Since I heard the word love
I have always been in search of
One to hold on to
I was always looking for you

– Jason Mraz

NOTE: This story jumps back and forth in time. If you’re just tuning in, you may want to start with Chapter 7 for the full New York arc. Or rewind all the way back to the Introduction to see how the story begins —before the cracks, before the strangers, before she knows what’s coming.

After driving in circles around Irvine, we finally find the Five Points Amphitheatre in the middle of an old Marine airfield. Temporary stadium seating and folding chairs sit at the end of a runway. We notice a significantly different crowd from the Mraz concerts in Los Angeles. More whitebread and generic. We’re behind the Orange Curtain now, the O.C.

“This is Trump country,” Dean says. “I’m scared.”

“I doubt Trump supporters are showing up at a Jason Mraz concert. He’s all about love and good vibes,” I point out.

“Good Vibes” is the name of the concert, something Dean and I are actively trying to restore in our relationship. When we heard Mraz was playing, there was no doubt we were going, even if we had to drive two and a half hours in rush hour traffic on a Friday.

Jason Mraz has been the soundtrack to our relationship from the beginning.

When we first met back in December of 2011, six and a half years ago, I was living in Miami and Dean in Brooklyn. We worked together on a show for the Travel Channel. I’d worked as a senior producer on the show for a year before giving birth to my daughter. After she was born, I took two years off to be a mom and to figure out how to leave my husband.

Once my divorce began, I needed a job. I heard that the travel show was shooting in Miami, so I called my boss.

“Do you think I could senior produce and write the Miami show? Since I’m here…” I asked.

“Sure,” she said. “And I have two other shows in the can that I need you to write.”

Boom. Not only did I have one job, I had three. Bonus that I could do them from my parents’ home where I was still living with my two-year-old.

A couple months later, after prepping the shoot remotely with the Milwaukee office, the film crew arrived in Miami. I met up with the field producer, Felix, to get a rundown on the crew, most of whom I’d never met.

“You look amazing,” he told me as I arrived at the Epic Hotel where the crew was staying.

“Thanks, divorce suits me, I guess.” I was rail thin from stress, rocking my size 26 Hudson jeans, white tank top and linen jacket. Last time Felix saw me, I was a pregnant blimp.

“Dean’s the DP (Director of Photography).” He paused a beat, looked me over.

“He’s going to hit on you.”

Those words colored my first impression of Dean. From then on, I only made eye contact with him long enough to do my job. Otherwise, I ignored him. Because of what Felix said, I didn’t notice the 6-foot-4 handsome, bohemian man with sexy, blue eyes. He was a generic cameraman to me at that point.

We all met up in the hotel’s white-marbled lobby under the “epic” high ceiling and dangling chandelier. Felix told me that Dean had hurt his elbow the day before. Because we had overlapping crews, we decided to spare him that night so he could recover for the next day. Dean showed up in the lobby with his camera anyway.

“I’m coming to the shoot.”

“You’re taking the night off because of your elbow,” I told him.

“I can do it,” he said.

“Yeah, I just think it’s best you give it a rest. We have an extra hand tonight, it’s OK.”

“I’ll come anyway,” he said.

I shrugged. “Fine.”

In the van on the way to the shoot, he continued to argue with me from the front passenger seat. I sat all the way in the back.

“So, Pam, who are you to our merry crew again?” he asked.

“I’m your senior producer,” I said.

Silence as he realized I was not a production assistant. I was his boss. He and this crew had been on the road together for the past year and a half, while I attended “Mommy and Me” music classes in South Miami. He’d never heard of me.

“Huh,” he said. “OK.”

That night Dean played gaffer, holding the lights up as we filmed the host indulging in a six-foot-long king crab at a famous baller hangout, Red the Steakhouse. Later we captured him eating Aphrodisiac Ice Cream from a tawdry, slightly sleazy ice cream truck with stripper poles on the roof. A couple of strippers served flavors like Cookies and Cream.

I thought I detected vibes from Dean during the week but wasn’t totally sure. He’d find a way to sit next to me at meal breaks, but we wouldn’t speak.

