Chapter Twenty Six; Live Strong

I run.

I started about four years ago. This former diva of domesticity and cookies decided to hit a treadmill and ended up inadvertently discovering just how life altering running can be.

And I’m not just talking about my ass. (Which experienced a significant alteration of its own to the tune of a size 4, thank you very much.)

I’ve since run my way through a divorce, dating debacles, and even a job loss. I attribute not just my survival of life’s suckier moments to running but also the capability it gives me to transform them.

And Nick’s departure was no exception.

I eventually did heal.

But not by retreating.

By running.

Oh, of course I cried. All of my September is a cloudy salty memory. But I punctuated my grieving by tightly lacing up my tennis shoes, cranking up my iPod, and sailing down the street on nothing but rhythmic breath and the measured cadence of my Aesics on the asphalt.

Mile after mile.

I ran out the pain.

I missed him. I cursed him. I loved him. I hated him. I second guessed myself. I wondered about this qwest I was on for love. It seems so futile sometimes.

Four weeks before I had arranged for my mom to watch my children on a particular upcoming weekend in anticipation of Nick’s birthday.

He was gone but the plans for my children to visit their Granny remained. So I took advantage of my freedom and signed up to run a 5K that was part of a larger-half marathon event. A symbolic gesture of my ability. To keep moving forward.

Even when all I wanted to do was sit down.

And sob.

I run 5K’s all the time. They’re kind of my thing. But today this race was different. Nick might be physically strong but when it comes to character and compassion?

This time.

I’m the strong one.

Because instead of staying home and lamenting the fact that I am not on his arm at the birthday party he'd spent weeks planning I am up at the butt crack of dawn.

Running a fucking race.

The starting gun fires. My running playlist echoes in my eardrums and my body moves in its rhythmical pace. The terrain is unfamiliar and far more hilly than what I am used to.

But I run on.

Because this isn’t the first time life’s put me on a course that I would not have charted for myself. It bends and lifts and plunges, forever unpredictable. Just like life. The trying times and the joyful possibilities. They are entwined and connected and dependent upon one another. And all of it must be navigated if the finish line is ever to be crossed.

Because the race doesn’t stop just because there is a hill.

And the road doesn’t end just because it curves.

In fact, neither does this sometimes tragic but forever beautiful.

Life.

Bring on the hills and let me see what's around that corner.

Because this chick runs strong.

And lives.

Stronger.

**************************************
It’d be poetic justice to report I not only finished first but set a world record wouldn't it? Maybe a little Olympic qualification? "Happy birthday, Nick. Who needs you? I’m a freaking rock star!" Yeah, not so much. But I did okay. Under a 9 minute mile and 4th place in my age division out of fifty some women. But running, for me, isn’t about the numbers. It’s about momentum. And energy goes one direction, babe.

Forward.

You are SUPER SEXY and I am DISEASE FREE!

Yes. It's true. I signed up for Match.com.

And that line in the title is an honest to god/swear on the bible/not remotely made up gen-u-wine email that I received from a potential match.

Some guy in Nebraska. Who's the same age as my Dad.

I know! Can you BELIEVE there is such quality in the online lonely hearts club? Where have you been all my life STD free old man? Let me fly there immediately, sans condoms, and run off into the sunset with so you can tell me all about what life was like in the 1950's.

Ew.

Gag me with my computer mouse already.

I am sure I'll have plenty oh match dot com stories for ya shortly, Dating Land fans. But in the meantime, I'm slacking off on the bloggin' during this Thanksgiving holiday, but if you miss me...tune in tonight (Wednesday!) to KFGO and catch me on the air.

I'm going to read some of my match.com correspondence. You can't make this stuff up. Listen online at www.kfgo.com.

Thanks for reading!!!

~Audra

What is love?

"Love has nothing to do with what you are expecting to get. Only with what you are expecting to give . . . which is everyththing."~ Katharine Hepburn

********************************
I apologize there is no blog entry today. I had the kind of weekend that inspires blog stories for later . . .

Ultimately what I fear most is that this journey so far is damaging my trust in others, and that much of it has been robbed of me already.

What happens when trust dissovles permanently?

