The Honesty Project That Wasn’t

“Dammit,” she said. “You were supposed to be my honesty project.”
“Your what?” I asked.
“My honesty project. I was going to be honest with you about everything.” She bit her lip as she said this. “But you had to be too caring, too sweet. I couldn’t hurt you.”
“Uh… Okay,” I said. I was confused. We were sitting at a Chinese restaurant, and she dropped this on me out of nowhere. We had also just gone grocery shopping for her. It was as if someone flipped the channel, and I was now watching a drama instead of the romantic comedy that was playing earlier in the day.

I knew it was going to get more dramatic as she kept biting her lower lip. That was her tell that she was nervous, embarrassed, and anxious about the moment. “What did I do?” I asked, jokingly. I didn’t really want to hear the answer, but there we were.
“That’s the thing. You did nothing wrong. You never do anything wrong. When you commit to a relationship…”
“…I go all out,” I said, interrupting her.
“You do.”

Over the next ten minutes, she told me the story of a night a few weeks in the past. And, over the next twenty minutes, I’d go from enjoying the meal to wanting to throw it all back up.

“I was drunk, and I was stupid, and…”
“…And you’ve liked him from the get go,” I interrupted again. She lowered her eyes. She bit her lip. She didn’t deny it. “Come on,” I said. “I’ve always known you liked him. I’ve seen you swoon when you hear him playing and singing.” I was angry, but I also didn’t want to explode. This wasn’t the moment to do so. “So, you see… In a way, you were honest to me, just not outwardly honest.”

By this time, tears were rolling down her face. “We should go.”
“We should.”

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“Bit by bit, you built this all in your head
And you knew goddamn well
Lays like these, they lean miss more than swing
And what makes you think that what we had was love not meaningless?
And if I’m the fool, what’s that make you?”
– The Maine, “Loved You A Little”

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We walked out of the restaurant and got in her car. The drive to her place was long and silent. Neither of us said a thing. As soon as we got to her apartment, I grabbed her groceries and took them to her door. Then I jumped in the Jeep and drove off.

A few nights later, one of our mutual friends randomly asked me how I was doing. “What do you mean?” I asked back.
“I know how you and him are friends, and she told all of us what she did. So I’m wondering if you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I said. (I wasn’t.) “It is what it is.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“Nah. Not worth it.”
“Really?” she asked. I put down my notebook and turned around to face her.
“Look… She and I are nothing. Or, at least, we never made it official. Sure, there were dates, there were make-out sessions on her couch. But we never agreed to be exclusive. And he did what he did because, well… He’s a boy. Good looking girl comes over drunk, tells you she’s horny. What are you going to do?”
“What a bitch,” she said under her breath.
“It’s okay… Done. Done. On to the next one, right?”

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“All my life, I’ve been searching for something
Something never comes, never leads to nothing
Nothing satisfies but I’m getting close
Closer to the prize at the end of the rope
All night long, I dream of the day
When it comes around and it’s taken away
Leaves me with the feeling that I feel the most
Feel it come to life when I see your ghost
Then I’m done, done, on to the next one
Done, done and I’m on to the next one
Done, done and I’m on to the next one
Done, done and I’m on to the next one
Done, done and I’m on to the next one
Done, done and I’m on to the next one
Done, done and I’m on to the next one
Done, I’m done and I’m on to the next”
– Foo Fighters, “All My Life”

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I played that song loudly in my headphones as I ran down the road by her apartment a few months later. By then, she had forgotten about the boy who could play a guitar, and moved on to the older man who was a cop and paramedic. They were at her place. I could see their cars parked by her apartment building, the same cars they parked side by side where we worked.

Two weeks later, I watched a football game in the lounge outside the lab. The Steelers had won a playoff game earlier, and I watched the recorded broadcast. It was a quiet night. Nights were like that 23 years ago, especially when it snowed as heavily as it did that night. “Good game,” she said, startling me as she stood behind me. I’m usually good about telling when someone walks up behind me, but the game was too good to look away.
“Yeah, it was,” I said.
“I guess you heard,” she said with a sort of sadness in her voice. She then took a seat, holding the dinner she had just picked up from the snack bar.
“That the Steelers won?” I had no clue what she was talking about, but I could hear the drama coming on.
“He cheated on me while I was down at the beach,” she said, trailing off. “That’s why I was puking my brains out earlier. I’m sick to my stomach.”

I heard she was sick, and I had seen her walk by me very quickly as she went to the staff restroom. But I had not heard of the infidelity. “Ouch,” I said. “Must be rough.” I kept looking straight at the television. I didn’t want to tell her how I really felt.
“He broke down crying the minute I stepped in the door. Said he was drunk and just called up an old girlfriend on a whim,” she said.
“Alcohol, am I right?” I said. Half a second later, realizing what I said, I turned to look at her.
“I guess I had that coming,” she said with tears in her eyes. She then stood up and walked a few steps. “It sucks that I keep ignoring the people who count,” she said. And then she walked away.

