A few months ago, over drinks with S and E–a couple, and my favorite local basketball-watching and bike-riding buddies–they asked whether I was still talking with a guy who I had been long-distance dating for a couple of months.
Things had been going well until I made the idiotic mistake of looking at something I shouldn’t have and reading something I was never meant to read and realizing that–whether his words were genuine or not–he was even less mature than I’d realized.
(On that, I will relay only this conclusion, settled on over several weeks of agonizing over the issue: All of us say things about one another, even those we love or care deeply about, that we would never want that person to hear. That doesn’t excuse language or sentiment that is truly coarse or cruel, but when we violate that code–when we force a look at what’s not meant for our eyes–it becomes our own cross to bear. I don’t recommend it.)
Anyhow, at the time there was–and in fact, still is–an (almost) unanimous opinion among my friends that I couldn’t tell him what I’d seen. Most were also pretty adamant that I not talk to him ever again (I did).
But as much as I compulsively consult with friends on just about every life decision, romantic or otherwise (I’m a Libra, aka hopeless), I don’t always listen. I was hurt and disappointed, but I wasn’t ready to dismiss him completely.
I’m still a bit too sensitive (and, minorly, tactful) to get into the nitty gritty of the whole saga. The point is that, once we concluded that whether I talked to him or not, things were likely to fizzle out from there (they have), S asked whether I was going to seek out some sort of closure.