failing

I was in a long-distance relationship for almost a year in college. The boy I'd come to love when I lived abroad in Germany lived across the country from me, and when our program ended in the Summer we decided that we were stronger than 2500 miles.

For a long time, I didn't really see all the fuss about being long-distance. We talked on the phone every night, at 11 or 12 my time and a couple of hours later his time. Our incompatible sleep patterns were suddenly perfectly matched, thanks to our friend time zones. We planned visits every other month--as much as we could afford, being poor college students. We sent each other emails, mailed cards and gifts, and generally maintained things.

I didn't even miss having him around. I missed him, of course, and I missed what we had back in Germany, but he had never been a part of my life here at my college, and there was no lonely void.

Neither of us worried about the other's faithfulness; me because he's a good guy and him because he thought I was the same.

And I am, I guess. Sort of.

If I wanted to flirt with a guy, I made it known, clearly, that I had a boyfriend. That way, I was free to be flirtatious and I had a built-in safety. Everyone knew, of course, that I loved my boyfriend. As long as I flirted with good guys who wouldn't put my devotion to any big test, I was in basically no danger.

And it worked out for me.

Being the girl with the long-distance boyfriend somehow made me the go-to girl for innocent flirting, playful joking, and serious chats. I was more popular than ever.

On New Year's Eve of that year, I had just begun the innocent flirtation process over again on a new guy--a friend of a friend named Justin. Justin was my exact physical type: tall, lanky, kind of awkward. He was funny and friendly, and that he was best friends with so many of my close friends suggested that we'd get along great. I was loving getting to know him, loving the party, loving celebrating the holiday with my old friends.

Then I had a fight with my boyfriend. He was at a party for a big college group he was the vice-president of, and the "fun game" the kids at the party had decided to play involved trying to make out with all the members of the staff. Which in itself I found funny, until he couldn't be bothered to call me before midnight his time.

I wasn't exactly jealous, but I was upset; the New Year's prior, we had kissed to ring in the new year. I'd passed out drunk in his arms and we'd made it "official" just a day or two later. I felt like he was ignoring our faux-anniversary to play his stupid party game.

Justin came out on the balcony to see what was up. He offered me another cup of wine and a friendly shoulder to bitch on. In my anger, I decided that flirting was doubly acceptable, as long as my boyfriend was doing it too. I felt like this long-distance fight was an important test of our relationship, and I could play it just as well as he could.

I drank more, watched fireworks, chatted, flirted, laughed. We rang in the new year and celebrated by drinking a bottle of champagne each. A couple of hours later, everyone was dead to the world.

Later that night (or morning, rather), I woke up drunk and disoriented, sleeping in Justin's arms, curled on a couch in our friends' living room. Our clothes were askew and I could taste his mixed drink of choice on my lips. I had dry mouth and felt nauseous, more from drinking than the dawning realization of what I just done.

If this was a test, I had just failed.

I debated with myself whether I should talk to my boyfriend about it. I didn't want to tell anyone at all, but of course I did. And the more I talked about it, the less I felt like I needed to confess to my boyfriend. I decided not to. I never did.

We broke up several months later.

I still feel guilty about that night, but I find it easy to divorce my relationship with my boyfriend from the night with Justin. I wonder if that makes me a bad person, or a bad girlfriend, or just a girl who fucked up once.

It's funny that in a relationship, there are tests every single day, and you can pass them every time for years, but the one test that matters is the one you fail.

You only have to mess up once to be a cheater forever.