And there is nothing left to give?

The answer to that question is what I am most afraid.

Of becoming.

Here's to love. And the trust in hope that allows all of us to do what Katharine Hepburn says.

To keep giving.

Everything.


~Audra

Chapter Twenty Five; Consolation Prize

I am kind of a sap. I save things.

But not indefinitely.

I shred bank statements, throw out my children’s artwork (come on, how many popsicle creations does a person really need?) and sort through the family’s clothes every season. I donate, recycle, and basically just throw junk out that no longer has any use.

But when it comes to sentimental items? That’s a different story.

I keep everything.

Birthday cards from my high school boyfriend, letters my great grandma sent me in college, some junky old Christmas ornament I made in the first grade that my mom told me was beautiful (even though it’s nothing but about ten sequins glued to a Styrofoam ball).

I have all that crap.

Organized. Labeled.

Saved.

I am kind of a hoarder when it comes to matters of the heart.

I don’t know what I am envisioning. My great grandchildren going through my life in boxes some day long after my funeral and seeing that I had some kind of a life with a little bit of love sprinkled here and there? Maybe I’m collecting evidence simply to demonstrate that I was here on this earth for a little while.

And while I was.

It mattered.

And so, when things with Nick ended I didn’t throw anything out. Not that I had much. But I had a few things. He’d given me a coffee mug with the fire department logo on it. I use it. (Hey, it’s a perfectly good mug.) Although I feel like chuckling every time I do. It seems to represent the parting gift for a game show I was on and didn’t win.

“Thanks for playing! Here’s your consolation prize.”

Once you get past the heartbreak it honestly can be entertaining, the tangible remnants of a relationship that remain.

I once had a boyfriend who left his blender at my house.

Weird.

I did return that though. I really didn’t want to think about him every time I made a malt.

What I mostly have as evidence Nick was here are texts and emails he sent me. I don’t ever read them. But I love words, and those are meaningful to me. I know I’ll delete them eventually. But for now.

I just have them.

I also have pictures.

Every one he ever sent me. And he sent me a lot.

A picture’s worth a thousand words. After all.

Recently, I had blackberry issues. And I had to take my phone in. The texts remain, but several of the pictures are gone.

One of the pictures I’d planned to use at the end of this blog.

It was of the daisies he’d brought me. Bright, white, and beautiful on my kitchen counter.

I don’t know why we women take pictures of flowers when we receive them. Probably a meager attempt to capture the simple fact that someone thought you were important enough to acknowledge your presence with blossoms. Flowers mark our most memorable milestones after all. Birth. Marriage. Death. They announce that something grand and large has just taken place.

So when someone gives you flowers for no reason? They are a symbolic celebration.

Of just you.

And that. Warrants a photograph.

I lost that picture of Nick's daisies when I had my phone restaged.

But then, the other day, I pulled a book off my nightstand I hadn’t opened in quite a while.

And a pressed daisy fell to the floor.

I’d completely forgotten. I’d saved it.

Ironically, I’d placed it between the pages of a book about the love story of Spencer Tracey and Katherine Hepburn.

I picked up the crumbling remains of that flower and nonchalantly placed it on the cover.

An affair to remember. The title reads.

Ha.

Nice.

I think to myself.

How great of a relationship was this? Is it really worth remembering? I mean really.

What’s so great about a guy who roars into your life on a Harley?

And then leaves you with nothing but electronic correspondence, a coffee mug, and a dead daisy?

Doesn’t sound like an affair to remember to me.

Sounds more like one.

To forget.

I threw the brittle petals in the garbage. And headed to my laptop to hit the delete button a few hundred times.

And oh yeah.

Anyone out there need a sturdy coffee mug?

Because I have one.

That I really don’t feel like keeping.

***************************************************
Yes . . . that really is the daisy in the photo on the cover of the book. What? I had to take a picture.

Oh, hey . . . I'm going to be on KFGO again next Wednesday, November 25th @ 9:00 CST. Hope you can tune in! I'll be talking about heartbreak . . . and healing.

Chapter Twenty Four; Wake Me Up. When September Ends.

Nick descended into my life with ferocious abruptness.

