold plated tweezers. The purple silk skirt in his bedroom. The condoms in his suitcase that he said were left behind by his brother. The sunglasses. The hair-tie. His clothes piled on chair in the guest room where he had taken his lover because his own bedroom was a mess. The used tampon in the bathroom trash. The photo of the topless woman packing a suitcase for the trip he took her on while dating me. The times when we were first together and I would find tiny specs of powdered shimmery glitter on him, here and there, and he’d say, “Ok, Shannon. You caught me … I’m banging a showgirl!” We’d laugh at the ridiculousness of that one, hahaha!! … but guess what: he really was seeing a showgirl … and very, very seriously, for 2 years, right along side me, as I discovered years later. The secrets. The excuses. The very plausible answers that made me feel crazy and guilty and stupid and ungrateful for this man that I was so lucky to have. Oh, God, so many times that I just was too afraid to lose someone I never had anyway. New moves, new words, new sounds. Like a horror movie kaleidoscope, it all swirled in my head at once and I just wanted to hurl him off of me and go hide somewhere. He wasn’t the him that I knew and loved so much and he wasn’t with me in those moments. I could feel it. And still, I said nothing. But he lost me that night. I was, for the first time ever, totally repulsed by the film she left on his skin. It was the proverbial Last Straw, and I’d had enough. Like a thin iridescent soap bubble that bursts with the slightest touch, that was me. I died that night, for the last time.

The next morning was a Saturday, and he was itching to leave, looking at his phone constantly, and I burst. This was my fault, I admit. I should have just shut up, but I said, “I know you’re seeing someone. I see how you hide your phone and guard it like you used to. I know there is someone somewhere, and I told you that if you’re not happy with me, GO, but don’t have me after you have had her! Stop lying to me!” Instantly furious, he stood up, grabbed his keys and yelled that now he IS going to go sleep with anyone he wants. Now he IS going to go out. Now he IS going to be single and do what he has wanted to. He said I pushed him to it, this is my fault, I can blame only myself for this. I argued back, and he threw his phone into the other room. “Go look at it! Go look at it! There’s NOTHING THERE!” Oh, God. He wouldn’t offer to let me see it if he was lying, and I was immediately ashamed and sorry. I turned toward the other room to see where it landed and if it shattered into a million pieces, and he literally ran past me to grab it before I could see it. “Don’t you DARE touch my phone!” He moved the couch looking for it, pushed the other couch over and yelled, “Where is it?!” Wow. Very obviously there really was something he absolutely didn’t want me to see, and in a strange dichotomy of feelings, I was both relieved at being right and crushed because I was right. I didn’t know how to feel, except my heart was throbbing. He found his phone and picked it up off the floor, looked at it, tapped the screen a few times and shoved it in his pocket. He said, “We’re done. Don’t you EVER call me, text me, email me. Stay the FUCK away from me.” He walked out the door, slammed it behind him and sped off in his car. I stood there in the middle of the living room, bawling, looking at my door, as if he would walk back in. I wondered if I should have just kept quiet, and waited for him to come to his senses and knock it off … and then I wondered if I was actually crazy. I wondered if maybe he really wasn’t messing around. Maybe he really was telling me the truth. Maybe it was me, all this time … maybe he was on the cusp of professing his love to me, finally, and I blew it. I buried my face in my hands and sobbed, because I burned down my own house. This was my fault. We died, because I had killed us.

It has been many years since we have been together, and my mind continues to find it’s way back to him. In the swells of regret that I still feel, I wonder if I went crazy during those years. He was, without a doubt, the most generous, kind hearted, gentle, sweet and caring man I had ever known, and I loved him with an ache. He very truly had a heart of gold and a laugh that, as I once said, I could listen to on an endless loop. Oh God, I loved him. The only problem we ever had was that he just wanted multiple women. He blamed it on the Red Pill, and he would be right. That was his only crime. But, what if, at the end, those women only haunted my heart, and not his? What if he wasn’t lying? What if he really had stopped messing around and I destroyed our relationship with my misunderstandings? … The problem is, one lie is enough to make a person question all truths, and that is what happened. When I found out about the first woman, it began raining in my heart, and it never stopped.

After one too many storms, I guess we decided not to rebuild.