It’s over.
My three-year relationship is over in the blink of an eye. Maybe not in a blink, because I did just walk in and catch her in bed with another man, unexpectedly. But was it really so unexpected? She’s been different for the past few weeks, an indication I should’ve checked into it sooner.
I came home earlier from work than I usually do. She wasn’t expecting me and clearly neither was he. The guy jumped out of bed quicker than she did when he noticed me in the doorframe of my own apartment.
He ran.
She didn’t.
She had made herself extremely comfortable in my bed. Refused to move actually. And I still stood staring right at her. The guy, never cared for what his name was when he introduced himself, pulled his jeans over his junk, “no time for underwear?” I thought to myself. He was out there before she could say anything, still staring at me with those “oh shit” eyes.
Actually, I assumed women run and feel embarrassed or even apologetic. But not her. She was frozen, it’s as if she can’t believe this actually just happened.
“It’s not what I think?” I say the words for her.
She says nothing.
“I didn’t think you would be home until later?”
She says nothing yet again.
Anger boiled so much inside of me now, by her mere silence, not the fact she fucked some other guy in my bed. “Get out,” I throw her clothes at her, the button of her white blouse actually catching the corner of her eye.
“Elliot,” she whispers.
“I don’t want to hear it, Samantha,” I hand her the favorite blue stilettos I had spent big money on because she wanted them so badly at the time but just couldn’t afford it with her nursing paycheck.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers as she slowly maneuvers her body into her clothes.
“Actually, you know what, I’m curious, how long this has been going on?” my eyes burning into hers, as to where I used to check out her cleavage, I no longer care.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yeah, it does matter to me, so how long, Sam?” she hates it when I call her that.
“Only a few days,” she’s starting to get angry.
“Oh, that’s just great. Only a few days but good enough to fuck him in my bed,” I start to yell.
“Our bed,” she protests.
“You’ve got some nerve, get the fuck out,” my middle finger pointing towards the door when actually it’s pointing at her.
“I’m going,” she slowly, too slowly, leaves the bedroom.
“Faster, I can’t stand looking at you anymore,” I head straight towards my kitchen to get a beer.
Maybe it’s for the best? This is my chance. The chance to finally up and leave as I’d always planned. Apparently, this relationship hadn’t been as strong as I’d hoped or assumed. It’s over just like that. The sad thing is, I actually loved this girl and was severely close to proposing to her. She was going to be my forever and then I find her in bed with Billy Bob Joe. I don’t know what his name is nor do I care.
I came to Rochester, NY to study at Eastman School of Music. I was trying to make it out in the world as a piano player, but who isn’t these days? I’m good. I’m exceptional the teachers say, but I find myself not good enough. I met Samantha at the school my freshman year. We clicked right away. Actually, it’s like you see in the movies.
Girl looks at Guy.
Guy looks at Girl.
Instant connection.
We dated, we found ourselves spending more time together than with our friends. It was so serious, junior year we decided to move into an apartment. The apartment was in my name because her dad didn’t approve of our relationship. She kept it a secret and had him continue paying for the dorm room she was never staying at, but most of her belongings she kept there. I had planned on asking her to marry me after we graduate, when it was time to fully live our lives, but we see where that just ended.
I pull the white satin sheets off the bed, the ugly white satin sheets she so loved. Now we know why. She loved the slippery silky feeling between her legs. Said it turned her on. I’m sure it wasn’t the only thing that turned her on.
Realizing I might be angrier than I had given myself credit for, I sit at the edge of the bed contemplating my next move. I could go to Europe. Start a career there. I could travel with my keyboard until I can afford a piano and just become a street artist. My teacher though swears, “You better never become one of those street talents. You have so much potential Elliot, do something with that.” She would beg me to promise I would do something useful with my talent, to become something of myself. And yet I sit and ponder what that something is.
As I open the door to the linen closet, I see the stack of paperwork that has accumulated since the day we moved in, I come across the audition form for the New York Philharmonic. I gaze over the words on this sheet of paper with a slew of questions running through my mind. Should I? Is it too late?
You will never change your life
Until you change your daily routine.
The words my mother would preach to me nearly daily, what seemed daily. She’s my rock, the one person I run to with problems. Speaking of which, maybe she can help my continuous battle of auditioning in New York or not.
“Mom,” I say after I’ve dialed her number and she picked up after the first ring.
“Honey, nice to hear from you,” she lives all the way in the city and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind me coming to visit. It’s a six-hour drive from Rochester and since it’s summer it would make for a fun drive.
“I’m coming to visit,” I smile into the receiver as I’m excited to escape for a little while.
“Oh sweetheart, that’s great, I’ll get the guestroom ready for you, are you headed out now?”
“I’ll leave early in the morning, I should be there around lunch time,” I pull the suitcase from the top shelf of my closet.
“Are you bringing Samantha?” For a moment there, I had actually forgotten about her.
“No Mom, it’s just me,” I hear the sadness in her voice as she goes to say she looks forward to seeing me and we hang up before the conversation gets too awkward.
Mom and I never were the speaking on the phone type. We can sit for hours on the back porch and talk, but when it comes to phone conversations, they fall flat. Maybe we both yearn for the eye contact while having a conversation.
As I’m packing my suitcase my cell phone dings.
SAMANTHA: Maybe we should talk?
Ha! That girl is funny. I continue to pack my bag with all essentials.
SAMANTHA: You don’t need to ignore me. We can be adults about this.
But I do just that. Ignore her, wishing I hadn’t just spent the last few years of my life on her. For now, she’s just a distant memory.
ELLIOT: Come by tomorrow to get your things; leave the key on the kitchen table. Have a nice life.
SAMANTHA: Will you be home to talk?
ELLIOT: Follow above directions.
I’m cold to her and my bruised ego might retaliate at the moment, but guys have feelings too and don’t like to be cheated on any more than a woman does.
SAMANTHA: Jerk!