And that is exactly how he left.

For the first two weeks in September I cried a lot. After that, I just walked around like a zombie. Feeling nothing and still feeling everything. This horrible in between place called apathy that results when death comes prematurely to a promise.

I missed him. Well, I missed the idea of him. After all, what do you really have after just less than two months together? Get real. It’s not like I caught my husband of 20 years boinking his secretary. Whatever we’d had.

Was brief.

So what the flip was I bawling about?

What had I really lost?

Well. What is trust?

That’s a lot.

Because that is exactly what was gone.

Trust in myself.

In others.

Specifically. In men.

Everywhere I went. Anyone with a penis who even looked my direction was greeted with a glare that had, “Talk to me and I slap you, asshole,” written all over it.

For I’d also lost that hopeful little dream that all of us harbor. To meet that one person and know in one second that you are going to spend one lifetime together.

How ridiculous had I been? To secretly believe.

That it could happen.

To me.

That belief was executed that afternoon in the sunshine.

And the resulting funeral procession was a parade of one. Just me. Walking around in my life like a lost traveler who’d misplaced her map. And really not caring if I ever found it again.

Naomi was wonderful throughout my woe is me period. As were all of my friends. Of course, they took me hostage, took me out, and made toasts to things like castration.

Because really, they were grieving too. They’d fallen for Nick as well.

And now they too.

Felt duped.

“I think he’s just mystifying. The entire thing is mystifying,” was Allie’s assessment.

My girlfriends and I are gathered over a couple bottles of wine, hunkered down at a corner table in our favorite restaurant. Naomi’s contribution to the conversation is simply to mention castration.

For the fourth time.

And so goes my September post-Nick.

Intermittent chapters of crying. Interjected by girlfriend gatherings with our kindred spirits Merlot, Riesling, and Chardonnay.

Cheers.

To the beginning of the process necessary to take me back to the one place I must go if I am ever to give love a chance again.

Healing.

Chapter Twenty Three; Shattered

It is Sunday morning. Two days after Nick told me he needed time.

Seven days after we’d just gotten back together. And now, we’re apart again?

I just didn’t understand.

I watch the families filter into the worship space at church as I stand behind the microphone and prepare my sheet music. I’ve been singing in church since I was 14 years old, up in the choir loft of my small town Catholic church.

This Sunday is my Sunday to cantor, to lead the music. And I couldn’t be more grateful. When I have the chance to sing at church, I always feel a profound sense of peace, and the presence of, well, The Holy Spirit. And right now?

I could use all the holy I could get.

The past few days I had been trying to process Nick’s Thursday words. He needs time.

Time.

I could still see his blue eyes in my mind. Leaning against the entry way of the fire station. Pleading with me to just give him that one thing he needed.

Time.

Whenever I sing, I always choose one person to focus on, to dedicate all of my words to. Someone in the pews who looks troubled. It helps to calm my nerves and remind myself that I am not there for my own glory, but for the glory of God.

The night before, an email came into my blackberry from a woman in the congregation who had been widowed two years prior. Her husband had died of cancer at the age of 44. And this week, it would have been their 25th wedding anniversary. Just last night I’d read her words on his Caring Bridge Site, “Dear Murray. I never thought I would celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary sitting on this bench next to your grave in a cemetery.”

I’d wept as I’d read her account of so many vivid memories of their wedding 25 years before. The ceremony. The reception. Their first dance to “Under the Boardwalk.” But my tears were not rooted in pity. I was almost envious. What deep love they had shared. Although he had died, they’d had 23 years together.

In this life of mine, and in my failed marriage, I’d never even had one.

And this particular Sunday morning, there she was. Sitting in the pews before me.

And so I dedicated every note I sang to her. To her grief, and to the love for her husband that could not be extinguished by death.

I let every measure be a prayer of faith. Faith in love lost. And in love found.

Love present. Love past. And love someday.

And not just for me.

But for all of us on this human road.

A profound sense of peace overcame me at the close of mass. And as I left the church, an old man stopped to shake my hand, “Great job today, young lady.”

I smile.

