Dating : What’s a Rebound For, Anyway?

Trading random sex for self-reflection.

Two years ago, in the aftermath of a particularly nasty breakup, I met Liam (not his name).

He was the perfect rebound, dark and handsome, with a six pack to boot. A native Caribbean, he was laid back but lively, showing interest without being clingy. Not to mention, he had the most amazing accent.

Most importantly, he was a few years younger than me, still in that mid-twenties phase of banging every girl who showed interest and passing it off as a deep and meaningful experience.

He was a sexual tourist, but not in the creepy, literal sense. He collected hookups the way travelers collected souvenirs, all to show that he had “lived.”

And hey, maybe his experiences were meaningful. I won’t knock it. The point is, he was someone who I could be attracted to, whose company I would enjoy, but who I wouldn’t have to worry about taking seriously.

It’s probably important to say right now that I don’t fall in love with Liam by the end of this essay. I know, I’m as bummed as you are.

However, when recently faced with an otherwise disappointing sex life, I figured it was a good time to reach out to him again.

He told me that he had fallen in love. She was a French girl. The two of them had met while traveling, and within days they were inseparable.

They traveled together for nearly a month, and even when they parted, he didn’t see anyone else. All this despite the fact that they hadn’t made plans to see each other again. I was shocked that his sexual tourist tendencies had been so thoroughly undone.

At the time, I too was in love, and ecstatic for him. “Go after her!” I said. “If it’s as real as you say, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t.” I was also a little high at the time, so most of my statements were hyperbolic.

But then again, love itself is a high in which everything feels like life and death. I didn’t see any problem with him picking up and moving to France, no more than I saw with picking up and moving to India myself.

This is love! All other things are details.

I kept forgetting that all highs wear off, and many are accompanied by lows of equal magnitude.

Which is why, a few weeks later, I messaged him for advice while in turmoil, fearing the loss of a lover and friend. “Tell him how you feel,” he said. “You’ll regret it for the rest of your life if you don’t.”

I did. It didn’t work out. But he was right about the second part.

So I arranged to meet him on a Saturday night. The plan was to smoke and, well, see what happens.

At this point, I still felt raw from the fact that I’d cut off communication with the other guy, leaving a void that I sought desperately to fill with anyone, including Liam.

But this was the point of a rebound, right? It was the nicotine patch equivalent for post-breakup withdrawal, and seemed better than going cold turkey.

So I applied lipstick and killed time. As I pulled out my phone to call a car, I got a call from him.

“Have you seen my message?” he asked.

“Probably not your last one, if you’re calling me about it.”

“I can’t come tonight. I have a phone call. Guess with who.”

“Is it with… No, it can’t be.” The French girl. I jump up and begin pacing the room, nervous and excited on his behalf. “I’m so happy for you. But I also kind of hate you. It’s a strange combination of feelings.”

He laughed. “Also, I’m quitting my job, and moving in July or August.”

“Where? To France?”

He laughed some more. “I’m not sure yet.”

“Well, best of luck, and remember to follow your heart!” I sighed, repeating, “I really am happy for you.”

And I was, but I was also jealous and disappointed. He might be able to find his way back to the woman he loved, but I was stuck here without love or even a decent hookup.

So instead, I put on my fuzzy robe, drank tea, and watched Netflix. Lame, I thought to myself, bemoaning my lack of more exciting options.

On the other hand, he had given me a ray of hope. After seven months, the woman he loved had resurfaced. I took it to mean that when something was real, it couldn’t die. Maybe my thing just needed six more months to prove itself.

The next day, I found out that he’d been stood up for the phone call, and felt the inverse of the strange combo of emotions I’d felt the day before.

I was disappointed on behalf of hopeless romantics everywhere, but at least I had my rebound back, and at least we could be equally disappointed together.

Not to mention, he was still leaving town in a matter of months, moving who-knows-where to do god-knows-what. This makes the rebound even more perfect, I thought.

So we met again, and together laughed off our mutual delusion. We no longer felt the high (of love, anyway) but no longer felt the torment either. “At least I’m fucking free,” I said, and he agreed.

His apartment had little furniture, and everything was mismatched. The seating included a broken futon and two beanbag chairs. Yep, definitely a rebound guy type of apartment.

We each sat on one of the beanbags, smoking and chatting. We philosophized about love and life, making dozens of pseudo-deep insights, most of which I couldn’t later recall.

We also talked about the first time we met and debated how long the rebound had actually lasted, which left me curious enough to go through our message history.

Assuming we were a flash in the pan, I was surprised to find that we’d messaged heavily for two and a half months. Hundreds of exchanges flashed before my eyes that I could hardly remember.

Eventually, the message dates got further and further apart. Nothing had changed. Things had just fizzled out, and we each moved on to different distractions. And somehow, two years later, we were sitting here as sort-of friends. It seemed like a miracle.

Of course, it only worked so well because there were no expectations, that dirty word that ruined everything good in my life.

A thought crossed my mind. What if there were never any expectations? What if we just continued this rebound… indefinitely?

I knew there was no way. Either expectations or boredom would set in eventually, and if one didn’t kill the relationship, the other certainly would. Anything that was “just for fun” wasn’t meant to last.

Eventually, the topic came back to our mutual heartache. Although for me, at this point, it didn’t feel so much like heartache anymore. I’d already gone through the torment, had realized how needless that emotional investment had been. I was already starting to let go.

No amount of sex with Liam could have made me come to this realization, but there it was. And so, when our conversation turned to the possibility of us hooking up again, I was ambivalent.

He made his way over to me until his face was just above mine, ready to kiss me. “Are you sure you don’t want to do this?”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” I said, turning away from him. It’s not that I no longer found him attractive, I just wasn’t into it. There was nothing left to cling to, no man to need.

I was sobering up, and it was starting to get dark. If not this, I thought, then what do I want?

Strangely enough, I just wanted to go home, put on my fuzzy robe, drink tea, and watch Netflix, but not because I felt sad and lonely. I genuinely preferred the idea to that of having meaningless sex with a hot guy, or really any other evening plans.

So that’s exactly what I did. I spent a perfect evening alone, and despite doing this unhappily dozens of times before, this time I didn’t regret it one bit.

I don’t know what changed. Maybe some part of me is malfunctioning. Or maybe, for the first time, I’m finally getting this rebound thing right.