What it feels like to be in a love triangle your boyfriend and his ex

When Alysia Abbott’s boyfriend told her that he wanted to try again with his ex, she found herself in a love triangle, but did what any self-respecting, independent woman would do - she agreed.

When Alysia Abbott’s boyfriend told her that he wanted to try again with his ex, she found herself in a love triangle, but did what any self-respecting, independent woman would do - she agreed.

Words by Alysia Abbott

When I bumped into Jeff at a friend’s birthday party, I noticed how he went out of his way to introduce himself and how, later, his large blue eyes lingered on me as he walked out into the cold night. I’d just turned 29 and had spent most of the past decade breaking up and reuniting with Jason, a Bradley cooper lookalike whose laconic moodiness I confused with depth. Newly single, I asked Jeff out.

We met on a January night. Warming ourselves over steaming bowls of food, we joked about first dates being like interviews. ‘Why do you think you’re right for this position?’ I asked. With his open, effusive manner and long, gesticulating arms, he reminded me of a Muppet. I wanted to hire him on the spot.


Our romance blossomed into the spring. We started seeing each other exclusively, signing up for swing-dancing classes and taking trips to his friends’ country house, where one weekend we revealed our hearts to each other. After Jason, falling for Jeff felt easy, He was articulate and affectionate and I never had to guess at his feelings. We even developed an array of nicknames that created the sense of conspiracy peculiar to new love, calling each other ‘petey Swy’, our own take on ‘sweetie pie’.

Jeff had his own ‘Jason’, a girl named Christine who’d broken up with him two years previously; they still talked on the phone every week (most of Jeff’s friends were women, including many ex-girlfriends). I had a lot of male friends, so I didn’t worry about their relationship – until that May, when Jeff got Christine a job at the design firm where he worked. They now saw each other every day, his Aeron chair only feet away from hers. I felt uneasy, but Jeff assured me that she was ‘just a friend’.


The Thursday before the bank holiday weekend, I went to Jeff’s flat. It was my last night in town before a five-day trip to celebrate my grandparents’ 50th wedding anniversary. As soon as I walked through the door, I knew something was off.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked. ‘Christine wants to get back together,’ he answered. ‘What?!’ ‘She wants to try again,’ he said, staring into the middle distance. I felt dizzy, as if the room had turned upside down. ‘So you’re breaking up with me?’ He nodded. ‘I knew it!’ I yelled, dissolving into sobs. ‘I’m an idiot.’

‘It’s just a temporary break,’ Jeff said quickly, trying to soothe me. Just for two weeks, while I figure it out. Then we’ll talk.’


I cried for the duration of the flight home, hiding my puffy eyes behind sunglasses. Hoping not to dampen the festivities, I kept my drama to myself and told my family I had allergies. Only at night, with my bedroom door shut, could I let me guard down. I obsessively checked email and when he didn’t write – he’d said he wouldn’t – I wept into my pillow.

Feeling rejected and confused, all I could do was hope that Jeff would choose me. Toward this end, I wanted to remind him of what we had, the playful sweetness we shared. So I emailed him as though we hadn’t broken up. Instead of sharing my hurt, or asking about Christine, which I knew might push him further away, I reported on funny anecdotes from my weekend and reverted to our private language in these missives, signing them ‘Yours, Petey’. Back home a few days later, I confided in my gay flat mate, Andy, who comforted me with green tea and Julie Christie movies. ‘He’s pond scum, forget him,’ he told me.


He went on to add that I was devaluing myself by waiting for Jeff, but I was too in love to give up. Also, I’d once been in Jeff’s position, having to choose between Jason and another; I knew that, more than anything, Jeff needed space.

Even though I thought we could still reunite, I felt inconsolably sad. Ten years before I’d lost my father – and only parent – to AIDS, and my separation from Jeff felt like a miniaturized version of that loss. Just as I had no control over my dad’s illness, I had no control over Jeff’s heart. Any day could bring the end; I just had to wait it out. When I returned to my job, my manager sent me home. ‘You really don’t seem like yourself,’ she said. I mostly slept for the few days until I received a businesslike email from Jeff. We were to meet Saturday afternoon.

When the day came, I put on the coolest outfit I could find: navy, striped halter top, denim shorts and red lipstick. Andy grimaced as I got ready. ‘I don’t know why you’re bothering,’ he said.

When Jeff saw me in the street, his face lit up; I waved casually, resisting the urge to rush over. As we walked, it became clear that we weren’t breaking up after all. A few hours later I returned to my flat smiling. Jeff hadn’t explicitly said so, but I knew he and Christine were finished. He called that night: ‘Can I come over?’ he asked. When I opened the door his face was drawn and pale. ‘I did it,’ he said, ‘I told her it’s over.’ He looked at the floor, his eyes welling with tears.


I’d never seen him cry before. And in that moment I realized that what Jeff needed wasn’t a girlfriend, but a friend. I knew he’d left Christine for good and so I could quiet my pride – the part of me that was angry that he was weeping over her – and focus on Jeff, now he just needed love. Helping him mourn felt like the right thing to do and because I was intimate with loss, it was something I could do. I also knew there was no way back into our relationship without first dealing with the wreckage of this past one.

‘Would you play Metal Heart?’ Jeff asked. We both loved Cat Power’s music, but that song in particular made him think of Christine: ‘Losing the star without the sky/ Losing the reasons why.’ As we listened in my room with the door closed and the lights out, Jeff broke into low sobs. When the song was over he asked me to play it again, which I did, over and over, until he cried out his tears and we crawled exhausted into bed.

Jeff later told me that he’d never loved me as much as he did that night in my dark room. Because I didn’t turn him away, he knew he’d made the right decision. A year later I moved from my flat into Jeff’s apartment. Today we’ve been married for nine years. We still love Cat Power.

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