After too many margaritas and a heart to heart, I followed The Ex Fiancé to his apartment in Astoria.
I was surprised by how put together it was, especially compared to the air mattress on the floor in my apartment—but The Ex Fiancé was always a better planner than I. He had a desk for homework, framed photos and superhero posters on the wall (Marvel, not DC), his own bathroom and a queen-sized bed with a decorative headboard. Tequila still pulsing through my veins, I focused on the bed.
We hadn’t had sex in more than four months, when we last saw each other in person. At that time we were dating, but hadn’t been engaged for almost a year—he admitted to kissing someone at a bar the next month, and I told him I couldn’t deal with graduating college, moving AND his long-distance shenanigans. We broke up, but he’d already planned to move to New York with me to attend NYU grad school.
“I need to use your bathroom quick,” I said as he sat on the edge of the bed. “Be right back.”
I went straight for his mouthwash, trying to get rid of the taste of stale margarita, then cleaned up a bit as I wasn’t expecting “drinks” to turn into “sex with The Ex Fiancé.” When I went back into the bedroom, he was lying above the covers in just his underwear, a neon green Pump! Jockstrap. I bought it for him a year before—I wondered if he’d been wearing it all day, or if he changed into it while I was in the bathroom.
I took off my clothes, got on top of him, and we had sex until we passed out.
The next morning, I didn’t feel hungover at all. I felt refreshed, and I felt happy. I’d always felt a cosmic, undeniable connection to The Ex Fiancé, from the moment we met in 2007. We were finally getting back on the right track. A fresh beginning in a new place. In New York City.
When he woke up, I was still next to him, smiling. “Hey, you. Should we get some breakfast?”
He groaned: Clearly, the tequila had gotten to him more than me. “Fuck,” he said.
“Hungover?”
“No. Fuck. You shouldn’t be here. We shouldn’t have had sex. This … wasn’t smart.”
I sat up. “What do you mean?”
“We’re broken up, Ian-Michael. I felt vulnerable and upset because of my last breakup, and I went to you for comfort. I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
He got up to make coffee, and I stayed in bed, naked, speechless. Was he hurting me, or was I letting myself be hurt?
I was disastrous Bridget Jones, and I kept going back to Daniel Cleaver, hoping he’d change; but, unlike Bridget, I didn’t have Mark Darcy to pull me out of it.
