Saturday, Feb. 02, 2019 @ 12:49 am
I pace nervously around the house. Dad comments, "What's going on. You seem anxious."
I change my top three times. Hair up, hair down.
"Chris is picking me up."
All of the days that I've spent with him, this time it feels different. We were supposed to go skiing. I know how we are when we go skiing. Rain causes a change in plans. He says he'll pick me up and go for a walk and supper.
I stare at his message on my phone. I'm going out on a Friday night for a walk and dinner with a man. Is this a date? I don't know how to do this.
He arrives on time, and I yell 'bye!' to my parents and hustle out the front door. Bizarre flash backs to teenage dates. My dad follows me outside, and Chris talks with him briefly. The awkward Dad and date talking moment.
When Dad leaves, I turn to Chris. My heart aches and I want to hug him. He's turning towards the drivers side, and I'm breaking up inside because I need a hug from him. He pauses and turns, and wraps me up in a hug that erases all of the ache.
He drives us out to the ocean. Quiet night. Nobody else goes to the beach in the rain. Inky sky. Gentle lapping waves. A heron silhouetted in the shallows.
We walk and talk for a while. There's a quiet moment. And then he says, "I'm so sorry to hear what you're going through."
I share with him a bit of the story. Enough for him to understand where I'm at. I don't know how much to tell.
We walk and walk and walk. I laugh so hard that my cheeks hurt. He tells a story that makes me cry. We talk about so many different things that I can't string them all together.
The night deepens. We stand at length at the end of a pier. I close my eyes and listen to the waves, the creek running nearby, the purr of the freighter engines offshore. Chris talks, and his familiar voice is a balm on my soul.
In the designs of providence, there are no mere coincidences.
I don't want any of this to change. I always thought I wanted more - and I have dreamed of more - but not right now. This, here, this feeling of being with him but not *with* him, is perfection.
He drives me home. He idles in the car until I am inside of the house. I turn around and wave, and only then does he drive away.
I close the door and lean against it. Slide down to sit on the floor, my back to the door. Face in my hands. Happy. Sad. Scared. Confused.
I feel as though there is a tender blossom in my hand. It's fragile and tenuous, and I need to be sure to handle it carefully. And I almost wish that I hadn't picked it, because I'm not ready for such great responsibility.