CHAPTER EIGHT - VAN NUYS

Sometimes to go forward, you need to go back. Way back.

Dearest Nurse,

I’ve been missing Romeo lately more than I’d like to admit. Makes me feel a bit silly, really. I spent over a decade without him and I was fine. I mean, maybe I wasn’t alway fine, but I certainly wasn’t thinking about him all the time. I was living my life. But after just one magical, frenzied, messy week, it seems he’s firmly planted himself at the forefront of my mind. Sending tingles through my body when I recall the soft wet of his mouth on mine at that rooftop bar, or some of the things he said behind my closed bedroom door…

“I could go down on you for hours.”

Damn it. Why didn’t I take him up on that when I had the chance?

But, alas… it’s not just about the sex. If it was, I wouldn’t be doing this. Because that’s not the only moment my mind is drawn to from that week.

There were several times when our eyes met and everything in me went soft. When the tender skin of our stomachs touched, and suddenly breath came easy. As much as I was trying not to, I saw it in his eyes too. Beyond lust, beyond wanting, beyond trust… I don’t want to say the word. It’s too easy a word to say. And far too soon… or is it? We have history, don't we? But did I really love him then? A stressed out, mixed up twenty-two year old, on her own for the first time in her life? And was he really in love with me at twenty-one, terrified as he was by commitment, and still finding his boundaries and morality?

So, after the kids went off to school, I did my workout, my neck exercises, showered, jumped in the car, and headed up to Van Nuys to see if I couldn’t catch some memories. Some old feelings that might shed some light on the truth of that funny, little romance we had.

Back in 2005, when Romeo and I started dating, I was living in a fantastic studio apartment in Hollywood. It even had a fold-away bed that rotated into a walk-in closet. Try finding something like that anywhere nowadays. But I didn’t live there long. I felt horrible turning the lease over - the building manager was a very kind man with agent orange poisoning from his time in Vietnam. He had rented me the apartment even though I barely had any credit at all, and made me promise I wouldn’t screw him over. I promised, and then, I did.

One of the first jobs I was able to land in Los Angeles was working in the rental office of a corporate apartment building in Playa del Rey. Yes, it's just as awful as it sounds. I had to wear a suit every day, which was cheap, malfitting, and vaguely stinky, because I could only afford one and a once-a-week trip to the laundromat, and it was horribly boring. The most excitement I had in the eight months I was there was when a tenant asked me to plunge their toilet. A friend who worked for the same property management company told me I was eligible for an amazing two bedroom in one of their buildings on the west side. It was mine if I wanted it, all I had to do was be ready. So, I found a subletter, packed up what little I had, along with the kitten I found out back, and waited for the call.

It never came. When something sounds way too good to be true, it usually is. I know, it’s a fucking annoying, overly-used phrase, but it's right on the money. The friend didn’t know what she was talking about, and now my kitten and I had nowhere to live.

“This will only be for a bit, I swear.” I said when I saw the look on Romeo’s face. We had only been dating for a matter of weeks at that point, and suddenly I had all my shit and my cat in his one-room studio on Sepulveda boulevard in Van Nuys.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

But I did. I worried about it a lot. Even though I hadn’t wanted to get into a relationship this soon after my move to L.A., I really liked this guy, and I didn’t want to fuck it up by getting all up in his business right off the bat. Additionally, he had already expressed his fears about commitment. I didn’t want him to think I was using my new homeless status to lock him down. So, I jumped on the apartment hunt immediately.

We did have fun in that little studio, though. He would work at his computer by the glass patio door during the day, and then in the evenings, we would scrape our pennies together for a six-pack of Corona, and play darts.

I grew up with a dartboard in the house. It was one of my father’s favorite games, and I played with him often. Even with that in my back pocket, Dear Nurse, I could not beat Romeo. Tossing those tiny metal spears was so effortless for him. Everything he was aiming for, just plunk, plunk, plunk, with that perfect, light stick of the tip that barely leaves a mark in the cork when you pluck it out.

I would get so frustrated. I didn’t understand how he could do that, and hit bullseye after bullseye without breaking a sweat - and Romeo sweats a lot. So, during one very close game, where all I had to do was get one bullseye to win, he stood beside me. I held the dart up, readying my aim, as he softly spoke.

“Just imagine the target getting bigger and bigger.” He said “And breathe.”

I never breathe, but I’m a good listener. I sucked in a deep one, and let the dart fly.

And it hit. Right in the center of that fucking double bull.