I feel peaceful. And I trust, that no matter how things are supposed to unfold with Nick, they will happen as they are supposed to happen.

Ding.

My blackberry beckons.

Someone loves me.

My girlfriend, Allie, is inviting me to join her and her daughters for Sunday brunch at our favorite restaurant. The August morning is unfolding into a gorgeous summer day, and I can't think of anything more perfect than pancakes on a patio with a dear friend and our children.

My youngest daughter and I are on our way, but shortly before we arrive, I look down at my phone and see another text from Allie.

OMG! What are the odds? Nick is here. Table next to us. He is with a woman, probably just a friend. Do you want to still come?

My heart skips a beat. I can’t not go; my little girl is anticipating her pancakes.
At the next stop light, I decide to text Nick and tell him I am on my way. I don’t want him to feel awkward. Maybe he would like to leave instead of sitting next to me during Sunday brunch? I should be respectful and give him a heads up that I will be there.

I don’t even think twice about who he is with. In fact, I know a lot of his friends, I figure I know the woman and fully expect to recognize her when I arrive.

On my way to meet Allie and her daughters for brunch. U r sitting next 2 her? I would just not come if awkward but kiddo is looking forward 2 it.

He doesn’t reply.

Odd.

He always replies.

When I pull into the restaurant I see him right away, baseball hat, Oakley shades.

He is laughing away.

I take a deep breath.

Allie was right. What are the odds? This town is not a metropolis, but it’s not that small.

I hug Allie when I get to the patio, deposit my daughter in her seat. Nick’s back is to me, so I walk up to him and gently put my hand on his shoulder.

He looks up.

“Hey . . .uh, hey,” he stutters.

I mutter quietly, feeling bad for the unintentional ambush, “Um,” I start, “I sent you a text message letting you know I was coming?”

“Oh . . . uh,” he mumbles, “I . . . uh . . . my phone is in my bag, I didn’t see it.”
That’s strange. Nick’s phone is on him at all times. It is like an appendage. The only time I’ve ever seen him not use it was on our first few dates.

Odder.

I look across the table. This is not a woman I recognize.

“Oh, sorry. Just wanted you to know I was coming,” I say quietly.

Awkward silence.

“Um, do you want to introduce me?” I prompt him.

Nick just sits there.

The girl at the table smiles broadly and says, “I am Brenda,” as she extends her hand.

Nick mutters, “Uh . . . this is Audra.”

I grasp her hand and wait for Nick to fill in the blanks about who Brenda is and how he knows her.

Silence.

That explanation never happens.

I look at Nick. He is looking away.

I look at Brenda.

And inside my soul I am flooded with the realization.

Oh my god.

He is on a date.

This is a date.

Nick.

Is on a date.

I do not yell. I do not cry. I freeze inside and somehow manage to utter, “Enjoy your lunch.”

I move in what feels likes slow motion back to my table and sink in disbelief. Staring straight ahead.

“Oh my god,” Allie whispers as the truth descends in her direction, “oh my god. Is that a date?” she whispers in hushed tones.

I stare at her. And do not answer.

My face void of color.

My silence is loud.

“Are you sure?” Allie prods, turning her own head to watch this reality unfold just mere inches from our own table. Our daughters laugh and squeal away. Their little voices sound like they are at the bottom of a deep pit. I feel my vision closing in.

Brenda is smiling at Nick, his back is to me, but her face is beaming. She is animated. She is giggling. Her leg is tucked up and she is hugging one knee.

My livelihood is sales. I get paid to be intuitive. To read people’s body language. To decipher what they are thinking. Feeling. Contracts with clients depend on my ability to read people. And Brenda’s body language is loud and clear.

She is in full on date mode.

I turn away. The voices around me drown in the deafening sound of my own heartbeat.

Allie looks at me with pity, “Are you going to be okay? What should I do? Oh, Audra, I am so sorry . . . this is unbelievable. He just told you two days ago he needed time! Who does this?! How can he be doing this? Is he really doing this? ”

I just stare at her. I don’t answer. I don’t know what to do. The man who told me just two days before I am the second person in his life he’s felt this strongly about.

Is on a date with another woman.

Right next to me.

