Valentine in On loves.

I told him this story weeks ago, standing in his kitchen with his friend, tipsy off spiced Malibu rum and apple juice: (I’ve told it before here, too.)

My brother dropped a feeder mouse into his California King Snake’s cage. The snake struck and swallowed the feeder, who moved through his body like a knot.

Daddy started talking in his magazine salesman voice. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Alice, go get your mouse.”

I shook my head. Sarah was a red-eyed albino, and I’d named her after the prettiest girl in my first grade class.

“I just want to see what happens.” Daddy smiled as my mother, grandparents, brother watched. “She’s too big for the snake to eat. Promise.”

Sarah spilled from my cupped hands like milk. Daddy dropped her in the aquarium.

Guess what happened.

I flung my arms around my mother and wailed, while my brother and grandparents watched the tip of Sarah’s tail disappear, and Daddy shrugged, said, “I didn’t know.”

It’s Valentine’s Day and I’m drunk again, this time off half a bottle of pinot noir. I’m straddling him in my Valentine’s dress on the couch, and I won’t shut the fuck up. I ramble on and on about how I have such a hard time being open and vulnerable once I decide I like someone. I give about thirty two examples of this in action, and I cringe the next day (and the one after that) when I recall how much I overshared. He tells me that he’s not surprised, given what he knows about my childhood, that I have a hard time being open with most people. Right, I say.

Like that story about your mouse and the snake, he says. That’s so fucked up.

I nod. I know.

No, he says. I don’t think you’ve internalized it.

His eyes grab my gaze and won’t let it go. Think about the kid you nanny - what’s her name? Right. Think about if she had a puppy, would you ever dream of doing with that puppy what your dad did with your mouse?

Of course not, I say. But…it’s different.

No it’s not, he says, and he won’t let me look away. It’s exactly the same. It’s really, really fucked up.

And I can feel my frown start to crumple and I fold into him and cry.

On Valentine’s Day 2002, I told my first boyfriend that I loved him while we lay naked in the back of my parents’ van. Later that week, I’d get a yeast infection from the Jolly Rancher he had in his mouth while he went down on me. Twenty-eight days later, he would dump me, saying he just wanted to have fun with his friends.

We’re in my bedroom a couple hours later, and I’m still hazy with wine. Unspoken words pulse in my head and in my mind’s eye, I can actually see them: round, curling, bubbling up my throat. When they come out, they look thin and flat, like Times New Roman. I didn’t mean to say, “I love you,” but the words just fell out of my mouth.

I hate how cliche it was that it happened on Valentine’s Day, hate that I was drunk, hate that I said it first, hate that it wasn’t reciprocated.

The following afternoon, I finally wiggled away from his snuggles and pushed him out the door at 4:30 pm. A few hours later, he asked me out again for Wednesday night.

I didn’t say it because it was Valentine’s Day. I don’t think I said it because I was drunk - though I certainly would not have said it had I been sober. I don’t even think I said it because I felt it; I’ve felt it before, but have kept it to myself. I think I told him I loved him because he felt like a safe person to be vulnerable with.

Lesson I think I’m about to learn: just because someone is a safe person to be vulnerable with doesn’t mean they won’t still break your heart.

Last updated February 17, 2015