I screamed. I jumped up and down. I ran out into the hallway and yelled my victory to his annoyed neighbors. And the whole time, Romeo laughed, just as happy as I was that I had finally won a game.

We played truth or dare in that apartment. Asking probing questions with glee, and making one another run around the halls in our underwear.

We cooked for one another, too. We hardly had any money to eat out, and the one time we had - Chinese from a place on the corner - Romeo had gotten food poisoning, throwing up pure black into a bush beside the apartment complex. So, we’d walk to Jon’s, get whatever we could afford, and fry it up together. He even taught me how to cook asparagus, wrapping it in aluminum foil with some salt and pepper, and tossing it in the oven. I carried that one with me for years. Well, until I realized aluminum gives you dementia.

But I wasn’t completely content. As I mentioned, Romeo had always said that we would do this for as long as it was fun. No more fun, no more Romeo. But the more time I spent with him, the more uncomfortable that notion was for me. This guy was perfect. I was having the best time of my life with this person. And I could lose him at any moment.

I had been trying to find an affordable apartment that wasn’t too close to Romeo’s. Again, I didn’t want him to think I was clingy, or god forbid, not fun. So I tried other neighborhoods, my search expanding further and further from L.A.’s center, and getting repeatedly turned down in favor of couples and families. Go figure… So finally, out of sheer desperation, I walked across Sepulveda boulevard to a ‘For Rent’ sign, and filled out an application.

I got the apartment. Literally across the street from Romeo.

Maybe I was feeling insecure about that. I was definitely insecure about our relationship agreement - always concerned he was going to leave me first - So I guess I decided to get the jump on him.

“I don’t think we should do this anymore.”

“What?”

Romeo was stunned. I can still see him sitting on his futon, staring up at me in disbelief, and deep, deep hurt.

I don’t remember what I said next. I was shocked by the pain I saw draining the color from his face. I had assumed he’d shrug, accept it, and get back to work. I mean, if you really care about someone, you don’t say you’re just in this for fun, right?

I grabbed my bag and took one last look at him. He hadn’t moved a muscle since I had spoken. He stared at the floor, his back slumped; the saddest boy I had ever seen. I let the door close behind me, and got half way down the hall before I froze.

What the fuck am I doing? I fucking love this guy!

I ran back and threw open the door to his apartment. Romeo still hadn’t moved from the futon where he sat, but his entire face was streaked with tears. He had waited until I left, and just sobbed.

I ran over and kneeled in front of him, taking his hands and apologizing. I was so sorry. I was just scared. I loved him and I was so afraid of losing him.

We hugged, we cried, we kissed, and we made love. And not long after, he had moved in with me in my new one bedroom, across the street, on Sepulveda Boulevard.

“We had a cooking contest. Do you remember that?” Romeo had asked me that Friday night on the rooftop bar. And to be honest, I had forgotten. But the minute he said it…

“Oh my god, yes!” I said, “One of us made chicken cordon bleu.”

“That was me.” Romeo grinned.

It had been. The chicken cordon bleu had also been the end of the contest. It was so damn good, I knew I couldn’t beat it.

But we weren’t just cooking, playing darts, and fucking every single night, - which we did without fail - we were working really hard, too. He was a jack of all trades, editing, directing, shooting whatever and wherever anyone would let him, and I was pounding the pavement, auditioning like crazy, while working that part-time, property management job by the beach. That commute was so long and so awful. I almost peed in the car every single time.

“I remember going to work in that rental office one day, and I could barely sit down.” I said Friday night. “I called you, and I was like, what happened last night?”

“We tried to have anal, right?” Romeo shook his head. Like I told you before, we said everything that night. No holds barred, nothing off limits.

“I didn’t remember a thing. I was totally blacked out.”

“I know. I felt terrible about that.”

But I didn’t. We played hard too, when we could afford it. But even though I didn’t always trust that he wouldn’t leave me out of the blue, I did trust him with my body. Entirely. I knew he’d always be safe. I knew he’d always be careful. And I knew he’d always take care of it - in most cases - better than I did.

And then things started to change.

“My mom still calls you Mr. Porno.” I told him that Friday night. He only half smiled.

Word to the wise, those of you out there who are young and desperate for a career: if you think you might regret taking a particular gig, you probably will. Unless you have a heart of stone, or an iron-clad stomach, do not - I repeat - do not attempt to work in professional pornography.

No one had this talk with Romeo.

