I Had A Little “r” Relationship
A romantic idealist recounrts her six-year-long relationship — not to be confused with Relationship.
Volodymyr Melnyk, fizkes | Canva “I don’t want this,” my boyfriend said to me, stone-faced.
We’d spent five glorious months together, my heart on fire. Then on my birthday, he picked our first fight. I apologized, halfway broken, baffled, in tears, and then told him I loved him, for the first (and only) time. He wished me a happy birthday in return. He’d leave me for his best friend’s wife a few weeks later.
He didn’t want “this.” He wanted that. I was crushed, devastated.
A few months later, Trump won the election. Nothing made sense anymore. I could barely eat or get out of bed. That had never happened to me before, nor since.
I foolishly decided dating again might help. November and December saw a double wham-bam of jerks who couldn’t manage to keep condoms on. My heartache intensified to despondency, with a side of STD panic.
I had to try something else.
I started New Year’s Day 2017 alone at a favorite cafe, with a perfect oat milk latte, my first dose of Wellbutrin, and a morning-after pill. “Bottoms up, 2017,” I toasted myself as I sucked down the pills with the creamy brew. Things had to get better.
They did. Wellbutrin restored my natural sense of buoyancy with its steadfast chemical goodness. It was like the best boyfriend ever — I felt elevated, happy, and sated, as I had little to no sex drive under its influence. I just wanted to eat well, move my body, and enjoy my life.
Eventually, I realized antidepressants looked good on me; I’d gotten fit and I looked pretty great. I wasn’t the only one to notice. Men looked up and met my eye approvingly when I passed. Hello, world of attractive partners, nice of you to notice I’m here.
By late spring, I put my dating profile back online, and what a difference my weight loss made. I was viable. I started flirting, with Wellbutrin holding the sadness at bay, but with a lingering sense of romantic nihilism. At 46, I’d nearly accepted there may never be another love story for me. But the idea of a bit of romantic fun — and maybe having sex again, preferably with someone who knew how to keep a condom on — appealed to me. The stakes felt lower and I reveled in that levity.
In July, I met a very dark-horse candidate, who I’ll call Davis. He was not particularly my type. He was short (his profile said 5'7") and sporty, into Spartan and car racing, two things I literally couldn’t care less about. But his writing was vivacious and confident, and he immediately shared his last name to put me at ease. “Google me if you want,” he said, “I’m barely online and you won’t find anything.”
I did Google him. And I did find things.
I wrote him back minutes later. “You’re not 48 as your profile states; you’re 53. You’re still married to your wife, Leah, and you two own a home at (address) with an estimated market value of (value),” I replied. “And I don’t date liars.”
He immediately apologized. He explained why he lied about his age (the same tired reason everyone does), and that yes, he was still married, but they were separated, just staying in the house till their son graduated the next year. Then he apologized again, sincerely and profusely, and asked me to meet him for a drink to make it up to me.
“Are you really 5'7” or are you lying about that too?” I asked.
“I’m 5'6” and three-quarters,” he replied.
Readers, he was not 5'6” and three-quarters.
But whatever. Trump was President, this dude wasn’t my type, but sure why not have a drink? Wellbutrin and I were seeking experiences and a bit of fun. This one should be interesting if nothing else. And he was.
He was a hard no the moment I walked in the door. Nowhere near 5'7", with a high-pitched, strident voice, Davis spent the evening regaling me with stories. His 20+ year marriage had been open and he had exploits to share, wild stories about working with a mistress in a sex dungeon, and something about building furniture for sex parties. The details are blurry from the years since the past and the bourbon in my glass. He was not a fit for me so we had a blast, me shaking my head at each outrageous story.
Then as we went to part ways, he surprised me with a huge kiss. And he was … a really good kisser. He asked me to dinner at a fancy French restaurant a few days later. French food sounded good. So I said “Yes.”
My little “r” relationship had begun.
Davis kept inviting me on delicious dates. Does this sound like a fun thing to do, I’d ask myself. Yes, my inner monologue replied. So I went, again and again. I’ve never been one to live in the romantic moment without future-looking, judging. Turns out, it’s a pretty fun way to date.
