7 Years

a chapter from the dating memoir I'm writing

I’m lying in his California king, the sun is pouring in through the massive windows, lighting up every building in the stunning skyline. The fresh, crisp sheets feel cool on my skin and the smell of bacon permeates the air because he’s over in the next room cooking me breakfast while I lay in his bed. For once I have permission to do nothing and be catered to. This is a foreign feeling. I grab my phone from the bedside table, snuggle under the covers and send a quick text to my girlfriend bringing her up to speed on last night’s adventures. Giddiness takes over. The kind that only comes in the beginning when it feels like it could really be something.

I put my phone back on the nightstand when I hear footsteps coming toward the room. He walks in shirtless, tattoos on display, wearing grey sweatpants and a smile on his face holding a tray of bacon, eggs and pancakes (could you die?). I shimmy up and he places the tray over me, giving me a kiss before sliding into bed beside me. As I’m devouring the delicious food, which was actually delicious, but even if it wasn’t, I would have scarfed it down with the same enthusiasm because we burned quite a bit of calories last night (We went dancing too ok!)

In this moment, I am on Cloud 9 feeling like I just hit the jackpot because FINALLY the universe has gifted me a hot, mature man who isn’t poor and knows how to cater to a woman. Moments later as I’m mid chew he says, “There’s something I have to tell you.” And just like that, I’m plummeting back to earth.

I anxiously side eye him and ask, “What?” He says, “I was away for awhile.” I reply, “I know, you told me you just moved back here from Miami.” He says, “No, like away, away.” My confusion is growing by the millisecond and I ask, “What do you mean? You didn’t just move here?” He looks up at the ceiling, rubs his hand over his perfectly trimmed goatee, sighs heavily and says, “No. I just got out of prison.”

Feelings I have never felt before consume and paralyze me. Not only am I in utter disbelief desperate to know more, I’m angry because MEN!!! and debating whether or not I need to somehow find a way to get my clothes back on and bolt out of here because what if he is a fucking murderer or something!!! Fuck I don’t even know if I remember the way to the parking garage because there were so many twists and turns up to this apartment and I had way too many tequila shots to have paid close enough attention on the stumble up to it. FML Lauren, how is this your life!?!?

I go with shouting “WHAT?!” Probably followed by a slew of questions like “Are you serious? Are you messing with me? Am I getting punk’d?” I say probably because I blacked out and don’t actually know.

He immediately tries to get me to relax and let him explain. I allow it because at this point I am invested, my escape plan is rather flawed and hopefully I’ll live to tell this incredibly ridiculous story one day.

He gives me a brief trauma history, bringing me up to speed on the rough life and crowd he was roped in with and explains that he was away for drug related crimes. I’m mildly relieved considering it wasn’t for serial killing and calm enough to start gathering other important data like how long he was there for and just how recent his return is. He tells me he was away for 7 years and got out a few months ago.

“7 YEARS !?!?” I emphasize, fully registering how long that is and what it must mean about whatever landed him in there. Clearly, he wasn’t just the corner weed guy or neighborhood plug or whatever they’re called because I don’t actually know because I don’t do drugs. He goes on to tell me how bad yet not that bad it is and is saying anything possible to keep me from fleeing his apartment. I’m not happy but I’m also not running because apparently my standards have been reduced to just not getting murdered.

I stay and we talk for what feels like forever. I learn he’s on parole and can’t travel for awhile. (There go my baecation fantasies) The more we talk and the more I learn about his horrible life, the worse I feel for him. Of course I do.

Some delusional thoughts flooding my anxiously attached brain…

He doesn’t know what real love is. What healthy love is. What a normal life is supposed to be. How incredible calm and normal can actually be. It was never modeled for him. He made some bad choices but he didn’t ask for this life. He didn’t deserve it. No one deserves that horror. He wants me to be ok with knowing this news. To accept that this is his past and he’s moving toward an entirely different future. He doesn’t want this to end. Seeing how amazing life and love can be with me will heal him. I can heal him.

Then the rational part of me interjects…

What will people think? I could never tell my family. What if someone finds out? My friends already know I’m delusional but THIS. I can’t really be with someone who has a criminal record. He could be dangerous. What if he does something and because I’m affiliated with him, I get in trouble. Or I get questioned. I am a social worker. I can’t do what I do for a living and have someone like this as my partner. No, I can’t do this.

My anxious attachment storms back in…

But could I though? I could lie about his last name. I mean how many hot tattooed men in their 30s who actually want a relationship are left in this world? People make mistakes. Why should he be punished and judged and rejected for the rest of his life because he made a mistake. It’s bad but it’s not a violent crime. It’s not like he killed someone. He could really be a changed man. Everyone is capable of change if they want it. He’s got to be scared straight. He paid for his mistakes by the law and by losing and missing so much all those years he was away.

My head was spinning.

In the midst of all my racing thoughts, I remember an important detail. He has a daughter and I’m pretty sure he told me she was 8.

I ask, “Did you say your daughter was 8?” He nods. I pause and say, “So you’ve missed her whole life?” He nods. His shame and pain are palpable. I feel even more heartbroken for him now. And for her.

Eventually, we both reach our limit on talking. As I gathered my belongings and got ready to leave, he asked if he’d ever see me again or if this was all a dealbreaker for me. I knew that I didn’t want this to end but I couldn’t give him a definitive answer. I told him he’d hear from me but that I needed to digest everything. He nodded, gave me a long hug and kiss and closed the door behind me.

I did the walk of shame to my car in last night’s pink bodycon dress, drove home to think and told no one.