This weekend, Mr. P and I spent two days doing perfect things once again.

Saturday morning I greeted the cleaner at the door. He was so happy to see me. I couldn’t help but notice it. Is it possible that there are observers to great love stories, cheering us on as we go through our relationships?

On the drive to my place, where my rock climbing outfits live, we had a serious talk about MLH and Mr. P. Mr. P has gone out of his way to try not to make her uncomfortable. And I asked that he assure me that someday it will just be Mr. P and I, not Mr. P, me and MLH.  He seemed off-put by the suggestion, and I seemed annoyed that I’d said anything. Truth be told, I was just hungry: we were supposed to get breakfast but Mr. P worked well past the time we had to do that if we were to make our rock climbing reservations.

In the end, I decided I preferred trusting that he will make the right decisions about her and in time, things will ease. And then, as if the universe was conspiring with us, she emailed him about the party and told him he didn’t need to keep checking to see if she was going to these things: that it would be ok if he was just there.

That afternoon, I took Mr. P to learn how to rock climb. We spent two hours learning how to tie our own ropes and belay for one another. I’d be remiss if I failed to mention how poetic and symbolic it really is for us. Mr. P was very happy to learn a new sport as well.  Of course in our rock climbing group, there was a soulless stick figure of a European with two male versions of herself as well. I have decided to approach the whole “open relationship” thing head on, and I commented on her ass. Hey, whatever works, right?

So, next trip will be to take the belay test, then we can rock climb together whenever we want. It’ll be fun, I’m already looking at buying new rock climbing shoes. Any excuse to buy shoes…right? That afternoon, we headed to my apartment, where he worked and worked. I went for another glorious run: a quick 2.5 miler. Then we hit the grocery store and headed back for the city.

And that’s when I saved his life.

I don’t say it casually either. At some point on N. Patrick street, I attracted the attention of someone. I do not recall cutting anyone off, but the 25 mph speed limit there could drive anyone crazy, especially if they don’t know it’s 25 mph. I first noticed him (I say him but I never saw his face, so it very well could’ve been a woman) when I was in the left lane and he attempted to ram the back of my car. I know tail gating and I’m Lebanese, so I know when a car is very close and when it’s about to ram the back of the car. I sped up just in time to avoid him hitting me. He sped up into the center lane, then attempted to swerve his car into the right side of my car. I hit the brake and he sped in front of me instead. That’s when my training kicked in. I felt the adrenaline pumping into my veins. I gripped the wheel.

He raced ahead and then suddenly stopped in the middle of the road so that I would catch up with him. “He’s trying to kill us.” I said. But I had a package in my car, a valuable one, Mr. P. I slid into the center lane as he took his foot off the brakes. He swerved into the center lane, attempting to run me off the road. I pulled the emergency brake and made the sharpest right turn ever. I circled two blocks exactly as I was trained to do. I pulled into an alley, shut off the car and my phone and asked Mr. P to count 7 minutes.

“Protocol,” I whispered. He looked terrified.

Seven minutes went by and we took another route back into the city. There was no sign of the driver. I’m not convinced this was just road rage. Mr. P and I went home and put in a report with diplomatic security. He was up until 430am working, then he climbed into bed and whispered “you saved my life today”. He’s never held me closer or tighter than that night.

Sunday we tried and failed to find a brunch place that services French toast. You’d not think this was so difficult in a town that LOVES to brunch. I settled for pancakes. On a whim we decided to go to Mt Vernon, which is just ten minutes from my house. The weather was perfect, and we glided down Route 1 as if we were flying, the radio blaring at us these perfect love songs. We walked along Washington’s estate, toured the 21-room mansion, and took in the breathtaking Potomac River views. We enjoyed some delightful food and wine at the Inn. The bartender there was very kind to us, quite enjoyable. I was about to leave her an extra $5 tip (it’s not that Mr. P doesn’t tip well…he does, but she was just good) when I overheard her say she still liked Paula Deen, no matter what she’d said. I stuffed the $5 back into my purse. No extra tips for racists, no matter how nice. We stopped by my house to get some more clothes. That’s when I forgot Monday’s dinner reservations. He seemed hurt, but I was so caught up in the lovely day we’d had, I wasn’t even thinking about Monday. I lied and said I hadn’t forgotten, but then I admitted to it. That was my mistake. If you’re going to lie, never ever admit it.

Later in his apartment, we cuddled up and watched a movie which genuinely scared the shit out of me. And before we slept, I confided in him that I was still intensely insecure about other women, because in the coming 16 weeks I would be very busy with a demanding class schedule and not as available. Wouldn’t I lose him to someone else?
 
He tried to reassure me. He pulled the trump card again, the kissing incident with the Latin guy. I don’t like that he has this hanging over my head. He brought up that I’d forgotten our dinner reservations. And I brought up the fact that he had pursued two women without telling me about his attractions or interests in them, and how difficult it made it for me to trust that he would tell me in the future. That’s when I realized Mr. P was not asking me for an open relationship but an honest one, one where we can be upfront with our feelings and attractions for other people and not allow them to complicate things. I asked him to do what he could, what was within his control.

“I’m always in control,” he whispered.  He confided that his fear was that if I was hurt or mad, I would seek out someone else.

“When I’m mad, I come to you,” I said.
“What if I’m the one who made you mad?” Mr. P asked.
“Then I still come to you.” And he smiled.

I have to trust him, I have to trust his love for me and that he wants to be with me.  I have to have a real, grown-up, adult relationship, where we talk and listen, and we make each other comfortable.