It’s a semi-well-known fact at this point that Mr. B shat the bed—both literally and metaphorically, and yet, he is missed. The only thing worse than missing Mr. B? Being stuck with Mr. T.

Yes, I know. Crass. But it’s true. I’m (literally) counting down the hours until my flight tomorrow at 2 p.m. If you’ve been keeping up, you already know why.

During this purgatory, let’s call it the era of Waiting, Mr. B decides to text me. “What are you doing this Tuesday?” We all know it’s a booty call. But because it’s Mr. B, and because we haven’t officially started no-contact yet, I cave. Of course I cave.

I tell Mr. T I’m leaving. He doesn’t ask many questions. If you happened to be at the Regis bar on Tuesday night, you probably saw me and Mr. B pounding cosmos and crying. Both of us. Tears, cocktails, and divorce despair—what a combo.

Mr. B puts his hand on my knee. "I love you, you're my person. I just need some time."

"I just want to be allowed to come home." I say "I don't care if home is the Regis or a trailer park, what matters is that you are there and I am allowed there."

"Allowed is a hard word." We both pause. He finishes, "The right word." I shoulder check him to relieve tension and he says, "if it helps, I won't get a dog without you." It does help, a little, but I just put my forehead against his and close my eyes. I try to memorize how it feels to love someone this much and he whispers "you made me believe in soulmates."

I think the whole scene probably looks silly to the rest of the bar, him in his black button up, dark grey wool coat, beard and aviator sunglasses with his forehead pressed against a blonde girl half his age, but neither of us care. We are lost in each other.

Fast forward: Mr. B absolutely destroys my neck. I’m talking hickeys of biblical proportions. Now, keep in mind, I’m paper-white, and Mr. B showed zero mercy. By the next morning, I’m borderline purple. Cue a mad dash to Sephora, where I grab everything concealer-related within reach. But it’s bad.

Meanwhile, Mr. T and I have reached a sort of unspoken truce. Yesterday, I caught him with his Seeking tab open, so... yeah. Mutual understanding, no questions asked.

Related: I’ve spent days ransacking Mr. T’s house for anything processed. The man doesn’t even allow cow’s milk because of its “American processing methods.” It’s all goat’s milk (??) So, in desperation I have called upon the ghost of his ex-girlfriend: “Guide me to your stash.” I have whispered in times of need.

Today—victory. Hidden behind a mountain of tampons, I found a tub of icing and some chips. My salvation. So while I munch on the forbidden goods, I plan out this M/G with Guy-from-reddit. That's right. A local, right here from SLF ;).

He suggests a Turkish coffee shop, he’s racking up bonus points immediately. I show up completely strung out from the wreckage that is Mr. T, expecting very little. But then... he’s there.

Oh.

More handsome than his photos. More put together. Confident. Witty. He takes both my hands in his, makes a joke, and I laugh (despite myself).

I make a box of pomegranate tea interesting. Study the shape. The colors. It’s too soon. I blush. Can he see it? God, I hope not.

“What will my initial be?” he asks, half teasing. I hesitate. I don’t want to give him one. Slapping an initial on him feels reductive.

“I like Mr. R,” he says, unprompted, with a smirk.

“Okay,” I say. “Mr. R it is.”

We talk. I laugh—too much, probably. More than I have in months. He’s feels so familiar. Handsome, sweet, charming in a way that doesn’t feel performative. When I blush again, I don’t care if he notices.

Then it’s time to leave. I have to get back to Mr. T. I walk him to his car and think, for a fleeting moment, about holding his hand. But I don’t. He wants to kiss me. I can feel it. My body screams kiss me kiss me kiss me but I can't. Not with Mr. B unresolved. A man like him deserves everything.

When I return home, I feel... confused. A little lost. Unsure about Mr. R, but curious. Unsure what Mr. B will choose to do if I stay silent and way. So curious. What happens next? I don’t know.