I Stopped Chasing Him After Ten Years And Never Looked Back Chatper 02
Jared and I were college classmates.
He wasn’t the hottest guy around, but he was clean-cut, quiet, and looked incredibly good when he was focused on playing basketball.
Every girl in the Literature department knew that Tisha Leto was chasing Jared Rydell.
My way of chasing him was clumsy.
I brought him breakfast every day. When he said he didn’t need it, I lied that I’d bought an extra portion.
When his club activities ran late, I waited at the entrance of the academic building, holding a hot Americano, his favorite.
He told me not to wait, that it was too late and unsafe.
I said it was fine, I had nothing else to do anyway.
In the winter of our senior year, he finally agreed to be with me.
That day, I cried for an hour in my apartment, and they were tears of joy.
Only later did I realize that he said yes not because he was moved, but because he thought, “There’s no one better anyway.”
His mom said it once, and I heard it with my own ears.
“Jared’s always been like this since he was a kid. He never takes the initiative. You chased him so hard back then, so he just went along with it.”
She said it so casually, like it was the most ordinary thing in the world.
I stood in the kitchen doorway, holding a plate of freshly cut fruit, my fingers tightening around the edge.
The first year of our marriage was okay.
He was still quiet, but at least he’d go for walks with me on weekends.
When I said I wanted to go to the movies, he’d complain about the hassle but still go with me.
The turning point came after Cora was born.
I took care of the baby all by myself during my postpartum recovery. He was always working overtime, on business trips, or at dinners, with endless reasons to be away from home.
I broke down in the middle of the night while feeding Cora. I called him, and he said, “Isn’t Cora with you?”
I asked if he could come home early.
He said, “Can you stop being like this? I’m tired too, working out here.”
What did “being like this” even mean?
Needing him was “being like this.”
Wanting to talk to him was “being like this.”
Hoping he’d reply to a message was “being like this.”
Later, I learned the skill of automatically reading between the lines.
When he said “Stop being dramatic,” it translated to “Your mood is annoying me.”
When he said “What’s there to talk about?” it translated to “Your feelings don’t matter.”
When he said “Look at other people’s wives,” it translated to “You’re not good enough.”
When Cora was three, I couldn’t hold it in anymore and cried in the living room once.
He walked out of the bedroom and glanced at me.
“What’s wrong now?”
I said, “Can you hold me?”
He sighed, turned around, and went back to the bedroom.
The door clicked shut.
That was the first time I realized that what separated us wasn’t just a door.
It was a million miles.
But back then, I didn’t stop.
I kept chasing, kept texting, kept waiting.
I thought if I just tried a little harder, he’d look back at me.
For a full ten years, I chased him until I didn’t even recognize myself anymore..
In college, I was top of my class in every major course, earned an excellent grade on my senior thesis, and was recommended by my advisor to a design firm.
I turned it down.
Because Jared had signed with a company in this city.
I thought being together was the most important thing.
Later, when Cora was born, I quit my job to be a stay-at-home mom.
Jared said, “It’s good you stay home, saves us from hiring a nanny.”
That design firm later became hugely successful, winning multiple awards in the industry.
Sometimes I’d see their work on social media, stop and stare at it for a long time.
Then I’d lock my phone and go back to washing baby bottles.