The next 15 minutes march by like the cruel methodical beat of an executioner’s drum. I simply exist. I simply do what I must. I take my daughter inside to the buffet. I have no idea what she had for breakfast that morning. She could have loaded up her plate with nothing but butter and I wouldn’t have noticed.

I remember absentmindedly putting two strawberries and a slice of French toast on my plate as my hands shook.

I leave the buffet line, walk back out the door onto the patio, and stand in the darkest sunlight of my life.

I have a perfect vantage point of Nick as I walk back into the August morning.

I will never forget this vivid moment. I am wearing a pretty floor length strapless summer dress with a wide ruffle at the bottom. I’d fallen in love with it the minute I first saw. And it remains one of my favorite dresses, its floral hippie pattern makes me feel like a free spirit every time I wear it.

I feel the breeze gently moving its wispy material, my hair twirling ever so slightly in that same wind.

And behind my aviator sunglasses.

My eyes lock with Nick’s.

And as I stand there in that beautiful sunshine, in my beautiful dress, I watch everything I believed to be beautiful about Nick smash into unrecognizable slivers of something completely opposite of beautiful.

And while it does.

I just stand there.

Holding my goddamned plate.

Of French toast.

What was probably two seconds is seared into my memory forever as a defining and eternal moment.

Of ugly certainty.

And pain.

The term “heartbreak” is a dramatic one. In fact, who knows if our emotions have anything to do with our literal heart? But they definitely are connected to something. Because at that moment, in that sunlight, on that patio, something inside of me exploded into a thousand shards of glass. And the fragments raced through every artery and vein, ripping and tearing at my matter.

Hurting me.

On a level I did not even know.

I could hurt.

When I reach my seat I want to scream, but I can’t. I want to make a scene. But I can’t.

So I do everything I can.

To just.

Keep breathing.

After minutes that seem like centuries, Nick gets up to leave. His exit requiring him to walk within six inches of my chair.

And so I do it.

I say something.

I simply must know.

“So, uh, Nick,” I quietly say from my seat as I turn to him and tilt my sunglasses up toward his face. I lean back in my chair, my skirt cascading all around me as I shift my entire body as dignified as I can.

He stops. And slowly turns to me. He doesn’t even say a word as I begin, “Uh, just wondering.” I pause. He says nothing. I continue softly, “How do you two know each other?”

He does not make a sound.

He does not utter one word.

Brenda, still smiling, completely oblivious as to what is happening, chimes in, “Mutual friends introduced us,” cheerfully confirming the horrible truth.

It is a date.

Allie turns away from the scene. She looks as if she is going to be sick.

I stare not at Nick, but into him. And flatly respond.

“Oh.”

He says nothing.

He only.

Turns.

And walks away.

I just sit there like the stone I feel myself turning into. And watch him leave. And soon hear his Harley roaring to life in the parking lot. His broad form hurtles past the patio and I watch him go. Baseball hat on backward, sunglasses into the wind, and backpack over his shoulder.

And that was the last day. The last moment. The last time. I ever saw Nick.

For I never heard from him.

Ever.

Again.
*****************************************************
Dear Dating Land readers . . .
Thank you for your committment to this story. I know many of you will ask me...what happened next? Honestly? Nothing. I sent Nick three text messages from the restaurant basically asking him to "tell me what I just saw" and that if that was a date "you are a piece of work." I also remember telling him to "Get some balls and respond to me." (Not one of my finer moments . . .)

He never replied. I left him a message later that afternoon saying, "My trust in you is gone. I never want to see you again."

So. Who was Brenda? Was it a date? I will never really know. Because Nick never replied. He never explained. I sent him one email that week telling him my heart was broken. And another email a week later acknowledging my blog and that if he ever feels uncomfortable about my writing about certain dimensions of my life, then he just has to let me know. I will take anything down he dosen't like. He never replied to either email. And he never contacted me again. And I never contacted him either after I sent those two emails. I simply wanted him to know that I pride myself on my professionalism as a writer and feel it is a gift. Never will I use my passion for writing to do harm. And so after I communicated that . . . there was nothing left to say.

