The Apple of My Eye

Running to Stand Still

I guess Ernest Hemingway was right when he said that when two people love each other, there can be no happy end to it.

It was all painfully clear to me now: I was going to have to send Star back to her parents and be done with it. I know the wording of that is so selfish it's a bit sickening, but it's pointless mincing words now. I had come to terms with the fact that it was the only thing I could do that would preserve everybody's integrity—even if it meant having to deal with a separation I honestly didn't know how hard was going to strike me.

But if my calculations were correct, then by separating from Star I was making two people miserable—me and her—and two people very happy—Victoria and her unborn sibling, presently encapsulated inside my wife. Well, three people, really, seeing as I had to make Chloe happy in the process, too. If not happy, contented, at least. After all, I don't think the baby had been spared the heartache and misery floating all around when all those feelings were channeling right through its mom's system.

Cold-hearted, you say? Not quite. I had to be practical here for a moment. It wasn't just math now, was it? I mean, even if the decision to leave Star benefitted fewer people than staying with her would, I couldn't just ignore the fact that one of those people was my five-year-old girl, whose health and welfare and best interests were no one's responsibility more than they were mine. Plus, if I were to return to Chloe and Victoria, I'd have my mom and dad get off my back, too, and that, albeit not among my top priorities of the day, could not be disregarded.

I'm not trying to make a point here, really, I'm not. I'm just trying to tell a story. I had to make a decision between letting just one aspect of my life go to waste or sitting and watching my whole life disintegrate around me. When you think about it, it's pretty fucking obvious what you have to do. When you consider there are feelings involved, though, and not only your feelings, then things don't look so simple anymore, do they?

You could say I was being too pragmatic, too matter-of-fact for my own good, that I should find a way to make things work with Star, the love of my life. And by making things work, I mean the financial aspect of our relationship, not the actual relationship, which in itself was the closest thing to perfection I'd ever experienced. You could say there was no way in hell I was going to be a good father to my children if, deep inside, I was unhappy as fuck—and though they would have my physical presence around them, my mind would be somewhere far away and I'd be feeling like a fucking failure for having let down the woman I loved. You could say no individual should put the needs and wants of his children before his own pursuit of personal happiness. You could say the exact opposite, too. You could say children of divorced parents can grow into stable and emotionally mature adults and not differ from their peers from non-divorced families. You could say I was scared of being happy, and that I could see, I admit it. I'm not saying that's what did the trick, though, because, in all fairness, I don't have a fucking clue now, let alone then.

But happiness is nothing if not an ephemeral sense of gratification and peace. That ecstatic and euphoric feeling Star and I shared when we were together would only last a number of hours or a few days, tops. Then there was always some form of trouble or other in paradise. Trouble would always find its way to us. Because that's what life is made of, isn't it? Trouble, trouble, trouble, oh wait, I'm happy now, great, then more trouble, trouble, trouble.

There was nothing heroic in my decision, I never thought there was. But there wasn't anything cowardly, either. It was all a matter of perspective. There certainly was nothing altruistic in my assessment that Star, being as young as she was, deserved better than a complicated soon-to-be middle-aged boyfriend who had two children and an ex-wife that just wouldn't quit. I loved Star too much to force her to stick with me through all that crap. My life was such a fucking mess that I didn't want to ruin her life with my bullshit. I'd seen what it did to her. She didn't deal with it well. But that is bullshit. Who was I to determine what she deserved or what she needed? What mattered was what she wanted in her heart, not what I thought she deserved or needed, goddamn it.