He Kissed Me Like His Sister — And I Knew I Was Alone Again

He kissed me like his sister and I knew I was alone again. I knew I'd never stopped being alone in the first place — and maybe I never would.

Just two weeks ago, he'd been chasing me like he was a hunter and I was the prize he'd been searching for his entire life.

"You're so beautiful," John would text me out of nowhere in the middle of the day. A smile would bloom on my face. I'd blush. I'd feel this heat in my chest and this wonderful, terrible hope growing in me.

I'd feel myself start to fall.

It was amazing. I wanted him from the very first moment we met, but I made him wait. I wanted him to feel like he earned me. But it was our fourth date and we were kissing on the couch and I inhaled the good masculine smell of him and felt the strength in his arms — and I felt so safe and protected and desired.

Afterwards, we lay there tangled in each other. He ran his fingers through my hair as I lay my head against his chest and listened to his heartbeat and let myself believe — in some way, maybe just maybe — it was beating for me.

We had two perfect weeks.

Two perfect weeks of flirty and sexy texts and laughing in bed and talking in vague terms about this soft-focus, far-off future — and letting the walls I'd built around my heart, brick after brick, start to fall.

Then you know what happened.

Twenty passionate texts a day turned to ten boring ones. "I can't wait to see you" turned to "I've been really busy with work." And then, suddenly — like a bad nightmare I'd had again and again and again — I was the one chasing him. Feeling disgusting. Hating myself for it.

Then we got coffee. The table between us felt like the Grand Canyon. While he used to pull me toward him, pick me up in his arms and kiss me like a movie star — he just bent down a little and kissed me like his sister and walked away. A ghost.

I knew I would never hear from him again.

I lay there that night hugging my pillow — alone, just like she said — feeling a raw wound where all my hope used to be. Thinking about Bill, who I met at a drunken party back in college. Or Mark from work, who chased me and chased me until I finally agreed to go out with him. We had three dates and then he wouldn't talk to me and never looked me in the eye again. Or Chris, who I was even engaged to — who I spent five years with, only two of which were any good — but I didn't want to be alone.

I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling the tub of ice cream rumble in my belly and the nausea in my heart. I thought about starting over again and wanted to sob. Going on Tinder or OkCupid or whatever weird dating app people were using these days, since no guys actually just walked up and asked you out anymore.

I thought about John. How sincere he seemed. How you couldn't fake looking at a woman like that. And I wondered what happened. Wondered why he pulled away. Wondered what I could do to make him want me again — to make him chase me and hunt me and worship me the way I so desperately wanted him to.

"Hello — it's Michael," the deep, kind voice said as I stared at a bald guy with penetrating eyes on my computer screen. We were Skyping.

I'd been working to talk to him for about three weeks — and I'd tried everything.

His name is Michael Fiore. When I'd scoured the internet trying to find out why John pulled away, his name kept coming up again and again. He'd written popular books. He'd created programs you could buy online — about getting your ex back, using text messages to bring the romance back, how to understand the truth about men. I'd even watched a video of him on the Rachel Ray Show and liked his page on Facebook — just like over 2 million other women.

I tried to tell him I had a blog and a podcast. His staff had said he was really busy. His staff said he didn't do one-on-one consulting. But I babbled. I couldn't believe I was finally talking to him.

"So how can I help you? Are we recording? What do you want to talk about?"

I felt ice in my heart. What was he going to say if he found out I lied?

"Um, I wanted to talk to you about why men pull away," I said. "Like, all the women in my — uh — audience talk about this. Like it starts out great and then after a few months or years or whatever, things change and you become invisible."

He interrupted: "Yeah. I get this one a lot. A lot. Every day. It's the big question."

Then he asked the name of my show. He said he knew everybody in this niche and had never heard of me.

I scrambled. I decided to tell the truth and hope it was okay.

"I — I don't actually have a show or anything," and the tears started to flow. "I'm just a woman from the Midwest. I just don't know what to do. I met this guy and I thought it was different but he wasn't and it hurts so much and I feel so stupid." I told him the whole story. The whole story about John. The whole story about every man in my whole life.

He suddenly seemed exhausted. Defeated, almost.

"I've been doing this a long time. I've helped a lot of women. A lot of men. And a few years ago I decided I wanted to do something scary — I created a program called 'How to Make Him Worship You Like the Queen You Want Him To.'"

"That's great," I said. "How much?"

