L.A. Affairs: My fling’s words took me by surprise. ‘I’m not committed to you’
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It was a beautiful February day in Los Angeles after the fires. The sun burned hot overhead. I pulled my Ducati motorcycle into a spot outside his restaurant in the Arts District. I was hot, thirsty, hungry — three simple needs that instantly faded when I saw him.
Michael.
Even with my darkened helmet shield, our eyes locked. He was wheeling produce up the ramp to the kitchen, his movements as familiar to me as my own breath.
For a moment, time slowed. The weight of unspoken words, of unresolved heartbreak, of unanswered questions hung between us. I had spent two months trying to make sense of the silence he left me in. The last time we spoke, he had dropped a bomb on me late on a Friday night, a few days before Christmas, in the casual way only he could.
I was widowed at 76, but I’m truly at my best when I’m coupled. I was at an art show at UCLA when I met the woman who became my “apartner.”
“I’m not committed to you,” he said. Just like that, a simple sentence out of the blue that blindsided me.
And then, the knife twisted.
“I really like this woman in San Diego. I’m seeing her at Christmas.”
I could still hear the words, feel the numbness settle in, like a short circuit in my brain.
Hadn’t we just spent a perfect weekend in L.A.? Having dinner at Bavel, watching Liverpool play, the quiet intimacy of me reading while he walked his dogs. Hadn’t we just gone to the Bread Lounge for my favorite pastry, taken his vintage BMW for a ride, shared a moment that felt uniquely ours?
And what about the sweetness of those two days in Orange County: dinner, the Christmas play in Laguna, the laughter in the photo booth at A Restaurant, just like our first date 18 months prior, giggling and capturing our undeniable joy in snapshots?
The memories flooded in as I sat on my Ducati, wondering why he was here, why his restaurant, which he was selling, hadn’t yet closed escrow and why this pain still gripped me. Why had he gone dead silent after treating me so carelessly? His last text on Dec. 31 saying he was OK, he needed time, he’d been sick, but would be in touch felt like an echo in an empty canyon. I gave him time. But what I got in return was nothing.
And nothing is a kind of cruelty all its own.
Michael’s voice jolted me.
“Rainie, I’m late! I don’t have time to talk to you.”
Despite changes in my life, I always took comfort from Eaton Canyon. Now that it has burned, I have to remind myself that nature’s gift in hard times is to remind us of its perpetual cycles.
I motioned him over. The heat pressed against my face as I pulled off my helmet and then my leather jacket. I met his gaze and asked the question that had burned inside me for weeks since the last time we spoke in December and his last text on Dec. 31.
“Why did you ghost me? Ghosting was what you do to strangers — to people who don’t matter.”
Had I really meant so little to him?
He had no real answer, just a feeble, “I thought it was better this way for you.” He agreed we could make a plan to talk “later,” sometime after the restaurant closed escrow, which was still up in the air. Then he told me to make myself at home in the restaurant and he told his staff to take care of me. Then he was gone.
I should have left too. But I stayed.
Sitting at the bar, I found myself in conversation with a stranger. Another Ducati rider.
Tim.
Three seats down, he had chimed in when the bartender asked about my bike. Within minutes, we were deep in conversation, drawn together by something simple, something easy.
I glanced at my watch — 3:09 p.m. What! How did it get so late? I had to get up to Mt. Wilson before it got dark and cold. I handed Tim my card and left, expecting nothing.
That night, he texted. Then he called.
My date was eight years my junior. He was handsome, quiet and polite, with an endearing Oklahoma twang. But he also had a big red flag in his family: his father.
For three hours, I was laughing — genuinely laughing for the first time in months.
Two days later, Tim and I met for a relaxed dinner at the Farmhouse in Roger’s Gardens. Afterward, when he kissed me, it wasn’t just lips meeting — it was a balm, a quiet reassurance that I was still here, still capable of connection, still alive.
The next morning, he skipped out on his conference and brought me breakfast in bed. We decided to ride together. But first, a stop at the motorcycle shop and then a half-hour appointment at my oncologist’s office. When I stepped out, there he was — on his Ducati, next to mine, waiting.
We rode the coastline, winding through Laguna Canyon, El Toro Road, Santiago Canyon, stopping at Cook’s Corner for burgers. The conversation flowed as effortlessly as the miles beneath our tires. His laughter felt like sunlight filtering through a dense forest, reaching places in me that had been dark for too long.
Tim had raced Ducatis. He was an expert. And yet, when he looked at me, he said something unexpected.
“You’re a good rider and your form is perfect. You ride better than any of my friends.”
The words hit differently than any compliment I had received in a long time. Somewhere in Michael’s silence, in his rejection, in the weeks of self-doubt, I had started to believe I wasn’t enough.
That night, lying alone in my bed, I felt something shift.
Michael, who had once occupied every thought, every breath, who still hadn’t reached out to talk with me, suddenly seemed … distant. Less important. The weight of his absence felt lighter.
Before he left, my ex told me I was bad in the kitchen and in the bedroom. Would I find my passion again after a night at a strip club?
Not because Tim had replaced him. But because Tim had reminded me of something I had forgotten: myself.
Michael’s silence had stolen pieces of my confidence, had made me question my worth. But an afternoon of laughter, of conversation, of reaching speeds over 100 mph on my Ducati with someone who seemed to value me and didn’t make me doubt myself — it brought my confidence front and center.
I may never see Tim again. But I will always be grateful for what he unknowingly gave me: the realization that I am whole. That I am enough. That I don’t need Michael’s love, or his silence, to define me.
The next morning, I slept in, letting the experience settle, letting myself feel it.
Then I threw on my jacket, grabbed my helmet, and walked out to my Ducati.
I was bursting with joy and ready to go. I was finally moving forward.
The author is a personal assistant in Orange County. She lives in the Newport Beach area. She’s on Instagram: @rainienb
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $400 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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