My search for reconnection brought me to an estranged ex-boyfriend's obituary

Finally opening up about my complicated year in Nebraska

May 24, 2022

Chris appears in a dream for the first time. 

I'm at a house party in South Dakota. Chris walks in with a new partner, but she quickly disappears. We see each other and can't stop smirking at one another. We sit next to each other, but don't say a word.

In that moment, I know I still love him—not in a way that we could be together, but in a lyrical "I'll love you forever / Even when we're not together"¹ way.

I wake up the next morning. I want to tell Chris I still love him—not that day, but someday. I promise myself I’ll only reach out if I can handle the conversation not going well.

January 4, 2020

I sit in the passenger seat as my partner of a few months, Roman, drives back to Philly. We spent the night celebrating our mutual friend's birthday at the Pinball Museum on the Asbury Park boardwalk. I still feel the four rounds of beer in my system.

Gmail sends me a notification. It’s an email from Chris. We haven’t spoken since our breakup over three years ago. He explains that he's sober from alcohol, isn't smoking cigarettes, and is manic. He asks me if I'm in Des Moines, because he swears he saw me there. I haven't been to Iowa since I saw him last. He mentions he’s scared.

I respond immediately and say to never contact me again.

He never does.

March 9, 2012

Chris and I meet entirely by chance in Chicago.

I’m on a college-sponsored trip for a College Democrats national conference. Though college paid for my friend Louie and I’s plane tickets, they agree only to reimburse for the cheapest fare available: a round trip ticket from La Guardia to Chicago with a layover in Atlanta in between.

Lethargic from leaving campus before sunset and scurrying through airport lines all day, our first stop is the Obama campaign headquarters. In the lobby, Louie and I acquaint ourselves with a College Democrats chapter from Missouri.

I have never met anyone from Missouri before. Chris introduces himself to me. His eyes shimmer at me, which ignites a fire inside my chest.

March 10, 2012

Once the conference is over, we spot the Missouri crew at the bar. Although we’re all underage, we all hold brown glass bottles of beer.

I can’t take my eyes off Chris, whose eyes still sparkle. He wears brown leather boots like a cowboy with a tan suede jacket and flannel shirt underneath. Do they have cowboys in Missouri? 

I propose to the group we all exchange last names so we can find each other on Facebook. I turn to Chris, as if my proposal wasn’t a setup to stay in touch with him.

“Johnson," he replies.

I find Chris easily on Facebook when I return to my dorm room in New Jersey. This is the only time it is easy to find him on social media.

August 5, 2015

It's my first weekend living in Nebraska. The day prior, I wrapped up my first week at a family-run community newspaper thirty minutes outside of Lincoln, Nebraska.

I pay $100 a week by check to rent a chicken-coop-turned-studio-apartment on a farm in an unincorporated town, population 50, down a gravel road. The front door doesn’t lock. I don’t have cell service there. I do, however, have internet service but only in a quaint corner of the bathroom.

I send Chris a message over Facebook Messenger: "Hey! Long time no talk."

Chris is the only person I know anywhere near Nebraska. I will soon learn soon he lives four hours away in northwestern Iowa.

"I still can't believe you'd leave the metropolis to Hickman, Nebraska of all places," Chris tells me over Messenger. The metropolis he refers to is suburban New Jersey. "Has hick in the name."

In 11 days, we will have our first date at a coffee shop in downtown Lincoln.

August 26, 2015

It’s almost midnight. It's been barely an hour since my dad called me with the tragic news of my mom's passing. Over the phone, Chris tells me I shouldn't be alone tonight, that he will hit the road in 20 minutes. I ask him if he's allowed to miss work in the morning. He says it doesn't matter.

I listen to "Junk" by Paul McCartney on a new Crosley Cruiser record player I bought with my first journalism paycheck.

Da-da-ya-da-da-da-da-da-ya, da-da-ya, da-da
Da-da-da-da-da, da-da
Candlesticks, building bricks, something old and new
Memories for you and me

Time feels suspended, but the record spins. I stare at the beige carpet until Chris arrives shortly after 3 a.m.

He holds me the entire night. 

September 7, 2024

It's Saturday afternoon. While driving in Jersey City, I see an Iowa license plate from O’Brien county. I want to pump the breaks; I haven't seen one of those since I left the Midwest.

I park right outside Louie's house. I sit in him and his girlfriend's living room for hours. We just talk. I can't count the amount of times I laugh until I cry and my ribs hurt. Instead of alcohol, I chug water almost regrettably because I almost pee myself from laughing so hard. The good life is now, I tell myself.

September 26, 2024

Chris is on my mind since I saw the Iowa license plate in Jersey City. Chris deleted social media during our relationship, so I could never passively check up on him.​​​​​​​ Is he still sober? Is he seeing someone? Is he still metal detecting?² Is he happy?

I decide to call his number saved in my contacts. Disconnected. My chest sinks into my lower abdomen like an anchor.

I Google Chris's full name and "obituary" in the search phrase. As I wait for the search results, I realized I’ve been here time and time again following our breakup. I’ve Googled Chris's obituary over the years for reassurance that he was alive somewhere out there.

The results finally load. My heart sinks. His obituary from July 2024 is the first result.

1. These lyrics are from the chorus of “forever” by Charli xcx.

2. Chris picked up metal detecting as a hobby during his first attempt at sobriety while we were together.