Love Is A Bitch

Old Habits

It was 2016. Death Of A Bachelor was on the top of the charts, tour was about to start, and my life was good. Sarah was on a "girl's weekend" with Linda Smith and Lisa Gaskarth in Orlando. I was home by myself, or I was supposed to be home. Instead, I was at a familiar bar in downtown LA. Spencer was coming over later to play cards and talk about music. I was absent-mindedly drinking a rum coke and looking around the bar, observing the people around me.
And then he walked in. God, I think the last time I'd seen him was 2013, smoking a cigarette behind a tour bus at a Fall Out Boy show. He'd probably quit smoking now, but I didn't ask. He looked good, but he always did I suppose. His loose brunette curls were framing his face nicely and his brown eyes were searching the bar for a place to sit.

"Whiskey on the rocks." He said to the bartender as he sat beside me. He had recognized me by now, I could see it in the way he was sitting and the way his eyes darted back and forth. We remained silent while the bartender made his drink. It was a solid three minutes of silence before I finally opened my mouth.

"Ryan."

We talked for hours at that bar, catching up on life, talking about music, and about our love lives.

"How's Sarah?" He asked me over his third glass of champagne, which I'd bought for him.

"She's the same as she's always been I guess." I shrugged. I felt compelled to add, "She's out of town for the weekend."

It wasn't too much longer before I called an uber, because there ws no way in hell either of us were driving anywhere. I also called Spencer and told him I didn't feel good and he could come over tomorrow night instead.

Ryan and I's friendly conversation was a thing of the past for the rest of the night, and that night was the best drunk sex I'd ever had. And the next morning was the best hungover sex I'd ever had. And that afternoon was the best high sex I'd ever had. And just like that, he left again. And it kind of hurt. Not as much as Cape Town had hurt, but it had hurt.

"So Brendon, you're telling me that you cheated on your wife in 2016 with your friend Ryan?" I was snapped out of my trance-like state by the voice of Whitney, my therapist. She was a woman in her early forties with a stern face but kind eyes. Her voice wasn't judgemental, just curious.

"Yeah, I guess I did."

"And why are you just now telling me this? I assume Ryan has always been a little more than just a friend."

"I'm telling you because I used to be in love with Ryan back then, and now he's coming back into my life. I texted him after I saw him at my friend Gabe's party. He's going to come over in a few days to a house party of mine, and we made plans to do some music."

"And why does his friendship necessarily mean cheating?"

"Because I think I might still be in love with him."