Before too long, he asked me to be exclusive, his girlfriend, and I agreed. I’m relationship-oriented by nature, and have very little free time, with a full-time job and half-time custody of my kids. It only made sense to acknowledge that we wouldn’t be dating other people. So we did.
In late September we had a big night out planned, another fancy French dinner downtown, followed by a midnight burlesque show. He texted me ahead of time how he’d been “busted” by his wife and had a story to share.
“Busted? I wrote back. “I thought you and your wife were separated?”
Over pre-dinner wine, he relayed how Leah had seen a text from me and gone ballistic. I was so confused, and his answers were so unsatisfying. But it became clear that their separation was more of a gray area than disclosed, or perhaps an outright lie. Why was he telling me about this? Did he expect me to be sympathetic? I wasn’t.
I excused myself to the restroom, buzzed on red wine and apparent falsehoods. I stared myself down in the mirror and thought — well, you like him but not that much. You could leave now. He’s earned it. I was weighing my options and told him so. He begged me to stay, and then told me he loved me for the first time.
I cried. He was baffled, as this was not the reaction he expected. I told him I was feeling emotional, which was true, but not the full story. I cried because I knew he was lying. Not about being in love with me — I was pretty sure that was in earnest — but about the rest of it. He was a good liar, and that’s a bad thing for one’s boyfriend to be good at.
I cried because I didn’t know if anyone would ever say those words to me again, and here they were, ringing in my ears. I cried because someone was saying those words to me again, but why oh why was it him? I cried because we’d finished all the wine and none of the food and it was very, very good, expensive French wine, and I was wine-bleary and teary. I wanted out of that booth and didn’t want the night to end.
“Screw it, let’s go see the burlesque show,” I said. So onward we went.
And things were good. More months went by full of fun times, with me never saying those three words back. He was understanding but made it clear that if I couldn’t say them eventually, he’d leave. I understood. I didn’t want us to stop. But did I love him?
Davis was a very good boyfriend: thoughtful, consistent, passionate, and kind. He accommodated my parenting schedule without complaint, seeing me just 2–3 evenings per week. I awoke to a text every morning and before bedtime every night. I never wanted for attention or affection. The sex was pretty great; we’d grown to know what the other liked and delivered it. From dinners to shows to karaoke, he was always a willing sport for my shenanigans.
No one ever gets everything they want in a relationship. I’d always associated love with the trappings of infatuation — the tingles, the longing, the giddiness. But where had those feelings gotten me? Devastated and on antidepressants, that’s where. I’d weaned from the Wellbutrin, in part thanks to the stability of my relationship with Davis. I had no interest in being vulnerable to that kind of emotional devastation again.
Sure, I had underlying trust issues with Davis, and I knew I wasn’t what he’d typically sought in a relationship either, what with his past open marriage and kink-forward lifestyle. He told me he was okay without both; he was in his 50s now and he’d had his fun. I accepted this as likely not entirely true but decided to lean into loving what I had, versus waiting for the stupid gorgeous fireworks that had signaled love to me in the past. I was in my 40s now, and perhaps I’d had my fill of those.
Instead of I can’t live without you I went with, I choose to be with you. Maybe it was healthier this way? I couldn’t say; even now, I still can’t. I told him I loved him back. And onward we went, for years, with a lot of consideration, kindness, and caring — and mostly without incident. But not entirely.
We had two more Big Lie moments. The first happened when Davis received a deluge of Kik notifications on his phone, uncharacteristically face-up on the bar in plain sight. The only time I’d ever used Kik was years earlier, to receive a naked pic from an over-eager online suitor. (I said yes, downloaded the app, and then responded to him: yes, you have a penis, fascinating, like the feminist killjoy I am.) But Davis didn’t have many friends.
Who was blowing up his phone? I asked. He had no answer. So I asked to see the messages. He adamantly refused. I knew I could leave for this. But I didn’t.
The second one happened a year or so later. I asked him to text me a photo and when he opened his phone, his photos displayed on his (huge) TV. He immediately disconnected his phone, clearly panicked. I had no idea why, but knew it couldn’t be anything good. I asked to see the photos on his phone.
Again, he refused.
Again, I didn’t leave.
