Love in the Time of Covid-19

I can convince myself of anything. A seasoned sales professional, I tell such a convincing tale, that, often, I can’t even keep myself from buying into my own (often false) narrative. And in the first few months of 2020, I was lost in an elaborate plot to start my whole life over, leaving the old one behind me for good.

Having just received a payout from the latest round of Black November layoffs (where I lost a lucrative pharmaceutical sales position), I was looking at the bright side of an already pretty decent deal. I was involved with three different people, in 3 different provinces; having rented a condo for the previous two years, I had no financial or physical ties to any particular place in the world (other than a time share in Mexico). And I finally had enough money to get out of my hometown after reluctantly moving back for work a few years prior. All of Canada was a possibility, and I was excited.

I spent most of the winter of 2020 lining up interviews in Toronto, Calgary, and Vancouver. I wasn’t even considering looking in Saskatchewan. What would be the point? Sure I had just started a new relationship in Saskatoon, but I had long ago decided to pick career over love. And my career was going to go a lot further in a major city than it would in the middle of nowhere. Besides, I was no stranger to maintaining a long distance connection; I figured everything would sort itself out as I figured things out. Certain that nothing could keep me in Saskatchewan, I was rocked by the one thing that I hadn’t realized could: closing provincial and international borders in Canada.

No flights out, or in. Canada was on lockdown; people trashing cars with out of town plates, RCMP patrolling the highways reminding anyone with a good reason to be on the road of the strict quarantine regulations for interprovincial travel. The world had been brought to its knees by Covid-19, and without any idea when travel might again be possible, I reluctantly applied for some positions closer to home. There wasn’t much available, but I applied for the one pharmaceutical position I saw, and another as a commercial lender.

I was asked to interview for both, a lucky break, I thought. The first was the commercial lending role. A good opportunity for someone else, but it wasn’t as exciting or lucrative as selling pharmaceuticals. Plus, my financial background was limited to my own taxes, assigning rebate rates, and filling out budgets and expense reports. I had no idea how to analyze a business plan and someone’s financial position. I was honest in my interview, but for whatever reason was still offered the position. And when the second interview for the lone pharmaceutical spot turned out to be more for the HR trainee than for myself- I panicked, and took the first offer as a lender. Resolved to at worst hunker down for a few months before I could get back to my interprovincial job search, I was still looking for any excuse to leave. Taking a job I didn’t want seemed like a smart move to make in April of 2020. This was just temporary. The job, the condo, the new guy would all be different in a year anyway, so it didn’t matter that it didn’t fit.

I got carried away in that line of thinking. Ergo, when my same area code love interest asked me to spend weekends at his place, I told myself it was because he didn’t want to leave the safety of his clean, spacious home for my cluttered condo. In the midst of a public health crisis, slumming it with the colourful assortment of neighbours I shared a narrow stairwell with was no longer an accommodation he was willing to make. Rather than assume he was doing his best to make space for me, and enjoy the exciting next step we were taking together, I convinced myself it wasn’t kindness- just self preservation. And each week, I promised myself this would be the last I spent at his house; ever cautious not to get too used to anything that wasn’t really mine.

I was as surprised as anyone when Cory asked me to move in full time. And I think almost everyone was shocked that after a year of dating, Cory, who at 40 had never lived with anyone, was opening his home to me. Excited, and desperate to get out of communal living, I jumped at the offer. I said so long to my long distance situationships, and moved in over the 2020 November long weekend; after eight months of weekend sleepovers, we had shacked up without having even uttered an “I love you”. A mistake I had made before, and had promised myself never to make again. But, for me, pragmatism usually wins out over romanticism; Cory was willing to have me, my cat, and dog in his beautiful home, with a yard, three bathrooms, and a real office that would free me from working in my poorly lit kitchen at the condo. I wasn’t about to ask too many questions. This was a smart choice to make financially, and offered full time companionship during a pandemic.

I figured, maybe he loved me the best way he could, and maybe that was enough for right now. I actually considered that it could be a good thing if he didn’t love me; since it would make leaving a lot easier anyway. Who cares if he says it or not?

Right?

Inevitably, and predictably, this line of reasoning would end up blowing up in my face. And when it finally did, there I was, having given up my apartment, my furniture, and dreams of total independence- living out of a suitcase on his bedroom floor. Crying.

“I don’t even have a dresser in the bedroom”.

“Well you have one in the guest room” he shot back quickly.

I rolled my eyes, and swallowed hard.

“Why haven’t you said I love you?”

“Why haven’t you?”

I think it was his calm but firm demeanour that got to me. Stoic to the end. Cory, uncomfortable showing any emotion at the best of times, does not do well when put on the spot. Disappointed, I sat there and cried while he rubbed my back without a word. Loyal to a fault, he wanted to comfort me, but was still completely incapable of properly communicating confusing and overwhelming emotions.

I could have left, and maybe I should have. I still resented his rejection, but quickly made peace with the uncertainty I lived in. Until one day, not long after, I came home to Cory fastidiously cleaning the dismantled Roomba in the bathroom sink. My dog, Loulou, had taken a poop that the Roomba found before Cory did. Every wall on the second floor was covered in dog poop splatters. I bit my lip and held my breath, waiting on the inevitable “this isn’t working” conversation that was surely coming.

But it didn’t come. We washed the walls for hours. Silent, outside frequent, heavy sighs he let go while he scrubbed dog poop from our vacuum with a toothbrush. I nervously attacked the walls, and hand scrubbed the carpet. I was used to this sort of thing, Loulou is my dog and this was not totally shocking. But Cory certainly wasn’t. And his formerly pristine home was now quickly falling prey to my poorly behaved familiars. After we had nearly finished up, my need for reassurance got to me.

“Do you regret asking me to move in?” I asked, point blank. He paused and looked up from the mess of parts in the sink.

“Of course not. I love you” he shrugged as he went back to reassembling the Roomba.

Maybe he had been working his way up to it. Or maybe he realized it as we were elbow deep in dog poop. But for whatever reason, this was his moment. He wouldn’t say it again until a month later on Christmas morning, when he handed me a silly card, signed (simply) “love Cory”, and gifted me three recently emptied drawers in his six drawer dresser.

The next few months flew by, and we slipped into a life together. Cory had a habit of showing his love more than he was comfortable discussing it. I learned to hear it every time he took the trash out, made me coffee, or cleaned the cat’s litter. Our life together became very easy, but I was still working a job I should never have taken; and, accordingly, was back to looking for work by the summer. There wasn’t much, and with over 2000 postings for tech and pharmaceuticals sales positions in Alberta alone, I was starting to think about my plan to leave Saskatchewan again. So when I opened an unexpected email from a recruiter I had been working with before the pandemic, my heart stopped. He had two roles that were a perfect fit for me- in downtown Toronto. I researched the companies, the salaries. Looked up apartments for rent. Sat there in silence, considering the uphill battle ahead of me no matter what choice I made. Leaving Cory would be devastating. Finding work was hard. Moving across the country in a pandemic would also be a challenge. The only option was to follow my heart. I swallowed hard, and sent a short reply:

“Thanks for considering me. I’m happy where I am”.