Walking out of one location, I realized he was rolling camera and instinctively ducked out of the shot.

“Aw, I wanted you in that shot,” he said.

I hardly made eye contact so as not to encourage him.

“Come grab a glass of wine with us,” he said one night after wrap.

“I can’t, I have a two-year-old at home who will be up in four hours.”

Nothing happened between us that week, not even a conversation.

A month later, the travel show shot an episode in Los Angeles. I also happened to be in L.A. that week. I still had my apartment in Santa Monica and came out to write the Miami episode without distractions.

In nonfiction programming, the voiceover writing takes place after filming. That’s also when we piece together hours of footage into forty-three minutes of coherent story.

One night, as I hunched over my computer at my dining room table struggling to figure out whether the aphrodisiac ice cream story should go before or after the king crab story, Felix called.

“We’re all watching the Golden Globes over at my place tonight. Want to come?”
“Sure!” I replied, desperate for a break.

When I arrived, there were just a few of us and tons of food.

“Where’s Dean?” I found myself asking. Felix shrugged. My hand, as if it had a mind of its own, picked up the phone and texted Dean.

“Where are you?”

“I’m beat. Already in bed,” he replied.

“There’s a lot of wine and free food here. And I’m here,” I replied.

“I’ll be right over,” he texted back.

We all sat on the couch telling stories and making funny sexual references while the Golden Globes played on the TV. Dean and I sat next to each other. Our knees touched. I wrote it off to spatial proximity. We were all on the couch, so knees were bound to collide. He remembers this differently. To him, it meant something.

At the end of the evening, I offered to drive him back to his hotel so he didn’t need to take another taxi.

“Don’t get any ideas,” I said. “It’s just a ride.”

“You sure you don’t want to come up?” he asked. He’d started taking a bolder tack with me this time around, flirting heavily.

“It’s never gonna happen, Dean. Never.”

I was certain he was a total player and didn’t take him too seriously. Also, it didn’t seem appropriate since I was his de facto boss.

I dropped him off at his hotel and he texted me on the way home. “Come on, admit it. Aren’t you squirming in your seat just a little?”

“Maybe.” I replied. Then I squirmed in my car seat. Holy shit, what was happening?

Another month went by. Felix texted to say that he and Dean were coming back to Miami to film the South Beach Food and Wine Festival with the TV host of the travel show.

“I’ll get you a press pass so you can hang out with us,” Felix said.

“Sure, sounds fun,” I said.

I’m not sure why Felix kept inviting me to hang out. He wasn’t interested in me romantically, he’s gay. Perhaps the Universe was using him to bring me and Dean together.

I followed the crew from location to location. We returned to the hotel for lunch. As Dean and Felix were about to run off to another shoot, I felt sleepy and asked to borrow one of their rooms to take a nap while they were gone. Dean produced his room key before I could finish my sentence.

When he returned to his room, I lay sleepily in his bed. He lay down beside me.

“Nothing’s going to happen,” I told him.

“OK,” he said.

“The harder you try, the less seriously I take you.”

He pulled his energy way back.

“Nothing needs to happen. I just want to get to know you,” he said.

We talked for an hour and a half until the next shoot. He was smart and made me laugh. Plus, I was seriously attracted to him. Like a tumbler on a padlock, the secret passcode got punched and my heart was unlocked. He was in.

By the time we walked up the Miami Beach pathway to our last shoot of the night, I knew I was going to spend the night with him.

The final shoot took place under a giant tent on the beach. The TV host visited food truck after food truck. Dean followed him with his camera. I followed Dean with my eyes. When they were done for the night, I stood casually drinking a tiny bottle of champagne I’d been given at one of the tables. Dean walked over and started to say something. I put my hand to his mouth to stop him.

“It’s happening. It’s a fait accompli. Don’t say anything to ruin it.”

We all returned to the hotel and I waited on the balcony of his room as he finished his work. Finally, he approached from behind and put his arms around me. I turned around and we kissed.

We made love for hours. It transcended any sexual experience I’d ever had. The chemistry was through the roof. The crew was next door, but we didn’t care. We weren’t quiet.