When he first took the job as a cameraman for a popular porn company, I tried to be cool. Did I absolutely hate the idea? Yes. Did I think it was beneath him? Yes. But Romeo was far more free and easy about things like sex and porn than I was. I thought it was part of what made him such a good lover. And so, I forced myself to be okay with it.

The truth was, however, it bothered me. Porn had always turned me off, ever since the old channel 35 days. It looked violent. Regardless of what the “actors” were saying or doing, I felt I always caught a tiny glimpse of regret in the eyes of the women. A please god help me, or a why the fuck am I doing this? even as they were in the midst of the deed, or a blow job, or smiling through a face full of cum. I mean, what the fuck is that? Really?

But I wasn’t Romeo’s mother. (Romeo’s mother was totally fine with it, by the way.) Not to mention the fact that he was already taking issue with how I cleaned up after him. He hated it, but I didn’t mind. I actually liked tidying up after him. One less thing for him to do. It was one of the ways I showed my love. But again, I was trying to be the cool girl, the fun girl. The girl who wasn’t trying to tie him down. And so, I kept my mouth shut, and lived with Mr. Porno.

I’ll never forget the day he came home red-faced and on the verge of tears.

“You know how in porn, girls squirt?”

I looked up from my writing.

“Yeah…”

“Well, it’s not cum. It’s pee.” He was horrified. Like an eight-year-old finding out Santa doesn’t exist.

“You got peed on, didn’t you?”

All he could manage was a humiliated nod.

But the porn job was having an effect on things in the bedroom, too. Our sanctuary. My sacred little bubble of bliss. Romeo was spending long hours on set seeing acts, positions, angles, and probably death-defying sexual stunts, every. single. day. And slowly but surely, the sex we were having started to become run of the mill.

I have never been what you would call “sexually adventurous”. I’m sure I’ll get into this another time, but though I liked sex - fucking loved it with Romeo - I was inhibited. I didn’t like getting on top, and most positions - outside of your classic missionary or doggy style - made me feel riotously insecure. In this case, in large part, because Romeo had once pointed out that my breasts were “thin”.

“Omigod, [Juliet], stop.” Romeo said a few weeks ago, standing up from the bed where we just had amazing, blow out, sixteen years of repression sex. “You made me say that.”

“What?” I sat up, half smiling at how troubled he was by the fact that I had brought up this memory.

“There are two conversations in my life that I truly regret.” Romeo started in, describing how at five, he made a racist comment to another little boy about why he hadn’t invited him to his birthday party. The other conversation was the one I had just referenced.

“But you pushed it out of me. You kept asking me to name one part of your body I didn’t like.”

I gasped. I had completely forgotten this part. I still don’t remember it, but I am so sure it’s true. That sounds exactly like something twenty-two-year-old me would have said. What a fucking weirdo I was. I do think, however, that telling a woman her breasts are “thin” is much less of an infraction than hurting a child on the basis of their race, but it does go to show he cares about me. Cared about me, more than he let on back then.

So, twenty-two-year-old me tried to keep up, but there were some things I just wasn’t willing to do. Some things I couldn’t physically handle even, for purely anatomical reasons I’ve only recently come to understand. I was trying to force myself out of my comfort zone, but pissed about it, because I knew it was for the wrong reasons. Our sex life had been perfect, and porn was destroying it.

In addition to being afraid of commitment, Romeo was terrified of getting me pregnant. Talk about getting locked down, right? He checked my birth control pack more than I did, making sure I never missed a day. That just wasn’t a chance he was willing to take. So, in the days approaching April 1st, 2006, I decided to use this crippling fear against him.

I have a truly bad sense of humor sometimes. My favorite episode of New Girl is the one where we discover Winston is the world’s worst practical joker. He either doesn’t go nearly far enough, or he goes way too far, destroying property or people’s lives. You know why I love it so much? Because that is totally me. Either my funny barometer is irreparably broken, or I have a chemical imbalance. It doesn’t happen all the time, or often even, but when I decide to play a trick on someone, watch the fuck out.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” Tybalt said, as we pursued the drug store’s feminine hygiene isle.

“Oh, come on. It’ll be funny.” Twenty-two-year-old me replied, and snatched a pregnancy test off the shelf, along with a thin, pink sharpie. (Tybalt is the only one of my friends who knew Romeo back in the day. I should have listened to her. I should probably always listen to her.)

I did a really good job faking that pregnancy test, I’ll give myself that. I got in there with my extremely reliable, steady hand, and drew two perfectly straight, pink lines. I hid the test in the bathroom, and left to pick Romeo up from the airport.

