The Ex Talk

by Rachel Lynn Solomon

Being the fifth wheel is only slightly crushing when I realize I’m not anyone’s person. Ameena and TJ live together, so it’s natural that she shares secrets with him before me, and my mother has Phil. I am a solid second, but I’m no one’s first.

I’m on a dating app hiatus, something I implement every so often when swiping becomes especially frustrating. My relationships seem doomed to never last longer than a handful of months. I want so badly to get to that place where Ameena and TJ are, five years of dating after they accidentally swapped orders at a coffee shop, that it’s possible I rush things. I’ve never not been the first to say I love you, and there are only so many times you can stomach total silence in response. But I won’t lie—I want to be that first person someone tells everything to.

People say they want something serious, but as soon as it starts heading that way, they bolt. Either they’re lying, or they realize they don’t want something serious with me.

So often, I’m trapped between the pain of remembering and the fear of forgetting.

I give couples the tools to have an open dialogue about whatever they’re struggling with, the ability to step back and analyze their relationship, to ask themselves, “Is this the best thing I should do or say in this scenario?”

“It’s why I haven’t gone on a date in a while. It can be exhausting, giving that much when the other person is barely giving anything.”

“Fantastic.” He places his toothbrush back in its travel case. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you without your glasses,” he says to my reflection, and I feel immediately self-conscious. With a hand holding back my hair, I spit one last time before rinsing my toothbrush. “I’m so used to them that I always worry my face looks asymmetrical without them.”

“I’ve spent most of my twenties chasing this idea of domestic bliss I grew up with. And I’m not even sure what that means anymore . . . just that I want that constancy and comfort so badly sometimes that it scares me.”

It’s not real. But I wonder, if it isn’t, why we fall asleep with his face tucked against the back of my neck, his hand at my hip.