Here’s the thing though: Dean sort of had a girlfriend. She lived in Canada, a production assistant he’d met on one of their shoots. They were on the verge of breaking up, he told me, but they’d planned a trip to India together. It was already paid for.

“What should I do?” he asked.

I wasn’t sure whether this was a fling or something more. I hadn’t thought that far ahead. Also, I’d been with enough commitaphobes to know how to play it cool. Give a guy space and he’ll rubberband back to you. At least, that’s what it says in Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus.

“Go,” I replied.

As we lay in bed together, his phone lit up with text after text. I knew they were from the girlfriend.

“Go answer her texts,” I encouraged him. “Put the poor girl out of her misery.”

I knew what it was like to be on the other end.

The following week, he told the girlfriend that they needed to break up. She still wanted to go to India, though, and she didn’t want to go alone. He felt he owed this to her, to be her chaperone, so he said he’d honor his commitment. They would not go as lovers, he told her. She supposedly agreed to this.

Dean and I texted constantly up until the India trip. Before his departure east he went south, traveling the Blues Trail for the show. At one point, a director I’d worked with before noticed that Dean was texting me. He figured it was work related, and made a lewd comment to Dean about what it might be like to have sex with me, not realizing that Dean knew firsthand. No one knew – except the person on the other side of our hotel room wall in Miami.

Dean’s language to me over text was poetic and romantic, clever and wise. Hanging up from a Facetime chat one night, it struck me. I was in love with him.

“Don’t get your hopes up, Pam,” my mother said.

She was rightfully wary. I barely knew the guy. “In love” seemed like a stretch. Nonetheless, her comment pissed me off. I didn’t appreciate anyone bursting my bubble. I loved the feeling of falling in love. It was a rainbow in the storm cloud of my ongoing divorce.

As the India trip drew closer, I wanted to type the words, “It’s only money, honey. Don’t go.” But I knew I had to let him follow through with his pre-Pam plans. Try to control a rolling stone and you’ll get squashed, I reminded myself.

“Do you think they’ll sleep together?” asked my friend Ceci, as we nibbled on salads and talked about the realities of Dean traveling India with his ex-girlfriend.

“Probably. He’s a guy,” I responded.

“Wow. You’re strong,” she said.

Not really. I knew I had to accept the inevitable and let go of the reins. If this relationship was going to work, he needed to enter it willingly. In any case, I was in the middle of a messy divorce so who was I to demand anything of anyone?

Then one afternoon, driving to pick up my daughter from preschool, I heard Jason Mraz’s song, “I’m Yours,” play on the radio and my eyes welled up. OMG, I realized. I’m His. This song is about us.

I emailed an MP3 of the song to him as a not-so-subtle message. Bold move early in a relationship, but I couldn’t help it. A force beyond my control made me do it.

“Listen to this while you’re away,” I said. “Play it in India and think of me.”

This was my way of tagging along on the trip. We emailed a lot while he was gone. I went ahead and called it quits with three guys I’d been casually dating. I was certain Dean and I would be a couple when he returned.

As his return date approached, another Jason Mraz song got stuck in my head. “Lucky,” about two lovers on opposite sides of the globe finally making the journey home to be together.

We played it at our wedding two years later.

As the song now plays in the pop-up amphitheater in Irvine, Dean and I hold each other tightly.

I should feel gushy right now. Where are the tears?

Instead, I’m thinking about Liam. I’m scanning the crowd for him.

“I wonder if Liam likes Jason Mraz. Jason started out in the music scene in San Diego just like Liam. Maybe he’s here,” went the Crazy Single Girl chatter in my head. Except I’m not single.

What the f*%k is wrong with me??

Grace tells me I’m still obsessing about Liam because he’s new, mysterious and exciting. Things with Dean lately have been so heavy and riddled with conflict.

I hug Dean tighter, willing myself to feel something. He’s swaying and dancing, and I should feel happy and in love. Instead, I feel numb. We’ve been through so much in six and a half years.

Now we’ve given ourselves six months to assess whether this relationship is still working. Which brings us to our seventh anniversary.