Besides? What was he going to say? I have tons of texts and emails from him telling me how much he loves my writing. I wrote an entire blog about life and relationships before I ever met him. It is something he told me over and over that he loved about me, that I was a writer, and that I wrote so beautifully. I'm not some chick who emotionally vomits on the internet. I harbor very deep writing aspirations and my goal is the same goal of all artists...to find that human connection and create something beautiful with it, something that says, "Hey, I know how you feel. I've been there too."

And that, was ultimately my purpose for writing this story. To simply share some human pain in an artistic way, a way that connects all of us to the larger human family. And to one another.

As for Nick, really, let's not be too harsh. There's two sides to every story and he has zero representation here. None of us are perfect and we've all done/said things that have hurt others. If anything, let's not just identify with ME in this story. I think the real lesson is identifying with him. When have WE been "Nick"? How have we hurt others? I think all of us have, in some way shape or form. And that's the real lesson here.

We all hold the power to shatter another human being. With our words. With our actions. Let us be cognizant of that power, and delicate with each other's hearts.

The coming Dating Land chapters will be some residual commentary on this story of Nick and I. . . but ultimately, I am done writing about him. I will instead focus on what having Nick come in, and out, of my life, has taught me.

And yes. I learned a lot. About other people. But also, about myself.

As for that day, in the long run. It was a gift. I know the chapter got long, but I felt it imperative to comment on my experience that morning at mass. For I feel, the serendipity that allowed me to be seated next to Nick that morning was God. God wanted to show me something. Even if it was going to hurt. He wanted me to know. He needed me to know.

It is now two and half months later. And yes, I think I did basically cry for all of September. October was better but I just felt numb. And I certainly didn't trust anyone with a penis, I can tell you that much. However, time is on my side, and time does heal. I went on my first date since that day on the patio just this past weekend. And so . . . I am trying to move forward.

Thank you for your devotion to my writing. Here's to life...and its endless joyful possibilities....

Blessings....
Love,
Audra
P.S. MUAH! :-)

Chapter Twenty Two; Where there's Smoke there's Fire

“This is bull shit. A steaming pile of fresh bull shit. In fact, it’s the shittiest shit a bull’s ever shit. I’ll tell you that right now.” Naomi has just learned about my latest roller coaster plummet with Nick. And let’s just say she isn’t much of a Six Flags fan. “So where did this crapola leave off? Are you done or what?” she demands.

“Not exactly.” I shift my cell phone to my other ear. “He just wants time. He’s got a lot to sort through.”

“Time? Time for what? Weren’t you guys basically broken up all last week? Wasn’t that time? What the flip is his problem? Didn’t you just get back together on Sunday? What happened to Mr. I’m going to steal your tennis shoes so you don’t run away from me? What happened to Mr. I have to have your beautiful face on my blackberry as a screensaver? Was there an alien abduction we should know about? And did the aliens look like Katy Perry? Because he sounds like he helped her write the lyrics to that Hot and Cold song.”

“Funny, I had the same thought.”

“Damn right! Every time you call me I never know what you’re going to say with this guy. At this point he’s so unpredictable he makes my bi-polar aunt suffering from Alzheimer’s look stable . In fact? I give up. Please tell me you are giving up too. I teach high school and Nick’s drama would put most of my sophomore girls to shame.”

“No, Naomi, I’m not giving up. He was so brutally honest with me at the fire station, so vulnerable. I feel like it was a very profound conversation. I can’t just give up now. I feel like I am finally starting to understand him.”

“Mmmm hmmm.” Her disapproval is not subtle. “Yes, plastic please.”

“Are you at the grocery store again?”

“Heck yeah. I am raising sons you know. Feeding these guys is a part time job.” Her voice muffles briefly but I still can make out her orders to the bag boy. “Yes, I’ll take drive up, thank you.”

“Are you sure you can talk? Is now really a good time?”

“Honey, if I only talked to you when it was a good time I’d never talk to you. My life is more insane than an umbrella wielding bald Britney.”

And that’s an understatement. Naomi’s life is chaos. She works full time as a teacher and waitresses on the weekends to make ends meet. And I’ve never once heard her complain, at least not without a helping heap of coping mechanism humor to cushion the blunt edge of her reality.

