Chapter 49 Long Distance #2
“I think a known side effect of being in a long-distance relationship is living on an emotional precipice in a perpetual state of existential crisis and second-guessing all your life decisions. Crying on trains, planes . . . automobiles.”
“I’m sorry, what?” I say flatly.
“Long-distance relationships drive people insane.”
“Jordyn, you encouraged me to get into this long-distance relationship.”
“Yeah, and you’re wildly happy now that you did.”
“And apparently wildly unstable,” I yelp.
She lifts a shoulder and drops it. “The lows are worth it for the highs. And I have faith you’ll figure it out.”
“I’m five days in, and I’ve already had an existential breakdown.”
“Long-distance love is like a muscle, though. You have to build it up. Gradually you’ll get better at it. It won’t be as hard once you’ve developed tricks and tips and all that shit. You need to learn how to be together when you’re not together.”
“I’ve never ever heard anyone I know who’s actually been in a long-distance relationship say something even vaguely to that effect.”
She nods. “Yeah, I made it up just now, but I think it’s true.”
I frame my empty plate with my elbows, pressing my fingers into my temples, tears pricking at my eyes again.
Feedback?
I stare at the blank space in the journal for five minutes before twisting on the pen.
Why did you seek me out if this relationship is doomed to blow up in my face? Is it? Is it going to work out? Eight jumps is only four trips. Are you helping me find a happy ending, or are you teaching me some other hard earned lesson that I’ve yet to understand?
I am so tired of not having a mutual number one.
Do you ever think about things like that?
Like if you were dangling over the edge of a building, and someone else that your number one knows was also dangling, and they could only save one of you, you know they’d always choose you, no questions asked.
And you’d always choose them. That’s a number one.
And there’s nothing in the world like the bond between mutual number ones.
I don’t care how stupid that sounds. It’s true.
The loyalty. The safety you feel with them.
It’s rare. And precious. And I miss it with every fiber of my fucking soul.
Jordyn was mine until she and Micah got married. And I was Whitney’s before Glenn came along.
It takes a lot of reframing to accept that being a single adult with all married friends means by default you’re never anyone’s first priority. But a lot of people are yours. And we just have to be okay with it. And I try really hard to be.
I love my freedom. But then there are days like this where I feel like I’m falling without a safety net, and there’s no one to catch me. I just tumble through the darkness until I regain the strength to pull myself out.
Reed said he wants to take care of me. I want to do that for him, and I want to learn to let him do that for me.
But how can I? How can he? How can I be there for him when I can’t be there for him?
How can we be each other’s number ones without destroying the careers we’ve been busting our asses to build over the last decade?
Every day that we continue to live on different coasts, we choose work over each other.
Why is it like this? Why do these two areas of life always present as warring parties? How do you choose both?
I heave in a breath and flip the page.
<3
I snort.
Wow that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.
Flip.
No, I think you miss understood, that was a manipulative heart.
A maniacal cackle bubbles up from my throat.
Did we just become best friends?
Flip.
Don’t get too excited. If you’re dangling off the edge of a building the best I can do is appear on the ledge.
Me [7:30 p.m.]: Can we nail down a day on the calendar when we’ll for sure be able to see each other? =) The control freak in me is losing her mind. Maybe we could make that a rule? Before we say IRL goodbye we put a date on the calendar for the next IRL hello?
Reed [7:38 p.m.]: Big yes to etching that law into our constitution. I had a conversation with my agent earlier—I’ll be solidly back in LA Saturday, September 14. There’s a beginner West Coast swing class on Saturdays. Do you think you could maybe make it out for that weekend?
Me [7:40 p.m.]: It’s a date!!!
Reed [7:40 p.m.]: Any chance you’re on a bed?
“Do you think doing long distance is basically synonymous with voluntarily living on an emotionally unstable precipice at all times?” I wasn’t planning to bring this up.
I told myself not to. But here we are. “How do we be each other’s rocks,” I continue, “if we’re not physically in each other’s orbits, to ground each other? ”
Reed takes a deep breath on the line. “I think when we’re not close physically, we have to make ourselves more available emotionally.”
“You sound like an LMFT.”
“You sound like a layman,” he says playfully.
I laugh, well aware. “When it comes to my own life, I have trouble thinking like a therapist. I’m too close to it.”
“That makes sense.”
“Is there any part of you that regrets making this something real?” I say quietly.
“Are you regretting it?” he says carefully.
“I guess I’m just feeling like you’re spreading your wings, setting flight for your big pie-in-the-sky dream life and . . . I don’t want to hold you back.”
“Renee, I have another big pie-in-the-sky goal that I didn’t share with you that night ’cause it’s cheesy and embarrassing.”
“You, the theater kid who loves Ed Sheeran, harboring a cheesy, embarrassing dream? Do tell.”
He looses a quiet laugh. “To fall in love with my soulmate. Build a life together. Share our successes and failures. Maybe get a dog.”
I’m quiet for a moment. “I like that one.”
“I don’t regret it.”
I clear my throat. “If you want, we could revert back to Pact Level One: dating while we’re in the same state, friends when we’re not.”
“But alas. I do not want.” I can sense him smiling into the phone.
I chortle. “Okay. Good. I don’t regret it either.”
“Good. Romona?”
“Reed.”
“I feel really lucky to have met you.”
“Likewise.”