Why haven’t I been blogging? I don’t like the way this saga ends. That’s my excuse. I may not like it, but I’m telling you any way.

[This is Part Nine, the last of The Safa Boy Series. Click for the Introduction,  Part One,  Part Two.  Part Three,  Part Four,  Part Five,  Part Six,  Part Seven, and  Part Eight]

Learning he had cheated on me, lied to me, and treated me like shit: that was all hard enough, but I’d handled it. In a way I am proud of no less. But then he told me that at the very moment I was reading about all these past indiscretions in his diary, he was meeting another girl for a date. That he had warned me he might be home late that night or even not at all (“If it’s too late I’ll crash with my friend”) because he planned on shagging her. I had already thrown his stuff out of my apartment. Told my best friends he was a shit-head. Already said “Fuck you”. All without shedding a tear.

So what was left? Throw a drink in his face, walk away, and never see him again. Sleep soundly that night knowing he was broke, forced to beg vague friends for a night on their couch or sleep on the streets. Flyer New York City with pictures of his face reading CHEATER! LIAR!!!!

Unfortunately, that is not what I did.

I didn’t even besmirch his name on the internet. I’ve protected his identity completely.

Nope. Instead I stared at this boy I had gotten so close to in such a short amount of time and said, “I don’t know you at all.”

That would have been fine if I’d said that and then walked away. But I didn’t. Instead I sat in 30 degree weather on a curb of the Riverside bike path and spent and hour hashing over things with a little sniveling 19 year-old who I didn’t know at all.

“You do know me!” He promised. “I’ve just been an asshole in New York.” He said, blaming my city. “People here are so heartless, for a while I really didn’t believe I was doing anything wrong. My friends made me think that too.” He paused. “But I know I was. I’m sorry.”

“What did I do wrong?” I asked. I couldn’t stop myself.
“It wasn’t you. There was nothing you could have done. I was intent on being an asshole. I owned the world, I could do whatever without consequences. I’m sorry.”
He’s fucking nineteen years old, I thought to myself. I hadn’t viewed him as a teenager, but looking at him now, I saw a lost little boy- scared and afraid.
“I let you live in my apartment,” I said, thinking aloud now, “That’s what I did wrong. I’m too nice.”
“You did nothing wrong.” He reiterated.
“I let you use me for my apartment,” I continued, “That’s what I am to you- a bed for your body and a hole for your dick. You don’t give a shit about me.”
“That’s not true!” he sniffled. I looked over at him and saw tears welling in his eyes. To my dismay, I felt my own eyes begin to water. “You’re my best friend in New York!”
“Is this the way you treat your friends?” I spat.
“No,” he blubbered, “You’re the first. I swear.”
“Lucky me.”

“Did you read the whole diary?” He asked.
“No, I could barely stomach what did I read.”
“Where is it?” He asked.
“I threw it in your bag which is waiting for you with my concierge.” 
He looked disappointed. “I want you to read it. I want you to see that I’m not like this. I’ve never done this to any one before.”
“No thanks.” I replied sarcastically.
“There’s a list on the last page, did you see that?”
“No.”
“It’s two lists, actually. One is of great people I’ve met on this trip, true friends. There are only 8 people on that list. The other is girls I’ve slept with.”
I winced. He was so young he kept a laundry list of shags in his diary.
“You’re the only person on both lists.”

I said all I wanted was to feel special. There he was, clearly trying to tell me I was special.
I couldn’t have felt more like shit.

I finally got up and left. We parted in the middle of Times Square. The next day I wondered about where he had spent the night and tried not to care. I even tried to call him once, but his pre-paid phone had run out of money. Four days later, he was out of my country, out of my life. It took me much longer to get him out of my head. To wrap my head around how and why someone could do what he did to me.

What did I do wrong? I picked the wrong man. Boy. When I did it, did I know I was picking the wrong one? Yep. Did I care? Nope.
If I could take it all back, would I? No actually, I wouldn’t. Experience is invaluable. I needed an all caps WRONG GUY to break my series of wrong/Wrong/wrongish/kinda-wrong/not-exactly-wrong-but-definitely-not-right guys. The chance I pick the right guy next time has skyrocketed. Three years in New York, countless dates, no successful relationships, but no true heart break.

I’ve still got hope.