"My ex wants me back. Give me one reason to stay with you instead," she said during dinner.
I asked, "Can you give me one to stay with you?"
Paid my half of the bill and left. A few days later, she appeared at my doorstep crying.
I should have seen the writing on the wall the moment the word "boring" started slipping into her vocabulary. It wasn't an accusation at first; it was a descriptor. She'd use it for things I considered responsible. My 401(k) strategy was boring. My preference for cooking a high-quality meal at home instead of waiting in line at a loud, overpriced club was boring. My insistence on paying off my car early was boring.
Vanessa and I had been together for three years. For the first two, my stability was exactly what she claimed she wanted. She had come from a string of chaotic, toxic relationships with men who treated her like an option. I treated her like a priority. I helped her refinance her student loans. I was the guy who picked her up from the airport at 2:00 a.m. without complaining. I was the guy who listened to her vent about her toxic coworkers for hours.
But somewhere around the three-year mark, the peace I provided stopped looking like a sanctuary and started looking like a cage.
The ghost in our relationship had a name: Dylan.
Dylan was her ex from college. From what I'd gathered over the years, Dylan was a disaster. He was "spontaneous," which is code for unreliable. He was "passionate," which is code for emotionally volatile. He had cheated on her twice, borrowed money he never paid back, and eventually dumped her via text message to go backpack through Europe. For years, she spoke of him with disdain.
But in the last two months, the tone had shifted.
"Dylan's back in the city," she mentioned casually one night while scrolling through Instagram. "He started his own branding agency. Looks like he's finally growing up."
I didn't think much of it then, but the comparisons started a week later.
"Dylan just bought a loft downtown," she said while we were watching a movie. "It's so industrial—exposed brick, floor-to-ceiling windows. It's got so much character, unlike this place."
I looked around my apartment. It was a clean, modern two-bedroom in a good neighborhood. It was immaculate. "What's wrong with this place?" I asked.
She sighed—that heavy, theatrical sigh she'd perfected recently. "Nothing. It's just safe, you know? It's exactly what everyone expects. It's beige."
That was the word of the month: Safe. Beige. Predictable.
The red flags started waving violently last Tuesday. We were sitting on the couch and her phone buzzed. She snatched it off the cushion with the reflexes of a fighter pilot. She angled the screen away from me, typed a quick response, and flipped the phone face down on her thigh.