A Better Person

"If you cheat on me, she'd better be Miss America," I said to my longtime friend. We sat in his car on a cold, rainy day in Detroit after having lunch with my family. I'd shared some info that he needed proof to believe.

"Let me see a picture of the girl," Chris said. I went to her Instagram on my phone.

"Let me see a picture of him," he said next.

"I don't have any," I said.

"Dria, I know he got a Facebook or something," Chris said.

"I'm not his fucking friend," I said, as I typed my ex's name in the search field.

Chris looked at the pic. He sighed.

"Let me tell you something: He's not going to be with her for too long, man," he said. I suppose he wanted me to find that reassuring. "Yea, it always feel good to have a girl and be talking to another one or whatever, but then you leave and find out that girl aint.... I mean, later on you realize you left a girl who, all she was really tryna do was make you a better person."

When Chris and I met he was 16; the obnoxious, always-in-trouble, knucklehead of summer camp. We called ourselves "talking" for the next year or so, during which time he lied often, disappeared occasionally and was exactly the type of idiot you'd want your daughter to avoid. In fact, our conversation took this turn because he said, "If I had it to do over, I would have treated you better."

In December he'll turn 30.  He's married, committed to his wife, hardworking and a proud father of two small children. The maturation I've been able to witness surprises me every time we speak. I think to myself, if he can get it together, anyone can.

I'm happy for the man he's become. But I wonder how many times I'll have to be that girl who should have been treated better, when all I was tryna do was make him a better person.