Many of his invitations were what I referred to as half invitations.  They were delivered with the disclaimer that although I was invited, I should know that the people attending the party wouldn’t be the kind of people that I liked to hang out with, and that I probably wouldn’t have fun if I went.  Geographically, these people resided on the opposite end of the socialite continuum than I did.  With their blonde hair, fake tits, hip outfits, polished social skills, and dollar signs for eyes, they were my inverse.  He said he, too, was trying to avoid them because of these things.  He said he was bored of having the same conversations over and over again. He liked spending time with me because I was different.

I once overheard him tell a friend that he was lucky to have me.  And now that we’re over, my friends insist that I’m the lucky one.  I’m lucky to have found out sooner rather than later; it was just a matter of time.  But, I’m not convinced.

One half of me believes this:  It was me. Story #1

I was scared and I pushed you away.  I was scared because you were a serial dater and would likely not stick around.  I was scared because I had feelings for you that I didn’t expect to have.  I was scared that I might have actually found someone that I could really open up to.  And, I was scared because I thought you were feeling the same way.

I did exactly what I wish I wouldn’t have done that day.  I knew you didn’t like to talk for long periods of time during the workday, but I called you anyway.  I justified it by asking—when the conversation started—if you had a minute to talk, knowing that it would take more than a minute.  And when my minute was up, you got frustrated and snapped.  I started crying and hung up on you.  When you called later that night to try and figure things out, I uncharacteristically held onto my frustration.  I even went so far as to tell you that my heart was hardening around you and that I didn’t want to deal anymore because I was scared.

The other half of me believes this:  It was you. Story #2

You’re a liar.  I asked you if our seeing each other was just for fun… or could it actually go somewhere?  I even suggested you take some time to think about it.

You said you didn’t need any time and that you thought it could go somewhere.  And it did.

It went swimming at the greenbelt on a lazy Sunday afternoon, out to meet your friends where you showed off by dipping me back and kissing me passionately while they watched, back to your house after a night on the town for our private dance party because you know I love to dance, under the covers on a Saturday morning when you decided to blow off going to the gym for once and hold me instead, and out to dinner to get my favorite sea bass that I wouldn’t shut up about (which turned out not to be as good as I had remembered).

But, when it went to my heart, and I really got vulnerable, you bailed.  You bailed because you’re a fucking liar.

Regardless, I can only half believe that this is really happening.  Although if I was really honest, I’d say you were always only halfway in.  For years I’ve quoted Dr. Phil (yes, that douche) saying, “When someone tells you the way they are, believe them.”  And even though I’ve repeated that quote a million times, and in fact, used it in my final breakup email to the hottie Brazilian five years ago, I willingly ignored it where you were concerned.  You (and everyone who knows you) told me the way you are, but you had a way of saying it that made it seem only half true.