“Listen, if soulmates exist, we’re it. But I’m no good for you that way,” he said. “I always mess things up. Friendships last.”
At the time, all that I heard him say was “soulmate.” In Greek legend, humans once had four arms and legs, and two faces, but Zeus split them into two as punishment for their pride, so they would forever walk the earth in search of their other half. Here was my other half.
My heart sprouted wings and took flight. It soared out of my chest and launched into the stratosphere. It felt like pure bliss.
I came home a few nights later and found Jason and Sarah unloading groceries to make a romantic sushi dinner. I had a sudden, sickening realization: While I was distracted by thoughts of soulmates, I’d missed the signs that they were busy becoming a couple.
Oh, what a pathetic fool I was. There was barely time to make it outside to my jeep before the tears started rolling down my cheeks, and then I just kept driving until I got to Biloxi. There were no answers in the black of the water that night, so when I returned, I started looking for a new apartment.
I tried dating other people. With Jason, the world appeared in technicolor, but with anyone else, everything was clad in disappointing tones of grey. I nursed guilty, dangerous fantasies that he would break up with Sarah and choose me, but things between them were practically etched in stone. When they lost a rescue cat and dog in close succession, I cruelly joked that Sarah’s track record with pets was a bad sign. Graciously, she let it pass. Green was definitely not a good look on me.
Over the next two years, my friendship with Jason carried on as it always had with study sessions, racquetball, West Wing, po’ boys, and concerts. I never mentioned how I felt ― or how much misery I experienced when I saw him with Sarah instead of me. At graduation, Jason, Sarah, and I hosted a joint farewell reception together. I disguised my agony with convincing smiles as they introduced their families to each other. Then they moved west to San Diego, got married, and had two adorable kids.
My life felt like it was over before it had even begun. In the months after Jason moved, our favorite song by J. Ralph would come on the radio, and I’d pull my car over to wail gut-wrenching, almost demonic-sounding sobs until the hurt was temporarily out of my system. I nearly lost friends from all of the whining I was doing. They finally told me to “get over it,” like I was dealing with a pesky case of the flu, not a full-fledged broken heart.
If only it were that easy.
On a trip to Nicaragua, I tumbled drunkenly into bed with my hot surf instructor, the most action I’d seen in ages. Progress! The next morning, we sipped coffee and watched the sunrise. “So, who’s Jason?” he asked. “You talk a lot in your sleep. I hope he knows he’s a lucky guy.”