"That's the thing, Kate — I don't sell it. Not to anyone. I made it and invited a few women to look at it and it didn't go well. It wasn't what they wanted to hear. They got mad. Really mad. They couldn't handle it. They wanted the lie — and hated me for telling them the truth."

A beat. A moment, like he was thinking.

"I feel for you, Kate, but… it's nice meeting you. I need to—"

He was grabbing the mouse. He was turning me away.

"I want to hear the truth. I want to hear the truth, Michael — whatever it is — no matter how much it hurts. I'm not a little girl anymore. I don't need fantasy. I don't want to be alone. I don't want to have to date again."

He bit his lip. He weighed it in his mind.

"I shouldn't do this," he said. "Every guy I know told me I shouldn't even have created this thing. They said it would destroy my career. I'm sorry. I have to go. It's been nice meeting you. Good luck."

And then I crawled into bed and cried. I tried creating a new Tinder profile, but every selfie I took, all I could see was the sadness in my eyes.

I tried to write Michael again. I sent him messages on Skype. I tried to email his PR people. I'm not proud of it — but I begged.

And after three days, something wonderful happened.

I got an email from an address I didn't recognize. An email from somebody at Michael's company, Digital Romance Inc.

I wrote back. I said yes.

Four hours later, I got a link and a login to a website.

She was right — it was hard to watch. Hard to listen to. There were videos and worksheets and these very specific techniques to use. All this stuff about men's psychology. What it's really like to be a man. What men really think of women. And why — really why — they pull away.

My God. It is not what I thought. Not even close. I felt sick.

The next day I was so nervous. Like I was standing on a ledge 40 feet up, hoping like hell the bungee cord would stop me from falling to my death.

I'd tried texting John a couple of times over the last few weeks — but nothing. This time I tried something different. I sent him a simple three-word text I learned from Michael.

I felt my heart in my throat as I hit send.

Just 10 minutes later — he answered. And he asked me if I wanted to get together for a drink.

• 1
  The Three-Word Text

  Instead of being coy or playing games or trying to seduce him, I did what the program said. A simple message. Ten minutes later, he responded.

• 2
  The Testosterone Telepathy Technique

  First I used what Michael called the "Testosterone Telepathy" technique — just three words. He looked at me confused, then looked me right in the eye. I saw his jaw relax. He blinked a few times like he was waking up from a dream. Suddenly it's like he was there again.

• 3
  Day by Day

  That night he came to my place and we just cuddled and talked. Over the next few weeks, day by day, I used the program. I printed out the worksheets. I watched the videos over and over. It wasn't what I wanted to be true — but slowly, day by day, doing what it said, accepting that it might be true — it worked.

• 4
  He Was Back

  Suddenly John was texting me again. He was chasing me again. He was looking at me when we went out to dinner — telling me how beautiful I was over and over. I caught him staring at me with hunger in his eyes. And when he kissed me, it was primal and passionate and deep.

• 5
  We Were a "We"

  Before I knew it, he and I were a we. And I suddenly didn't feel very alone at all.

"What the hell happened to you two?" Sally asked as I told her all about my new boyfriend. "Did you drug him? Is that it? Because that was over — I was ready to stage an intervention if you ever mentioned his name again."

"I can't tell you," I said. "I just… I learned a few things."

"What things? Tell me."

I held out. At first. I'd promised.

Sally is very persistent.

Eventually, she gave up. She went home. I wrote Anne and told her how grateful I was.

Then the next day, I felt ice in my veins and fear in my heart like I was being hunted by an angry tiger — because my printouts, my marked-up worksheets, all the amazing techniques and tricks and methods Michael had created and Anne had risked her job to send to me — they were gone.

She texted me three days later. I can't show you what she said, but it rhymes with "Holy mitt."

"Jesus, he asked me to go to his brother's wedding with him."

"What did you say?" I asked.

"I asked him if he was high. And then I said yes. We need to make copies. We need to give this to your sister, your mom, Debbie—"

"I promise I would never share it," I said.

"Yeah — you didn't share it. I stole it. Blame me."

Then — Kate, all glassy confusion all over his face when he saw me on his screen: "Hi. Why are we talking again? Is this a mistake or something?"

Then he saw Anne over his shoulder — and three other women he didn't recognize. Michael's own team.

"Why do I feel like an alcoholic about to have an intervention?" he asked.

Over the next hour, the five of us sat him down and begged and pleaded and flattered and cajoled.

"Women can handle the truth," we told him. We told him about the women it had already helped. Women who were angry and bitter. Women who had given up.

"This is how you fulfill your mission to help women be happy — to help women really understand men."

And he finally said yes.