“So what’s the plan? You’re giving him time aren’t you?” She mocks me by drawing out the word “time” like a warm piece of taffy.

“Yes, yes I am.”

“How much time is time? And what does that mean? Are you two speaking or what? Is this a day? A week? A year? Oh, good idea actually. Please tell me it’s at least a year. That way I can put it on my calendar in big red pen: “Drama Club Meeting with Audra.”

“We didn’t define a timeline and I didn’t feel like it was necessary. When I left the station he was so sweet. He texted me telling me I am unbelievably understanding and that I have such big heart. And we’ve been emailing a bit. So yeah, we’re still talking. I don’t think this constitutes breaking up, it just means we’re backing off a bit from seeing each other for the time being.

“Mmmmm. Hmmmm.”

“Stop saying that!”

“Stop saying what?”

“Mmmm, hmmmm. Like you think I’m nuts.”

“Ha!” Her laughter echoes through my ears. “Girlfriend, someone is crazy in this situation, and it is not you.”

“Come on.”

“Come on nothing. But I will say one thing. Nick has one thing right. You do have a big heart. A huge heart. Too big and too good for him. Because I’ll tell you something right now. I have a pretty good idea where all his ambiguity is coming from and I am just going to say it. Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No.”

“Fine.”

“Listen. I’ve been around the boy block and they’re not that complex. If anything, he doesn’t need time to figure out if you’re the one. He needs time to figure out which one.”

“What are you saying?”

“I am saying Nick’s still very much in this game. But you’re not the only pawn on the board. All signs point in one direction and one direction only.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes.”

She pauses but only briefly.

“Another girl’s got his attention and he doesn’t have the balls to tell you the truth.”

“Ok now I’m going to call bull shit. You’re wrong.”

“Let’s hope I am, honey. But guess what?”

“What?”

“Time will tell. Because where's there's smoke . . . ”

She stops. Letting the obvious dangle in the air for me to grasp on my own.

I surrender a sigh.

Pause.

And whisper.

"There's fire."

Chapter Twenty One; Say It To My Face

I have thought about this day a lot in the two months since it happened.

About how when I woke up that morning I was so happy that Nick and I had been able to be honest about this crazy momentum. About how we decided to continue to see each other. To just see where things go.

I’ve thought about the things Nick said that week. How he’d teased me for “running away” with my middle of the night email ultimatum. How he’d joked he was going to steal my running shoes so I couldn’t do it again. How he made a picture of us taken on our third date his blackberry screensaver. And about how happy we looked, smiling up from the screen with expressions on our faces that seemed to illuminate from some secret special place we had only just discovered within ourselves. How everyone who saw that picture seemed to freeze in awe. “Wow. You two look amazing together. I don’t think I’ve ever seen two people look happier.”

I still have that picture.

And people still say the same thing.

He wanted me to stay in his life. And all that week, I was consumed by the joyful possibilities that that reality presented. I was just given the chance to pursue a relationship with someone I thought was so honest. So smart. So kind. So interesting. And so real.

And even though it was August.

It felt like Christmas.

I’ve thought about how giddy my family and friends were to learn we’d worked things out.

About how even Naomi forgave his ambiguity, and made sure to remind me that if she is ever a bridesmaid that she looks terrible in fuchsia.

And about how all of that lasted.

Four days.

I’ve thought about how mad I got when I read that email from him on my blackberry. Telling me goodbye. That I deserve someone better. How he needs to go because if he stays he knows himself.

He’ll just hurt me.

I’ve thought about that roller coaster of emotions and I remember wondering how my life just turned into a Katy Perry song.

You’re in than you’re out. You’re up then you’re down.

I’ve thought about that afternoon at the fire station over and over. How I stood outside until I saw his pacing silhouette through the murky glass of the door. How I meant to knock. But instead pounded.

My little fists betraying my big anger.

How he’d walked out into the station foyer. His face twisted with emotion.

How I’d pressed my manicured finger into his starched blue uniform where his hard chest housed a harder heart and told him to say it.

Say it to my face. Fine. Tell me goodbye.