He had been away for a week on a business trip, shooting porn non-stop. Most of the work, he told me on the drive home, was Romeo, standing over the shoulder of another man as he received a blow job. Nice. Apparently, he had been propositioned on multiple occasions during that trip, to be both the cameraman and the cock in frame. I mean, why not? You have one, and you’re already on the payroll. He told me he declined. I think I believe him. No, I do… I do.

Anyway, when we got home and he was comfortable, I decided it was time to break the news.

“I have something to tell you…” I said, and handed him the test.

He was speechless. His face went white. He uttered a few garbled expletives, stood, staggered into the bathroom and locked the door. Fuck. What have I done? I listened at the door. Was he fucking crying!?

“I’m just kidding!” I yelled, “April fools! Ha…” Yeah, ha fucking ha, Juliet. Really funny.

He came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, and tried to play it off like he had been joking too, but he hadn’t. His face was still red and puffy a few hours later, when we were getting ready for bed.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, coming into the bedroom to find him sitting up against the wall, his eyes cast down on the sheets.

I don’t remember how he said it. I’m glad I don’t. But I do remember how I felt. Like a giant city bus had come out of nowhere and plowed right into my face. But in many ways, I had been preparing for this moment from the first time we slept together, and I would be damned if I was going to make this easy on him.

“Fine. Then go.” I said. He stared at me.

“I can just go sleep on the couch—“

“No. You want out? You can get the fuck out right now.”

No one dumped twenty-two-year-old Juliet and got off easy. No one.

He threw some stuff in a bag, called a friend, and headed out to his - that’s right - old, white Corolla. At some point, I must have gone out there, because I remember talking by his car around the corner from our Sepulveda apartment.

“You’re the kind of girl you marry, [Juliet], and I’m just not ready for that.”

Bullshit. Me? I eat men for breakfast. I’m the bad girl. The kind of girl you get mixed up with on a dare. The kind you fuck and brag about to your friends. The kind who tricks you with a fake pregnancy test, scares the living shit out of you, and then laughs. Don’t you dare try and feed me some fucked up lie about being the girl you bring home to mom. You’ve never even thought about marrying me and you never will.

That’s what I thought. But I was wrong.

“You were the best lay of my life.” I had admitted to Romeo that Friday night at the bar. He ran a hand over his forehead and leaned on an arm, draping himself over the banquette as he looked up at me.

“I’ll do you one better.” He said. “You were the one that got away. I never stopped thinking about you. Breaking up with you was the biggest regret of my life.”

I wish that was what I wanted to hear that night. I play it now in my head, over and over. He wasn’t lying. He never lied. He never fucking lied to me.

Maybe some day I’ll get to hear him say that again. When I’m ready for it. When I can grab his face, kiss him, and tear his clothes off. I hope. I really do hope.

Romeo and I slept together again after the breakup. I had come over to his new apartment, about a mile or so down the road from our old place on Sepulveda. I don’t know why I was there, but we ended up having fantastic sex, just like the good old days, before Mr. Porno entered our lives. Afterwards, however, my heart dropped. Not only had Romeo taken the porn company up on being both camera man and cock in frame since we'd broken up, here I was, laying in the apartment he had moved into get away from me. Worse still, I had given him what he wanted. Didn’t matter that I wanted it too, I couldn’t do this. I still remember my legs trembling as I left. I didn’t want to. I had to.

“Was it really April fools day?” Romeo asked, that night on the roof. “That’s horrible. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”

“No it wasn't.” I said, “And I don’t regret it.”

“Of course not. You have two beautiful daughters.”

“Yes, that goes without saying. But you were right back then.”

“No—“

“Yes, you were. You knew what you were ready for and what you weren’t, and I’m glad you did what you did.” Romeo stared at me. “Because if you hadn’t, there’s a good chance we wouldn’t be here right now.”

And I know that’s true. Romeo might have broken my heart, but he did it honestly, and with integrity - in spite of all the porn business. If we had stayed together, there’s no way we would have made it. Knowing who I was back then, I probably would have made a giant mess of things.

So, thank you twenty-one-year-old, liberal, Romeo. Even if you did turn into a fucking conservative republican who may have gotten back together with Karen-y Rosaline, I’m grateful to you for stepping up, and making the hard, but honest decision to leave me on April fools day. If you hadn’t, there’s no way the best lay and the one who got away would have a glimmer of a chance now.

Sincerely yours,

Juliet