Stand-up Sam - Part Two

It wasn’t even a Facebook friend request. Facebook at least facilitates stalking of someone’s timeline: their milestones (exes) and recent (drunken) photos to fill in the blanks. It was Snapchat, again (Ffs!). That teaser app, also great for hosting non-archived text conversations that I was slowly beginning to take heed of due to my boyfriends ongoing snappage from the weird blonde at the gym. I didn’t remember Sam deleting me, but it was clearly in haste after he had moved on. So why add me now? I accepted like a cat upon curiosity.

Things at home were becoming tough, so I welcomed the distraction, any distraction, but all I received was the odd snap of his Rolex, or shirt and tie – ever the arrogant show-off! There was nothing personal, no texts, no declarations. As my relationship broke down I needed more, I craved more. I couldn’t text him telling him everything was a mess – not after I’d made my bed that night at the awards, acting like my relationship was irreplaceable. In spite of the boredom I’d endured as a controlling man’s girlfriend, I wasn’t ready for my duties to end, or the way that it did end. I didn’t want to pursue Sam by default, or by rebound and take advantage of his feelings simply because I was rejected.

I got seriously distracted (an unwelcomed one), mostly by having to sofa-surf at friends houses, given my very recent ex-boyfriend wanted to fuck his new project in our house, in our bed that I was still paying for. I just had to get past it and be productive or I’d soon be homeless as well as hopeless. Late one night, lying on my friend Ashleigh’s sofa choking on my tears, there it was: “how you doing?” from Sam. He had no idea of my troubles as we had no mutual friends, but his timing was en point. At first I felt pathetic and weak replying to him, especially divulging the raw truth of recent events (in summary) from what was previously blasé texts to prevent him knowing any of my business. In doing so, I also felt a pang of guilt, but reminded myself that my ex-boyfriend was already Facebook official with project “Scratch My Ego” (his words babe), less than two weeks after we broke up, #nofucksgiven indeed.

The conversation between Sam and I naturally flowed, and I found it liberating to finally be so open with him. He didn’t care for my exes antics, only if I was okay and how I intended to fulfill the fresh start I’d been gifted. Trivial snaps turned to meaningful texts; texts turned to provocative photos, and some weeks later when I’d finally found the privacy of a one bed flat tucked in the basement of a Georgian house in the city (thankfully away from the ground-hog village vibes), we spoke on the phone, sometimes twice, three times a night. He’d chatter to me on his way home from work, conversations far gone from the post-era of his “selfish” ex and blue period up north, and instead upbeat tales of family, his work mates, earning the commission he deserved, and that dream again: him and I in London. It now felt possible, but I had unfinished business to attend to in the north and I wasn’t going to rush into anything despite the emotional connection I felt when we talked into the cold winter nights. Sam had the ability to make me laugh, cry and horny all in one conversation. It was never predictable with him.

I had signed a lease for six months on my hideaway flat and in light of living out a suitcase and sleeping in friends kids bunk beds I got the promotion I was hopeful for, in the mist of what had been and gone an utter bullshit January. I needed to gather my thoughts and rebuild my life after almost four years of conforming to someone else’s needs and dreams. But, I felt the urge to see Sam. Only that way could I genuinely know if my fantasy could go the distance into reality. I just had to see him. So that night we spoke and reveled in the idea of coming face-to-face after what had been almost a year. I booked a train ticket for the following weekend in February with money I didn’t have, but felt it was too important not to.

We drafted a plan that I would visit for the weekend and stay at his place, the rest we’d play by ear. We didn’t actually care for making solid and/or social plans as all we wanted was to spend time in privacy, for what would be the first time. That Friday night my friend Clair drove me to the train station – how we got there without dying: a). from Clair’s speeding (sorry not sorry); and, b). cracking up with laugher wailing Ellie Gouldings “Love Me Like You Do” (how cringe right?) out of the car window I’ll never know. She was just as excited as I was. I had told ALL of my friends about my little venture, my grand gesture to find love again, which they openly admired and supported considering the car crash that was the finale of my last relationship.

I text Sam as I boarded the London-bound train. He said he couldn’t wait to see me. Like most Essex geezers who own a three-piece suit, he was out with his work mates for the #tfif night – a pub crawl of some sort – so his texts were a ramble of nonsense and shite, but his sincerity was there. I planned on meeting him at Liverpool Street station the following day, so I made plans to crash at my brothers house-share for the evening. Some hours later, when I finally met up with my wee brother, I couldn’t stop chatting at him. Kenny said I was surprisingly upbeat for someone who just got dumped (little shit!). As the bro and I caught-up, in the company of his comical house mama (platonic: the no-bullshit north-London landlady), Sam continued to text more incoherent scroll of how excited he was to see me, followed by “goodnight” texts till 4am, (pisshead).

In the morning, I took my time faffing and getting ready. I was out of my comfort zone in this alien bedroom, still living out of a suitcase in transition with half of what I wanted to fuss over. I obsessively brushed my black hair and fringe, stupidly worrying that he may not think I was “WOW” hot anymore due to a change in hairstyle. It was such a far fetched concern. Sam (surprisingly not on his death-bed) sent me a screen grab of train times asking which worked better for meeting me – 2pm at Liverpool Street station. I said thanks to my brother and headed east with my suitcase.

I got there early in my keen: I-must-be-the-first-one-there-to-avoid-awkwardly-trying-to-find-him state. He text me saying he was slightly delayed but only a few stops away. I nervously chuckled to myself thinking: I’m so not cool at this, remembering a time when he used to embarrass himself on a daily basis pursuing me. It got to 2:20pm and I hadn’t had an update. I couldn’t help laugh at the freak-show state I was in over this guy. I obviously liked him much more that I initially thought. When 2:30pm came my mood dipped a little. He said before 2pm he was only a few stops away. I tried to call him (his preferred method of communication), but couldn’t get through. I text saying I assumed he was further delayed with shit signal and I was still in the station under the information board. I then starred at Whatsapp for a further ten minutes waiting for it to deliver – nope! So, 3pm came, I called again this time leaving a voicemail, my voice starting to shake. I had a sick feeling in my gut, but I was clinging on to hope that in another ten minutes this would all be fucking hilarious as he casually strolls up and kisses me. Except, he didn’t. I sent a text asking if this was some kind of joke!? It delivered.

About three seconds later he blocked me. His Whatsapp, Facebook, Instagram and our good old pal Snapchat lacked existence in my phone archive. I panicked and called again, only to be diverted straight to voicemail. I can’t remember what I said, but I recall it being very direct. I couldn’t even cry. I felt like everyone knew what had happened, that I had been stood-up and everyone was looking at me.

I just left.