FH Island

Once upon a time I met a guy named Dave.

He was charming, dimpled, and looked quite a bit like Simon Baker circa Devil Wear's Prada.

Drool.

The night we met was his 32nd birthday, and all that was left of his party's guests were three of his close friends, all of whom were spoken for. They pulled me into their circle, chatted me up about Austin, and used their best collective wingman skills to find the birthday boy a quality girl of his own.

Bingo.

He was everything I'd been looking for. Smart and driven, but came off down-to-earth and laid back. Charming and funny. He owned the most beautiful distressed leather couch from my favorite store ABC Carpet & Home, and he lived on the most beautiful street in the West Village I've ever seen. His dad studied dog genetics or something and therefore was always raising litters of puppies. Yeah, puppies! 

Jackpot.

And the icing on the cake? He seemingly was not totally opposed to settling down.

Sigh.

During the few months we hung out, he took me on one of the best dates of my life. An amazing meal at Cafe Cluny, and an introduction to Trombone Shorty at the Highline Ballroom. I'd met my awesomely awkward dancing match.

Swoon.

He traveled a lot for work and spent his weekends golfing, but when schedules permitted, we had a great time. Finding the time, though, was the problem. But it didn't matter. Because, like you might have guessed, I was smitten. I thought he was The One.

And then, he died...

...Is what I tell myself.

Just kidding. I'm not that crazy. Instead, I tell myself he took a trip to FH Island, where hopes and dreams of future love go to die.

Because the truth - the fact that he pulled the ultimate Houdini act and disappeared without a trace - hurts too much. I mean, I'm freakin' self-aware and if he Just Wasn't That Into Met I'd like to think I'd realize it, but even after years of examination, none of the facts line up! He'd introduced me to his friends, told me he wasn't dating anyone else, and cooked dinner with me in his apartment.

I mean, who does that with a girl before fading into the dark abyss? A MONSTER WHO TOTALLY TRICKED ME INTO BELIEVING HE WAS MY SOULMATE, that's who. (Okay perhaps yours truly might have read a little too much into it. I mean, you know, I am the Girl Who Cried Soulmate.)

But he was the first. The original FH. You always remember your first. Damn him.

Anyway, when The BFF met her Harvard Cougar Bait, I knew how she felt. I could see the glimmer of future Christmas card images in her eye. But it too wasn't meant to be. And so he sailed away, to FH Island.

Row row row your boat, gently off to sea, merrily merrily merrily merrily, our life together that I totally prematurely manifested in my imagination was but a dream.

Except unlike Dave, whose path I've never crossed again, The BFF and I caught a glimpse of her FH Ghost this past weekend.

Why would they stay in NYC if they could be here? 
I mean, have you been outside? The weather is terrible.

What, I thought you booked a one-way ticket out of my life forever?

(Although when your FFH - former future husband, place keep up - has an identical twin, you can "assume" that you've spotted his brother. Except when they both turn up in the same place, in which case, oh hello reality.)

The purpose of FH Island is so you aren't haunted by the memory of what could have been. But I guess the island is overflowing and they're staying put in Manhattan.

Ugh.

There is no decency left in the dating world.