But tell me.

Why?

I’ve thought about how he’d taken me outside and sat on the curb. His head in his hands. As he tried to explain.

And how I tried so hard. To just understand.

I remember thinking I’d never seen him in his uniform before, and how that simple fact underscored how briefly we’d known each other. At the same time, I vividly remember having the thought, “His eyes are the same color as his shirt.” And how I thought that was so stupid to think that right now, how beautiful he looked.

I’ve thought a lot about that conversation. On the sidewalk. Where cars drove by. And construction noised hummed. How the world just kept going on around us.

Even though everything felt so halted. As if the earth had just decided to suspend its orbit around the sun.

I’ve thought about how Nick tried to so painstakenly explain to me the years he lived before he’d ever heard my name. Seen my face. And how those years made him who he is, a person he hasn’t yet shown me.

And he didn’t think I would ever want to see.

I’ve thought about how I sincerely, not desperately, pleaded for him to show me. Assured him that I wanted to know. That I could handle it. That I thought he was worth it.

And I’ve thought about the words he said. And the story he tried to tell me, an edited abbreviated version of his life that I could not possibly grasp in the half hour we sat crouched together on the unforgiving cement.

I’ve thought about how at that moment heaven decided to rain on us. Big drops of water splashing in our hair and on our faces. About how we didn’t move.

We just let it rain.

And how perfectly heaven scripted that part.

Because in my shock and confusion.

I wasn’t crying.

But the angels were.

Chapter Twenty; Joy and Pain. Sunshine. And Rain.

Nick texts me for the next 24 hours like nothing has happened. He’s witty. He’s charming. He’s missed me.

We decide to talk on Sunday. My house.

And this is the part.

Where Audra Strong Confident Woman becomes Audra Insecure Needy Girl.

Case in point, I agonize over what to wear. I want to look incredible. But it’s a Sunday and I am home. What am I supposed to do? Time his arrival so he catches me in my front yard wearing Vera Wang and remark, “Oh, this old rag?” when he comments on the sequined floor length formal attire I just so happen to be wearing while I weed the flower garden?

Exactly. Ripped jean shorts and a tank top it is.

Hey, if I can’t be stunning, I might as well be unintentionally sexy (intentionally).

When I hear the tell tale rumble of his motorcycle I feel like throwing up. I am that nervous.

And then there he is. Standing at my back door. Oakley shades, baseball hat, and a backpack swung over his broad shoulder.

I open the door. And he walks into my kitchen.

And back into my life.

“I missed you.” My voice cracks and betrays my vulnerability.

“Me too.”

For two hours we talk in the Sunday sunshine of my formal living room, hashing out this crazy momentum, what we’re doing, and how we feel. He talks more than I do and I listen, hinging hope on every syllable he utters.

So when he leans across the couch, puts my face in his hands and kisses me . . . I feel like the upside down place that my world turned into six days ago is suddenly right side up again.

And when he takes my hand and leads me upstairs I feel like this is the point where the next part of my life, the happy part, is starting. This is it. He is the one I’ve been waiting for all of my life. I know it like I know my name. Love is real. It is not a fairy tale. You can touch it, feel it, and taste it.

The sun shines all around us that entire afternoon. Bright and beautiful, lighting the way. And it shines every day that week. On my life. And in my heart.

Until four days later.

When Nick sends me an email that starts with, “This is the hardest letter I’ve ever had to write.”

And all the light in my life.

Goes out.

But I don't cry in the darkness this time. Oh. No.

Instead, Audra Insecure Needy Girl.

Transforms into Audra One Pissed Off Woman.

You see, this email came into my blackberry. And I just happened to be three blocks from the fire station when I read it, where Nick is at right now. Coincidentally sending me his "Dear Jane letter" from the same computer he sat at when he first friend requested me on Facebook.

So yep. I hit reply. But my words are anything but a surrender.

Come outside. And say it to my face.

**********************
In case anyone is wondering, the date I wore the shorts and tank top was Sunday, August 23rd. The blog is not real time . . . I WISH I could wear shorts in November in this part of the country!

Thank you for reading Dating Land, see you Thursday!
~Audra