His text message echoed in my brain and confirmed everything I’d been thinking, even if he wouldn’t admit it.
Just a day before, after perusing his pictures on Facebook, I suddenly had the sinking suspicion that the man I’d been getting to know for the past month and a half was actually married, or, at the very least, in a serious relationship.
I replayed everything in my mind up until that point and tried to figure out if I’d missed something.
He never wore a ring (like he did in the picture of him hugged up with this woman who had the same very distinct last name), he never seemed shy about talking to me morning or night, and he never had a problem hanging out on his off days from work. On top of that I’d specifically asked him if he was married, in a relationship, or seeing anyone seriously just a day before I stumbled on this picture, and he happily told me no.
So when I scrolled across a note from a woman wishing him “happy anniversary my love,” I was thrown for a loop.
What’s a woman to do? Ask dude straight up.
After taking a day to stew in my own juices, he sent me his requisite “good morning” text, and I used that as an opening to get some answers.
Me: “Who is _____.”
Him: Tries to change the subject. “How was your weekend?”
Me: “Answer the question.”
Him: “Can we talk about it face to face?”
That’s when I knew. I didn’t need to ask again. I didn’t need him to confess. I knew. By not immediately squashing my suspicions he’d given me an answer, even if he didn’t realize it. For the last month and a half he’d been lying to my face, and unbeknownst to me, I’d almost become the other woman.
It’s been a few days and he still texts me like nothing happened. He sends me flirty messages, probably hoping I’ve had a lapse in morals and will be cool being his number two. Luckily, my pride won’t let me entertain such foolish ideas, no matter how much I like(d) him.
Last night, I made a clean break. I deleted his number and de-friended him on Facebook. And while I’m not pissed off (I am upset, though), if I’m honest with myself, my feelings are a little bruised. But in the end, I’ll be OK, and perhaps next time I’ll be quicker to pick up on the little things that might have saved me from almost being the other woman.