At first it was Sam. Charismatic and a solid actor. Not the best but beyond adequate onstage. He had a slight edge to him. Sam grew up in South Minneapolis, had a gravelly voice, graduated from the elite acting program at my college and had a drinking problem like me. We were two addicts that were great at marking up scripts and finding our light on the boards.

We were both twenty-three and were in an AEA play in St. Paul, MN. I found it thrilling to make $250 every other week to do theatre: my passion, my craft, my dream. Sam and I were the youngest in the cast, and an older cast member made an honest jest that we would hook up. The two of us were both beautiful, talented and young. The cast member was right.

I started giving him rides to and from rehearsal. The beginning of giving broke men rides. We spent so much time together. Our attraction had the foundation of proximity and convenience. I had a boyfriend at the time. My college boyfriend. Sam was single. He had broken up with his college girlfriend about a year ago. She was an actor that was in his program. I took comfort in being prettier than her.

Opening night of the play, my boyfriend couldn’t come because he was studying for the LSAT last minute. He never went to law school or applied. I was upset, so I drank a few more beers than I should with my cast at the restaurant next to the theater. Sam and I were talking, making each other laugh. I had recently missed out on a role, and he told me, “of course you did. That character isn’t supposed to be beautiful, and you are beautiful.” I was hooked.

He left to use the restroom. I walked into the restroom hallway about four minutes after he left. Sam came out of the restroom and down the hallway, and I kissed him. He kissed me back. I kissed him again then he pulled away. He brought up that I had a boyfriend. I ended up breaking things off with my boyfriend of three years to be with Sam even if it was temporary. The term in theatre for a casual situation that ends after the show ends is called a “showmance.” I thought I was a chill girl that could handle it. Not taking care of my mind, body and soul. I knew it would end. It was just a matter of time.

The first time I went to his apartment I was nervous and light headed. It was raining, and I was hiding from the rain under an alcove of the apartment building. He laughed and asked what I was doing over there instead of coming to the door. I had a history of acting awkward around him after that first opening night kiss. Previously, when I was dropping him off at his apartment after a show, he leaned in to kiss me, but I dodged it, hitting my head on the steering wheel and setting the horn off. Beer has always given me confidence with men, and I was beyond sober in my Toyota Camry.

Sam gave me a beer, and we sat on the couch and talked. It was at this moment I realized I didn’t need alcohol anymore to be with him. I had two sips of my beer and let it grow warm and flat on his coffee table. I was happy in his company. I didn’t crave the escape of alcohol. I wanted to be there forever. With butterflies in my stomach, I realized Sam was the first person I got who I actually wanted. Together we were funny, reflective, honest and present. Sam downed another drink. We may not have been on the same page of sober attraction, but there was no pain in having fun yet.

Sam asked me questions about myself. Questions no one had ever asked me. No guy had ever asked me questions before even my ex. The inquires jumped from sweet to soul baring without skipping a beat. I tried to deflect his questions in my normal, tried-and-true fashion, but Sam saw my tricks and wouldn’t indulge my verbal contortions. I felt simultaneously powerful and powerless uttering my life and truth to him on his couch. It’s the loss of power that makes you feel like an idiot when it’s over.

After our first night together, we got together a few more times, but I knew he didn’t take it seriously because his texts were spotty to non-existent, and he never invited me to hang out with his friends. One night, I did hang out with him and his roommate and helped his roommate with girl trouble. Stupidly, I thought I was effectively showing my value as a partner. However, moments later, he talked to me about how to be single. My throat tighten. He looked at me and said, “You are beautiful, talented and great in bed, but I can’t date you.” I looked him up and down, lied, and said, “who says I want to date you?” Sam then goes off and yells, “oh so you’re just slumming it with me, huh?” More words were exchanged that I can’t remember, maybe for self-preservation. We shared a bed that night, but I woke up early to go home, ruminating in my Uber.

I sat in the backseat knowing he was going to get back together with his ex. Sam kept a card from his ex on his bookshelf. I read it one morning when he was in the shower. I was delusional, but I didn’t mind. I would deal with my delusion by distracting myself by running three miles a day. I got so hot, but you can never make someone love you with a flat stomach and toned legs no matter what the media tells you.

When the curtains went down after our closing matinee, I kissed him backstage. His lips were pressed together and cold. I wasn’t ready to wake up from my delusion. The cast went out for a goodbye lunch. Sam paid for my lunch feeding my delusion. I drove him back to his apartment, and he handed me gas money for all the lifts to rehearsals and performances. He was paying me back through lunch and a wad of his server tip cash. Sam said he’d see me around as friends. I threw the cash back at him. I didn’t want his money, I wanted him.

The next time I saw Sam was seven months later at a film audition. As I was leaving the audition room, I was blindsided by a big hug from him in the waiting room. We had some friendly chit-chat before I left the building. I had plenty of casual, emotionally unavailable hook ups since then because I am beautiful, talented, great in bed, but no one wants to date me.