Maybe she was talking about me?

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“You called me strong, you called me weak
But still your secrets, I will keep
You took for granted all the times, I never let you down
You stumbled in and bumped your head
If not for me, then you’d be dead
I picked you up and put you back on solid ground”
– 3 Doors Down, “Kryptonite”

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“I’m always around, Lana,” I told her in jest. She had gone to the lab and saw that I was working there. She did not know that I had returned to the lab after a short hiatus to pursue epidemiology. It was a good gig, and I had nothing better to do on Friday nights. Plus, my girlfriend at the time lived in that small town while I worked in Baltimore. So I would drive Friday after work straight to the lab, work overnight, and then go to the girlfriend’s apartment to sleep a few hours before we got our Saturday time together.

Those were the days when I could do stuff like that on little sleep.

“Lana? I thought I was Lois,” she said with a smile on her face.
“Oh, no, no, no,” I said. “Lana Lang moved on. She stayed in Smallville, got married. Had…” I looked at her growing belly. “Had kids.” Her cheeks got bright red. “No, Lana grew up. Clark moved to Metropolis, to become who he was meant to be.”
“Then maybe it was Clark who moved on?”
“Maybe,” I replied as casually as I could at the moment.
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s a good gig. Pays for my toys. And you know I like my toys.”
“Full time?”
“Nah, part time. Friday nights, maybe Saturdays on long weekends. I’m full time at the state health department in Baltimore.” I couldn’t help but look at her belly one more time.

What did she once tell me? About having kids? Or not being able to?

“So you drive up from Baltimore just for Friday nights?” she asked.
“Yep. And then spend the rest of my weekend with my girlfriend.”
“In Baltimore?”
“No, she’s here. She’s a physician assistant here.”
“Oh, her?”
“Yes.”

You see, a year before this little chat, she got married. The day before the wedding, while I was out on my second date with my physician assistant girlfriend, she called me to ask if I knew how to fix a chocolate fountain. Because medical technologists and chocolate fountain repair people have a lot in common, I guess? “She wants you to go and stop her from making a mistake,” my girlfriend said.
“Well, good luck with that,” I said. It was only our second date, but I liked where things were going. I loved our conversations. The two dates had been stimulating to all my senses and intellect. (And I’m happy to report this is still the case 18 years later.) “I can’t be in two places at once, and this is where I want to be right now.”

It was the best second date ever. And the last second date with anyone but the girl I’d marry.

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“¿Quién te dijo que yo
Era el sueño que soñaste una vez?
¿Quién dijo que tú
Voltearías mi futuro al revés?
Ya son las 7:16
Y el cadáver del minuto que pasó
Me dice, “Tu estrategia te arruinó”
No queda más que ir aprendiendo a vivir solo
Si te quedan agallas”
– Ricardo Arjona, “Minutos”

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In fact, I did not date anyone for three years before I started dating my current wife. I had decided to be alone for those three years, because I realized my choice in women was a little “off,” if you will. Between the end of college and the three year hiatus, none of the women I dated led to healthy relationships. They were all an attempt of one person to fix the other. Little known fact: You can’t fix people. They have to fix themselves.

So why am I writing all this?

That relationship was one of the many I had before I met my current wife, before we got married 14 years ago and been together 18. I “dodged many bullets,” and I’m happy with the one bullet that hit me. It did a number on me. I’m not the same person. I’m more caring. More compassionate. The world is not all about me anymore.

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The “honesty project” was not honesty, but an attempt to string me along for several years. I was always being notified about her conquests, her relationships and failures. She called me once to ask for directions to the airport, as she took the boyfriend on a trip to the Midwest to meet her father. She showed up at the lab and waved the ring around the night she got engaged, asking me if I thought it was big enough for her hands. (I had previously joked about the length of her fingers, which she credited for her ability to play the piano… or so she said.)

Two years ago, we had our last conversation via text message. Something about her getting divorced. It was at a time when I went through stuff, and I guess that was her way of reaching out?

Then again, the “honesty project” was a good thing. It helped me realize that some relationships can be toxic, even if we were not in an “official” relationship. Some people seem to want to pass on their suffering to others instead of just sharing that suffering. Wanting to share is normal. Wanting to bring others down so you’ll be above them? Not so much.

But it has been a little over 20 years since that day in the restaurant. Those times are best filed under “life experiences that taught me something.” Best to be remembered once in a while when you just want to write something on a plane trip to Denver. Like this time… Until next time.

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“A fake Jamaican took every last dime with that scam
It was worth it just to learn some sleight of hand”
– Modest Mouse, “Float On”

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