Clandestine Confessions

“I could see that for myself,” I said. Nearly in a whisper. Part of me petrified to speak it out loud and admit the undeniable pull I have been feeling to “settle down” a bit.
Not in spirit. I will never allow that to happen again.
Nor will I ever choose people to demand that of me again.
If I wanted to stay confined that is what I could return to the disorder for.
(And yes, I write those last two sentences very much aware of the correlation. How my past choice in men was always just the disorder personified. And yes, I am very much aware that is why a “healthy” love terrifies me.)
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But to rest in location.
In connection.
Letting these wings find a landing spot.
A place to commit…whether that be in a heart of a person or a home.
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Whenever I speak of my living history (a common occurrence at my job), the first question tends to be “did you grow up military?”
Promptly followed by “so, why Utah?”
And my answer is always the same:
“No, not military. Just a woman on a mission.”
And…
“I made myself a promise years ago to always go where the life is.”
After spending most of my existence chasing after death, it felt like the greatest act of rebellion. It seemed like the only logical way to live.
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(But what if life is in a person? It is a surmounting thought these days. Not sure if bred by loneliness or God given.
A lifetime in one place seems like forever for the adventurer in me, but yet a lifetime with a certain person seems far too short for the romantic in me.
And that is where the dilemma lies.)
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“Which part? The free coffee?”
I let out a deep laugh. He had clearly caught on quick to my frugality. I had slipped in a few statements here and there over the course of our conversations that would expose that pervasive trait in myself.
At least for one paying attention.
So, his question wasn’t technically wrong, but not the direction I was going.
My declaration was not driven out of concern over preserving my bank account.
But more over my interest in protecting my happily ever after.
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To give some context, this whole discussion was sparked from him telling me about where he lives.
How he wakes up and walks to the coffee shop where they give him a complimentary drink in exchange for the work he does for them.
How they hold block parties in his neighborhood.
How his café build has been progressing and the vision for it; an idea sketched on paper during a pandemic driven corporate burnout that now has permits and walls.
How he has been renovating his 1860’s home in his “free” time, going room by room of his three-story residence for the last 6 years.
It would be a home that would captivate my heart when seeing it on FaceTime about a week later.
The arched doorways he built, the exposed brick wall, the spiral staircase, the light fixtures, the library with the sliding ladder.
And of course, the kitchen.
A dream.
Everything designed, installed, and constructed by him.
“This is everything I ever imagined you would do and become,” I told him. And with that came a mind calming comfort. That while a little less than half our lives have passed since last seeing each other, he was still him.
Living a life that proved my heart could indeed see correctly.
That at one point this internal compass of mine did know how to point me home.
It felt like my memory of him was more of a prophecy.
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“Well yes. Always. But not that. The small town, life in a Hallmark movie, settling down somewhere, making roots.”
“And where do you envision that? Northern California?”
I had VERY briefly mentioned wanting to take a road trip there; one sentence spoken amidst the thousands we exchanged in our many hours of conversing.
He listens. He remembers.
Somehow still even being able to recall Gilbertsville as my hometown as we talked about all the places I have resided.
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He once sent a post card to that address while on vacation in San Francisco. One still in my possession tucked away in my closet in a box overflowing with every letter, card, note, and drawing anyone has ever given me from 2003 on.
“Wish you were here to experience this amazing city!” he ended it with.
That piece of heart healing memorabilia stayed displayed on my desk for years, propped up by the stuffed cow he won me at a fair.
And an address to which he also had flowers delivered. The bouquet of sunflowers was sent to me on May 28, 2009. Accompanied with a note apologizing for missing my prom.
(That is a tale that will receive its own excerpt one day. Too much emotion and meaning to be compartmentalized into another.)
He was always one of the good ones.
And upon deeper reflection, I am not sure I ever knew what to do with that. With someone who showed up, who saw me, who did not place me as an afterthought, who put in the effort.
With no motive or personal gain.
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“I have a selective memory,” he said after I told him how impressed I was he remembered that small town in which I grew up. “Some things just stick. Like this random memory I have of you watching the movie “something candles” in the lounge at Princeton. 13? 19? I just know candles were involved,” he said with a laugh.
“Haha…sixteen? And that sounds like something I would have done. Most likely with a word search in hand and wrapped in a blanket.”
I left out the part of admitting I had zero interest in the movie and honestly could not tell you one scene from it.
I was too distracted watching the door hoping he would walk in; my stomach flipping every time I saw a shadow appear on the floor wondering if it belonged to him.
Outside of the dining room, it was the only room in the eating disorder unit we could be in together. Given my opportunities to be in his presence were limited, I was more than willing to endure boring cinematic “masterpieces” and forced social interactions just for the chance to see him.
His admittance of this recollection made me smile…and wonder…was none of this ever one sided?
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“I will keep my options open on the whereabouts.”
“Good…that is really good.”
He and I wrote enough in between those two lines to make for a whole other story to read.
So much left unsaid.
There always has been.
Which is only sparking my intrigue more as to why he reached out back in July.
Why now?
After all this time…
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To be continued…