“Is this Olivia?”
Five months into the COVID-19 shutdown, at 9 a.m. on a Thursday, I got my first “Ex Text.” Except I don’t have any exes. I’ve never been in a long-term relationship.
Alas, it was mid-July, and I hadn’t had any romantic contact with anyone of the opposite sex since March 15, 2020, the day the restaurant I worked at shut down and a guy I thought I liked showed up to eat in my section.
The name popped up across my minuscule iPhone 6 screen: Jack.
No last name.
Instantly my heart stopped racing. Disappointed, I realized who it was but I still felt the need to play it cool.
“Yeah,” I responded to his question. “Who’s this?”
“Ha, it’s Oisin. Scroll up unless you deleted me.”
Sadly there were no messages to scroll up to. I was on my fourth phone in three years. I knew the last time I had seen Jack/Oisin was in March 2017, three years before the pandemic.
I played coy for a few rapid-fire texts, extracting information out of him for my own amusement. I wanted to hear the story, which I have retold countless times, from his point of view.
Jack offered minimum effort by stating the basics: We met at E.P. & L.P., the debatably still-trendy rooftop bar known for its glamorous views of L.A. and for being the place to meet up with that guy from Hinge.
As he slowly but surely pieced together parts of the puzzle that were already arranged in my brain, I reluctantly threw in bait — a significant plot line of the story that only I knew.
“Oooh, I remember now. You got me pregnant.”
I laughed alone in my apartment for five minutes until I realized he wasn’t ever going to respond unless I sent a follow-up text to eradicate his fears.
“JK. Lol.”
The three dots appeared tentatively on the screen followed by a coping mechanism that could only be described as an attempt at humor: “That’s why I’m texting you. Someone dropped this baby at my doorstep.”
I also cope with humor, so I added: “You mean toddler?”
Of all the people to return from my past, I was most shocked to hear from an Irish man who has two names with whom I had been acquainted for just one night.
After all, it had taken much of my mental capacity to put my night with him (and the resulting pregnancy scare) to rest. Was it ironic that I took my first-ever pregnancy test on Good Friday? I wouldn’t put it past my Catholic guilt. Quite tragically, I had to face both my mother and God that day post-Plan B.
The night Jack and I met was the night my best friend from USC, Sam, was visiting from Amsterdam. Shortly after arriving at the glitzy weekend evening scene at E.P. & L.P., Sam waltzed up to a hot surfer dude and told him she liked his fedora. The hot surfer dude had a less-hot-but-still-cute Irish-accented friend, Jack/Oisin. The four of us guzzled cocktails, posed in a photo booth and ended up at an afterparty on a mini farm in Laurel Canyon.
At the farm, Sam and I were introduced to the couple who owned the house and their dogs, goats, chickens and Google Home surround sound (and multicolored lights) system.
I was in awe until I found myself in a hot tub where I had regrettable, condom-less sex with Jack.
Years later, I hardly ever thought about it — until I found myself a few months into a pandemic desperate for male attention. I asked Jack if he had texted me simply because he had finally gotten to the letter O in his contacts.
He said no, and I believed him. We continued to chat over text, and suddenly the dopamine hit me.
I was addicted to talking to boys again.
However, summer quickly turned into fall during what seemed like an endless quarantine, and we still had not met up for a date, drink or … well, anything.
One night in October, Jack FaceTimed me and I told him to just come over already. It had been months of talking, and we both had a human urge and now a seemingly destined prophecy to fulfill (or so I wishfully thought).
Jack grunted, offering no excuses, as he watched me throw frozen vegan nuggets into a much-neglected oven. I begged him again. “Just come. Over.”
Brentwood to Hollywood.
It really wasn’t that hard.
Exasperated from not being able to elicit a clear, resounding “Yes!” from him, I hung up and gorged on my nuggets. It was never going to happen.
I told Jack to kindly f— off telepathically, and I downloaded the golden trifecta of dating apps — Hinge, Bumble and Tinder — for the first time in over a year. Plan B to the rescue once again.
In 2022, phone No. 5 buzzed with a text from Jack: “You still in L.A.?”
I chuckled because I wasn’t sure what was more comical: the persistence of this long-lost pen pal or the thought of me ever leaving L.A.
This time I conserved my telepathic energy and left the text holistically unanswered.
Four Julys post-“Not a Real Ex Text,” I’m about to turn 30 and I have a boyfriend for the first time after dating in L.A. for a while. For better or for worse, I, Olivia, pledge my faith to the L.A. dating game. And I readily encourage you to do the same.
The author is an actor, writer and comedian. She lives in Hollywood. She’s on Instagram and TikTok: @olivdislife
L.A. Affairs chronicles the search for romantic love in all its glorious expressions in the L.A. area, and we want to hear your true story. We pay $300 for a published essay. Email LAAffairs@latimes.com. You can find submission guidelines here. You can find past columns here.
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