Friendzoned!

Dispatch from the FWB Front

If this makes you cringe, imagine being me. Lesson learned. Allegedly.

I think it’s OK to write about it, even though it’s tricky and embarrassing. But life isn’t always clean and neat and something to be proud of.

So first I want to say: Never give second chances when it comes to dating. And especially after you’ve been friendzoned.

But silly me did. Which is annoying because I pride myself on being the person who knows better.

Secondly: stupid social media. Because I just saw his latest Insta post. Him and a girl at a show. Now, mind you, this is the girl who’s “OBSESSED” with him (his words, not mine). And he told me many times that she’s “CRAZY,” (again, his words most certainly not mine) that he’d never date her.

Yet as soon as I turn my back on LA, there they are in a fuzzy selfie looking like the proverbial rock star couple. He has his arm around her shoulder. Possessively. Nonchalantly. I could explode.

She’s very pretty. Long dark hair with a sexy fringe. Full lips. Style. Everything he likes in a woman. And he looks like he’s showing off. Which irritates me even more.

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We met on a hideous dating app. I swiped right because he looked so emo and I liked his taste in music. He swiped right because, I suppose, I’m blonde, have a fringe, full lips. We met at a local bar and had a blast. Lots of overlap. Euro transplant. The indie music scene. We could both quote Get Carter. He even knew my ex-spouse. It was fun, and after several voddies we both knew we’d hang out again.

And yet I should have known better when he walked me to my car — at the time a humble white Honda Civic — and said:

“That’s your car? I pictured you driving something different.”

We started dating, for real. He cooked me dinner while I selected vinyl. We talked all night and such things. It was fun. I liked his British accent and leather wrist cuffs.

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Then he goes on tour.

We WhatsApp all the time. I even — JFC — sing my version of Britt Ekland’s “Willow Song” from The Wicker Man for him. I do my Nico impression. Ladidah.

We stay in touch the entire time he’s away.

Then he gets back a few months later and tells me — I’m paraphrasing —

I think we’re better off as friends.

I’m furious. My ego is bruised. No, battered.

How dare he?

I had never been friendzoned before. I was the zoner. I called the shots.

I ignore him for months. Then my resolve weakens. I miss the British humour. I miss the home-cooked meals. I miss being the muse.

So we legit become friends.

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Only we don’t because now we enter yet another shiteous phase: FWB. Top secret. If people suspect, they don’t say anything.

This goes on way past its natural expiration date.

But I loved the laughs, the late-night philosophical musings, the cuddles, the other stuff.

The weekend before I’m leaving LA for good, he says we’ll have a quiet little dinner. Just the two of us. He’ll cook. I’ll be the DJ.

Only this is not what happens.

He invites a bunch of people. Lovely people I like. But that’s beside the point.

We have pizza and a nice chat. It gets late. They get up to leave and I think, fuck it, I’m leaving too.

He’s shocked.

Shocked and confused.

I am confusing, apparently.

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I text him from Palm Springs:

Let’s make things not confusing. Let’s go back to being real friends without the naked shenanigans.

No response.

I call him today. He’s a bit aloof. Has lessons to teach. Says we might have a chat this weekend.

I’m cool as a cucumber until I’m not.

Until the Instagram post.

Until I see how quickly the role gets recast.

Or maybe that’s not even it.

Maybe the awful thing is realizing I wasn’t replaced at all. I had just mistaken myself for the plot.

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Although I might need something stronger.