We’ve always joked about “the seven-year itch,” and now it is upon us. What is it about seven years that makes or breaks a couple? I aim to find out.

It’s an overcast September day in L.A. in 2018, and yesterday Liam posted a photo from 2001 of him holding his infant son. “Yep,” I thought to myself. “It’s him.” I send him a photo of myself from that summer to jog his memory. He responds:

“And so we had a strange afternoon of impromptu relations beginning on a train you say? Yes I do remember ... just playin”

“Just playin that you remember or that you don’t?” I ask.

“I remember your face but not so much the details.”

“Oh I’ll fill you in then: I totally rocked your world. ;) Clearly. LOL”

“Haha. I’d love to meet you again just so we could have that uncomfortable few minutes of recollection before finding the nearest cocktail.”

I laugh out loud at this and think of how to respond so he knows I’m laughing. I send a Bitmoji of me that says “Ha Ha Ha” and then,

“Totally.”

And now I’m obsessing – was that stupid? A freakin Bitmoji?? The one thing I’m proud of is the noncommittal “Totally.” Could mean anything. Could mean “yes me too” or it could mean, “yeah that would be funny, wouldn’t it?”

A voice in my head says he found it endearing. Will I ever see this man in person? I’m spinning.

I call up three of my least judgmental girlfriends. Two of them, Grace being one of them, warn me away from trouble and remind me it’s only the validation I’m after, not the sex.

My friend Nadia, who’s feeling frisky herself after eighteen years of marriage says frankly, after seeing Liam’s picture, “You’re fucked.”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“I don’t think there’s a question.”

I crawl into bed with my vibrator and play one of Liam’s two songs from iTunes. He sings a country tune, no trace of his Australian accent. I close my eyes and imagine him walking through my door. We kiss. He takes off my shirt, and we back frantically into the bedroom. He climbs on top of me and… My mind quickly, involuntarily, changes the scene to Dean. It’s Dean who’s naked above me, Dean who’s moving inside of me. This is what feels right to me. The other, my body was excited for the moment, for the idea of it. But no. How can I sleep with anyone else?

Just then, I hear a “ding” on my computer. It’s an email from Dean who is away working in New York. It’s an article entitled “Why Monogamy May be Harder for Women than Men.” Interesting timing.

In the article, research shows that as much as fifty percent of women admitted to having intercourse with someone other than their spouse while married. Contrary to popular belief, it wasn’t because they were unhappy in their relationships or lacking in emotional intimacy. It’s because they needed “variety, novelty and sexual adventure every bit as much as men do, and possibly more. And when they don’t get it, they shut down sexually.”

It’s only recently that I relate to this article, and only because of the cracks in our relationship. If we didn’t have the emotional wear and tear, I’d be perfectly happy and sexually satisfied. Dean’s constant fear that I’ll cheat on him, ironically, is the very thing that makes me think about it. I’ve never been unfaithful in any relationship I’ve been in. In my last marriage, when I felt it was time to move on, I asked for a separation and let him know explicitly that I intended to date other people.

Dean’s fears are born of his own insecurity and experience. Unfortunately, he is putting ideas in my head that would not have occurred naturally.

When I’ve suggested this to Dean in the past, he said, “I’m not that powerful. You make that choice.”

But words are powerful. You can put ideas into people’s heads by casually suggesting them. Just ask Donald J. Trump. “Hey, I think I should be President of the United States,” he said during a publicity stunt one day. “Ok!” said the American people. “Great idea.”

So now Dean sends me this article justifying all his fears. I mean, WTF.

“Are you trying to convince me?” I write back to him.

Now. Am I going to be the evil wench that lives into his fears and does this behind my husband’s back?

That is what I’m struggling to figure out.

I text Grace.

“I don’t know how to stop obsessing about this random man I know nothing about,” I say. “You’ve seen his picture, right?”

“He looks like a younger, hotter version of Dean,” she says.

I think of the guitar against our living room wall. Dean’s handsome face.

“You’re right,” I tell her.

“So put all this sexual titillation and energy into your relationship with Dean.”

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**This is a work of fiction, loosely based on true events and written in the style of a memoir. Names and details have been changed.