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To All the Boys Who Cheated Before
Lessons from the men who chose to cheat with me
On a chilly Sunday dusk in early spring, a friend and I canter into the ‘red bar’ — a vibe-y, ironically-religious-themed dive bar in close proximity to the couch I’m currently crashing on — for mezcal margaritas.
We sit at the bar, where the seat next to mine is occupied only by a Kindle and a three-quarters-full beer, coaster resting across its rim. Somewhere around the second sip of cocktails, a tall, dark, stubbled man takes the seat from the Kindle. He’s cute. Vaguely forgettable.
But not that forgettable.
Fuck. Is that Steven? I think, semi-frantic.
“Steven” was the neurotic neighbor I’d dallied with briefly, about half a year prior. Our last encounter, at an unexpectedly mutual friend’s event, was dominated by the uninvited unloading of his various emotional hang-ups and neuroses. An experience I did not care to repeat.
I sneak a glance, hoping to confirm his identity, and notice his outfit is akin to something a 1930s professor might wear to a rousing lecture.
Double fuck.
It’s not Steven, but Stephen: an actor who cheated on his fiancée with me six years ago. An experience I really, really did not care to repeat. And far…
