I lay in the driveway of my new one-bedroom apartment near the beach, watching my boyfriend of three months and my dad carry furniture up the stairs into the sundrenched space with an ocean breeze. My back spasmed. My boyfriend’s face was sheet-white, and we were both exhausted from the 4:00 a.m. wake-up call when he broke out in hives. At the hospital, a nurse called me his “wife.” I basked in her incorrect assessment. A 29-year-old should be a wife, right?
That day, we moved in together despite his allergic reaction and my tense muscles. If I could rewind the clock, I’d return to that June afternoon to reload the truck and drive toward a different future. Living with a partner before marriage is my biggest regret.
When I succumbed to my boyfriend’s persistent requests for a date after six months of casual friendship, we split our time between his mildew-ridden, kitchen-less studio and my dreary two-bedroom condo, where my clingy roommate once ran her pointy fingernails through my hair unbidden while I watched TV. I said nothing.
I was a people-pleaser; “Yes” was my default answer. My maternal grandmother mouthed apologies as she scurried through crosswalks, contrite for forcing motorists to wait, despite her right-of-way. Nature used her as a mold to shape me, so even when my intuition nagged, He’s not it, despite our commonalities — enjoying the same music, films, books, and worldviews — I didn’t listen. I envisioned a timeline of arbitrary societal markers and was determined to stick to them because the timing was right, even if the guy wasn’t: Lock down the mate, the dog, the marriage, babies, and a fulfilling career.
I had no moral qualms about moving in with a boyfriend with whom I was barely committed. I was raised at the beach on Sundays instead of church, and it made sense on paper to share bills. Plus, if my new living situation didn’t work out, my parents said, “You can always move.” It seemed simple, but for someone whose greatest fault in her relationships was poor communication, it wasn’t. Early on, he professed his love first, which made me giddy. Around the same time, as a veteran educator, he taught me grading tricks to ease my workload as I ended my short career as a high school English teacher. His intelligence and confidence impressed me.
But in our new apartment, when my boyfriend slammed an outraged fist against our shared wall one night to silence the noisy neighbors, I stayed. When our sexual incompatibility became apparent during what should have been the honeymoon phase, I stayed. When he laughed and I cried as I pinpointed the “night we fell in love” as the one with the party bus to The Roxy, I stayed. I stayed because the skin around his sparkly eyes crinkled when he told witty stories with a magnetic grin during the sweet spot between his second and third drinks — before the extra ones that made him disappear behind clouded pupils. I stayed because a boyfriend I loved more had stomped on my heart after college. I was more comfortable in a less passionate pact that wouldn’t hurt as much if it ended.
