Written by Emily
You know those sappy AF movies where someone has their heart shattered and spontaneously gets on a plane to Eat Pray Love herself, but then ultimately falls in love on said trip and then runs off into the sunset with that perfect guy who reminds her that true love does exist and not all men are awful? Yeah nah, this is not one of those stories. Although it felt like it could have been at the time.
It was late 2016. I was 26 and on the brink of moving in with my boyfriend and actually having a crack at a serious relationship (I know, how adult of me). One week before the big move, it all went down the crapper and suddenly I was living in this beautiful(ly expensive) Melbourne apartment all by myself. The breakup was as messy as your 17-year-old brother’s bedroom, so I did one of the very few things I’m good at; ran away.
Within a week, I was on a plane to New York and had planned a six-week trip bouncing between the States and Canada. I joined a travelling tour group for ten days (think Contiki but for over 25s and more layers of clothing, same amount of booze though, more hangovers) and we found ourselves in Toronto around day four after an exhausting day of sightseeing a small number of us decided to grab one drink in the hostel bar to wrap up the day and of course, one beer turned into ten and with every pint I’d say,
Okay one more, then that’s IIIIT!
Next thing you know, it was open mic and there was a tall drink of water on stage with a guitar sweeping me off my swaying feet. He opened his mouth and his smooth Irish accent floored me. The white girl wasted in me yelled at my friend who was standing RIGHT beside me,
OMG AND HE’S IRISH TOO??
This he heard. And suddenly he was making a bee line for me.
He had only been in Toronto a few weeks, having moved there from Dublin after his big breakup with his ‘crazy’ ex (ding: red flag #1). We chatted and next thing I knew we were the absolute backpacker stereotype, the drunken idiots making out in the corner until 5am, as the bartenders tried to unsuccessfully kick us out with their deathly glares. This was a perfect sitch for me, a fun little rebound before carrying onto Montreal the next day with the tour.
A few hours later, I was dragging myself onto the tour bus, dying quietly, wanting nothing more than a real bed to sleep in and a bucket of Maccas hash browns. I had left my Irish dream in Toronto, where I expected to leave him and count him as a fun notch on my North American belt. But nahhhh, course not aye. F-boy had to love-bomb. Not even halfway through my five-hour drive to Quebec and he asked to come join me. The traveller in me felt cock blocked. The hopeless romantic in me, thinking this was my Julia Roberts moment, was thrilled.
This is where it kicked off. Montreal then turned into New York. And then Toronto again. It was Christmas time. We were disgustingly in our own Hallmark movie. Mariah Carey was playing everywhere. Honestly, it was gross (looking back as a 31-year-old). We would find Christmas setups around town and kiss under the mistletoe while it was snowing. We bought matching Christmas sweaters and threaded lights into them to try and be soiii cute. Three weeks in, we were eating cheap sushi somewhere in NYC, and he told me he loved me (ding: red flag #2).
GAH-ROSS.
It came to Christmas day and I found myself at his family’s place in Hamilton – a small town southwest of Toronto. I was given presents and welcomed into the family. I was added on face-ache. The doom and gloom of my exit back to Australia was looming over our heads every second. Time sped up and suddenly I was gone, with him declaring he’d move to Australia if I didn’t come back. The tall, weeping, freckly ginger boy I left at that Greyhound bus station promised we’d find a way to work it out.
It was two months of;
sweetheart when are you coming back to be with me and
I’d do anything to have you back here, you wonderful lil thing (ding: probably red flag #3?) What kind of language is this?? lololol.)
But then suddenly he was off the grid. Replying less, leaving me on read and not realising that us intuitive XX chromosomes know when things get fishy. Not long after that, he ended it. Long distance being too difficult, it made sense. We were on different continents.
You’re probably thinking this is where our story ends and nothing is really suss here, yes?
No. No no no no.
Six months later,
with no contact whatsoever,
him barely a blip on my radar,
I remembered how much I’d loved Toronto and started planning my move there permanently. Sorry, my bad, Toron-NO. Don’t go pronouncing that second T, my friends, they’ll slap you with a piece of maple drizzled bacon.
I was young, single and not Eat Pray Loving anymore. I felt comfortable in myself to move abroad and start a new chapter. Take the Kate Hudson movie out of this situation, and I still really loved that city. So that is where I decided to set up shop.
BUT.
A few weeks before uprooting everything, my dumb head decided it would be a good idea to reach out to let Mr. Loves A Guinness know my plans.
His messages:
OMG I’m so excited to see you.
What do you need? I’ll help with anything I can.
Here’s my address for you to apply for a phone, social security yada-yada-yada.
This is a dream come true.
We fell back into our old ways. Daily contact. Him checking in on me, making sure I was okay. Repeats of
this is going to be great, I can’t wait to see you.
Let me know when you land and when you’re here safe.
My now 27-year-old brain was starting to slip back in time. I suddenly started thinking I was walking straight into a relationship the second I landed.
The day came. I was so flustered from a 22hr flight, moving hemispheres and all that jazz, you know, that I decided to leave it for a moment before touching base. Those few days came and went. Maybe he was thinking the same thing because he didn’t reach out either. A week later, I proposed a casual pint downtown, perhaps the most casual thing of the entire situation (did you read those texts?)
Seen.
Two weeks after that, I invited him to a new friend’s gig.
Seen.
Three months later, wished him a Merry Christmas.
Seen.
And that was that. I haven’t heard from him since.
If a youngin’ ever comes across the word ghost and looks it up in the urban dictionary, they will probably find an accurate description of a gangly Irish leprechaun in downtown Toronto who is now probably telling his inner circle about his crazy ex #2 from down under. But you know, he ain’t no Colin Farrell. And I went on to have the best two years of my life there and made lifelong friendships that no F-boy can match. So, yeah, top of the morning to the scallywag and I wish him all the best.
Dick.
Written by Emily