Again, we carried on.
Why didn’t I leave?
Don’t think I stuck things out with a liar because I was in too deep. It was the opposite. If I’d been giddy in love, I would’ve left. I couldn’t have lived with the weight of that distrust at odds with the vulnerability of my heart.
But since this was a little “r” relationship, I didn’t take on that weight. And over time, I grew to rely on and trust Davis, mostly. I trusted in his love for me, because he showed up and showed it. He had my back during tough times, including five months of agonizing unemployment and the career angst that accompanied it. He never doubted my ability and told me so, repeatedly, even as I was starting to lose faith in myself.
Unlike many men I’ve dated — who professed to want a strong, capable woman but bolted once they realized what we require — he encouraged me to be big and silly and ambitious and brainy and fun. When I was unemployed, he bought us a Christmas tree (and walked it home over one shoulder) so my kids wouldn’t have a holiday season without one. “I’ve got your back, Dana Fire,” he’d say. I trusted that he did.
Our little “r” relationship was both a paradox and a trinity. The paradox lay in how much I enjoyed what we had day-to-day, contrasted with irreparable trust gaps from his Big Lie moments. The paradox held because of the third part in the trinity — an underlying sort of shrug, an indifference that made me able to enjoy our relationship for what it was without worrying about what it wasn’t.
It was this cycle of three — joy, distrust, shrug — that kept me from leaving each time. I’m a sucker for joy. The shrug kept the distrust at bay. For six years I cycled, never sure how or if the loop would stop.
Davis never asked me for more, not directly. He’d check in from time to time to see how we were doing, hinting at a future with eyebrows raised at unspoken questions, wanting to see what I wanted. I ducked. It wasn’t kind, but I’d evade these questions— because I knew if I opened my mouth, I wasn’t sure what would come out. And I feared whatever it was would be the end of us.
I liked our little “r” relationship and didn’t want it to end, at least not yet.
Did my shrug stem from distrust? Or did it come from the lack of giddiness from the start? I can’t say. I can’t A/B test this relationship to see what would’ve happened if only one of those two variables were present. I only know that by this summer, my answer to, “Is today better with Davis in it?” had grown lackluster. My lack of yes wasn’t a sudden snap. Much as my feelings lacked a sense of fire —so too did my denouement.
I simply did not want to spend that Wednesday with him. Nor the Thursday. Nor the Saturday. I realized, I just didn’t want “this.”
I realized I’d rather be writing, or out with friends, or enjoying solitude, than spending time with him. Without a definite no or a situation to end things, I questioned myself. Was I just tired? Overloaded? Stressed out? For the first time, I tried to explain my feelings — or lack thereof — to him, and in the end, it was Davis who ended things, quite dramatically dumping me in my kitchen. And that was that.
Looking back, I think part of my reluctance to have a big relationship talk stemmed from fear. I wasn’t sure how losing our little “r” relationship would feel. Would I be overwhelmed with regret? Would I panic? Would the pit of despair open? Turns out, I felt profoundly relieved. And grateful. He did what I lacked the courage to do. I love my time being just mine.
I’m writing. I’m exercising. I’m writing some more. I’m seeing friends. I’m questioning my own heart and why I stayed for so long, knowing it wasn’t fully engaged; much like with Wellbutrin, I felt calm, supported, and sated with Davis, my rough edges smoothed. It was enough for a long time; why was it enough?
I’m taking my time to mull this question, at my own pace. I’m at peace. I hope he is as well. It’s been nearly two months since we split. I’ve thought about setting up an online dating profile. But eh. That seems like so much effort and it’s not where my heart or head are … yet.
I’m going to wait until I’m Ready. Because next time — if there’s to be a next time — I’m only in for a full-on Relationship. A Capital R. Perhaps with a few exclamation points after it.
Dana DuBois is a Gen X word nerd living in the Pacific Northwest who enjoys storytelling at the intersection of relationships, music, and parenting. She’s the founder and editor of Pink Hair & Pronouns, a pub for parents of gender-nonconforming kids, and Three Imaginary Girls, a music ‘zine. She's had articles featured in TODAY, Human Parts, the Stranger, and Seattle Weekly.