Defining the Relationship
In the loud, busy nightclub, with all its swirling lights and pulsating beats, a moment of raw honesty breaks free from me.
"I'm really struggling with my anxiety," I say to my friend Sarah, trying to make myself heard over the music.
It's like I'm letting out a secret in the middle of all this noise.
Sarah looks surprised at first, not expecting such a serious talk during our night out. But then she smiles at me, a real, supportive smile that tells me she’s got my back.
This is just me being me. Gabi. Unfiltered and real.
Under the flickering lights, Sarah's blond hair seems to glow as she moves closer to hear me better.
"You're not alone," she tells me, her voice full of warmth.
My therapist's voice echoes in my head, telling me to focus on the present moment when I feel anxious.
I try. I stare at Sarah's black pants with cut-out slits at the hips revealing her pink g-string. I suck in a deep breath. The West Hollywood club smells like sweat, alcohol, and lavender.
In the booth near us, a bachelorette party is in full swing. A group of women are wearing matching shirts that read “Living My Best Life.” I count six purses that are pushed together on the table, one of them has a sticker on it that says “Nobody Cares, Work Harder.”
I try to focus on any of these minuscule details like it's my last second on Earth, trying to savor a speck of life as it flies by.
But I can't.
Instead I'm fixating on the burning, nauseating feeling in my nerves. It feels like I'm suffocating.
I keep looking at Craig taking selfies with his friends while they do shots at the bar.
Eleven months.
I keep repeating it in my head as I watch them making TikTok videos together.
We've been dating for eleven months and he has yet to post one picture of us together on social media. Not even a close-friends story. Nothing.
My anger makes simple thinking feel as difficult as trying to drive with a foggy windshield.
I look down at the stained collar of my white dress, where my supposed sweat-proof, never-fade-ever bronzer is rubbing off. When I'm stressed, all my minor worries compound at once.
Even in my makeup-soaked dress, I carry my head high. I'm relatively satisfied with my symmetrical face, thick brown hair, curvy body, and the imperceptible tilt in my nose that you'd recognize if you knew me.
"Are you okay, sis?" Sarah asks, wrapping her arms around me.
"No. It's up," I reply with a frown.
'It's up' is new slang for: drama is about to occur. I love slang, even though I used to think it was corny before I gradually gave in.
"Look at Craig over there taking selfies with his friends. We've been dating for almost a year and he's never posted one picture of us together. I don't even know what our status is. We've never defined our relationship."
I take one last swig of my passion fruit margarita.
"I'm twenty-five. I don't have time for this anymore. What's stopping me from talking to another guy right now? We don't have a title, so are we even exclusive?"
"He's probably just busy at work," Sarah replies. "He works for a studio set design team, right? He's constantly bombarded. You should talk to him about how you truly feel."
Sarah's overconfident attitude, believing she has men all figured out, remains unshakable despite the many instances of her being wrong before.
"I try to talk to Craig about it. The most romantic thing he's ever said to me is that he feels satisfied in his life right now with me."
"Come on, he says sweet things to you all the time. He compliments your writing, your creativity, your smarts, how loving you are."
It's true. Craig is really sweet. But when I'm upset it's so hard to focus on anything positive amidst the storm of negatives.
"He also said it was too soon for me to go to his brother's birthday party. And he told me during sex that I need to lose ten pounds." I set down my empty glass. "It's definitely up. I'm choosing violence tonight."
I take a deep counted breath in. Hold. Two. Three. Out.
Breathing exercises are therapy 101. It helps about as much as a neck rub might help on your deathbed. But it does help.
"Oh god, you have that look in your eye," Sarah says. "This is like the time in college when you memorized your boyfriend's phone passcode. Don't break up with Craig! He's handsome, he looks kinda like Timothée Chalamet. He's funny and talented."
"Craig does have great curly hair," I admit. "And I can't break up with him if we're not even together." I laugh half-seriously.
Sarah hugs me. "Maybe he just has trouble expressing himself?"
"You know what I think?" I say with an absurd smile. "I think men are purposefully blurring the lines of relationships. I think it's an elaborate diabolical plot they're all a part of."
"Love is a battlefield," Sarah jokes.
A man in a striped shirt approaches us, tattoos covering both arms. Broad shoulders. Shaggy hair in ringlets. He holds out a large hand, I notice cuts and scratches on his palm, the hands of someone who works hard.
"Hey, do you want to dance?"
"Yes. Let's do the damn thing."
I grip his hand and pull his heated body toward me.
It's hard to focus on a stranger when my racing thoughts are so fixed on Craig.
My hips aren't in rhythm with his waist. We keep awkwardly bumping into each other, grinding in opposite directions.
I push through the awkwardness as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me tighter, trying to help us move together. His grip is strong. Craig's touch is much more delicate.
I reach up to feel the loose hairs along the back of his neck as he bends his face down next to mine, the sweet scent of his cologne drifting in and out of my nostrils.
"Excuse me. What is going on?"
I open my eyes to see Craig's shocked face.
Seeing his hurt eyes shatters whatever fantasy I had about making him jealous.
"I'm sorry," I say, pushing away.
Craig storms off. I stand there feeling ashamed and confused, a wave of nausea and regret washing over me.
