"Can you leave the house for an hour or so, please? I need some privacy with him." She said about her male best friend. I said, "Take all the time you need." And left, permanently.
She called a few hours later confused, asking where I was. I said, "Don't call me. I need privacy, too." And hung up. You know that specific kind of exhaustion you feel after a 50-hour work week?
It's not just physical. It's a soul-deep heaviness where your brain feels like it's packed in cotton. That was me on Friday at 6:30 p.m. I pay the rent, all of it. I pay the utilities. I pay for the groceries.
Elena, my girlfriend of 2 years, covers her student loans and fun money. I was fine with that arrangement because I wanted to build a future. I thought I was investing in a partner. I was wrong. I was subsidizing a disrespect factory.
And the foreman of that factory was Greg. Greg was Elena's best friend. He wasn't the guy you worry about physically. He wasn't in shape. He didn't have money, and he still lived with roommates at 28.
Greg's weapon was his fragility. He was a professional victim, a soft boy. He was always in a crisis, always spiraling, and always needing Elena to talk him off a ledge that wasn't even there. I walked into the apartment, dropped my keys, and headed straight for the couch. All I wanted was silence, a pizza, and to not speak to another human being for 12 hours.
Elena was in the kitchen pacing. She didn't say welcome home. She didn't ask how work was. "Greg is coming over." She said.
I closed my eyes and exhaled. "El, it's Friday. I'm dead on my feet. Can't you guys go to a coffee shop or his place?" "His roommates are loud."
She snapped, defensive immediately. "And he's in a really bad place, Opie. His ex-girlfriend just posted a picture with a new guy. He's devastated. He needs a safe space.
Okay, I said, rubbing my temples. Fine. Just keep it in the living room. I'm going to go to the bedroom, put on headphones, and pass out. Thank you, she said, her shoulders dropping.
You're the best. I went into the bedroom, shut the door, and collapsed onto the bed. I put my noise-canceling headphones on. I opened a book. I was trying to be the secure boyfriend.
I was trying to be the guy who doesn't get jealous of the platonic best friend. 20 minutes later, the door creaked open. I took the headphones off. Elena was standing there, arms crossed, looking uncomfortable, but not uncomfortable for me. Uncomfortable at me.
What's wrong? I asked. Do you need money for food? No, she said. She shifted her weight.
Look, this isn't working. What isn't? You being here, she said. I sat up. I'm in the bedroom, Elena.