“He made everything exciting,” she told me.
Then she rolled her eyes.
“But eventually exciting becomes exhausting.”
She said Jake made her feel as though she was constantly waiting for the next crisis.
I remember asking why they finally ended.
“He never wanted to build anything.”
“What does that mean?”
“He only wanted the next experience.”
She took my hand.
“You’re different.”
“How?”
“You’re steady.”
I was twenty-six and in love.
I heard that as praise.
For years, it was praise.
When Emily lost her first marketing job during a round of downsizing, I was there.
She had barely enough savings for two months of rent.
I covered most of it for three months.
Not because she asked dramatically.
Because we were together and she needed help.
I reviewed her resume.
Helped her build a portfolio site.
Ran mock interviews with her at the kitchen table.
Introduced her to two people from my professional network who worked with marketing teams.
One introduction eventually led to the digital marketing position that stabilized her career.
The night she received the offer, she threw herself around my neck.
“You saved me.”
“No.”
“I absolutely would still be unemployed without you.”
“You got the job.”
“You got me into the room.”
“You still had to convince them.”
Emily kissed me.
“You’re my rock.”
For years, that sentence made me proud.
I wanted to be somebody’s rock.
What I did not understand was that being reliable can become dangerous when the other person begins treating reliability as permanence.
Something they do not need to protect because it will always be there.
Jake returned quietly.
A message.
That was all.
Emily was sitting beside me one Friday night while we watched a movie.
Her phone buzzed.
She looked.
Then laughed.
“What?”
“Jake.”
I glanced over.
“Jake Jake?”
“How many Jakes do you think I dated?”
“I have no idea.”
“He sent a meme from our old college group.”
She showed me.
It was harmless.
I laughed.
That should have been the end of it.
It was not.
Over the following months, Jake’s name appeared more often.
He reacted to Emily’s stories.
She reacted to his.
He posted photographs from hiking trips, music festivals, hostels, cheap flights, mountain overlooks, and beaches with captions about freedom and refusing to live an ordinary life.
Emily showed me some of them.
“Look at this.”
Jake was standing on a cliff somewhere in Portugal.
“Nice view.”
“He just went.”
“To Portugal?”
“Yeah.”
“With what money?”
Emily rolled her eyes.
“That’s exactly what I mean.”
“What?”
“You always ask how something is financed.”
“That seems relevant to international travel.”
She laughed.
At the time, it was affectionate.
Later, the same observation would become an accusation.
Jake’s adventurous life fascinated her.
I could understand why.
Social media made his existence look incredible.
New city every few weeks.
Temporary jobs.
Festivals.
Hiking.
Surfing.
Women appeared sometimes in photographs but rarely long enough to be identified.
No desk.
No routines.
No Monday morning calendar.
Emily began liking nearly everything he posted.
I noticed.
I did not immediately care.
People are allowed to have histories.
People are allowed to remain friends with exes.
The problem was not that Jake existed.
The problem was the emotional territory Emily began giving him.
She started taking calls from him.
At first, openly.
One evening, I came home and found her sitting on our balcony laughing into her phone.
She waved at me and continued talking for another twenty minutes.