chapter two

Try to have fun no matter what you do.

-Prince, Nothing Compares 2 U

One of the biggest changes in her over the years is that her world became very black and white. It mostly came from having children, she supposed, and all of the boundary setting and rule teaching you do when you bring them up. A toddler isn’t capable of discerning gray area; you simply teach them that yes, they are allowed to do this or no, they are not allowed to do that.

It’s not how she used to be.

She didn’t used to have sharp edges or defined corners or a whole lot of rules. Even in high school, she was one of those people whose friends came from all of the different cliques; spending time with geeks and cheerleaders, burnouts and holy rollers, she wasn’t obsessed with her looks or her image or what other kids thought about her. She didn’t have a strong desire to attach to any particular boy or activity or way of thinking. There were boys and there was typical teenage drama, but she just never got bogged down in it. She just happened to be good at most things she was interested in, and she was interested in a lot of things. And she kind of breezed along.

As she got older and moved on, that breeziness was increasingly interpreted by others as inexperience and immaturity. She began to be challenged or sometimes coerced into defining opinions and forming alliances. She began to learn something about the messiness of life, and she began to define a personal set of rules to live by, something to help tidy that mess. And as she continued to grow older, and her environments and experiences evolved, those rules became clearer, more rigid, more difficult to challenge. They became the way she made sense of her life. The way she kept things neat and in order. Rules took the fear out of marriage and career and parenthood. Spontaneity became scary. Rules never surprised her. They were constant. She could count on them.

S: I guess I have a question, if I might.

It's something that I've been wondering about for

a while.

P: Ask.

S: Well, we're both married, parents, committed.

Why are your boundaries so different than mine?

There hasn't been one time that you've said what

we do when we, um, talk, might be wrong. It's

always me. Why is that?

P: I don't think it's wrong

Cheating ish but not wrong for me

S: But why? Why is cheating-ish okay? Is it

something you have established with your wife?

Is it okay with her?

P: No

It isn’t

But it's ok with me

And I don't feel bad because it's my sexuality

Mine I own it

S: You share it.

P: Yes on my terms

S: What about her terms?

Why are hers less important?

P: Not mine to dictate

S: Not the point.

Don't you care about hers, too?

Or only insofar as they don't conflict with yours?

I don't understand why there seems to be no

conscience.

I just keep waiting to hear that you have one.

P: Lol I do

Occasionally a person in her life would challenge her rules. Occasionally somebody she loved or liked or spent time with would mess up her tidy and ordered existence by making a choice that she couldn’t justify in her own personal code of ethics. And even though it was their behavior and their choice and their consequence, somehow she felt she had to act. Say something. Make a choice.

P: You seemed judgmental

S: I didn't like your answers

P: Yes so I noticed

And often that choice was her rule instead of her person.

S: You're mad at me?

P: Not mad

S: ?

P: Just ran into one of your rules

S: Oh. Was that a zinger? Was it supposed to sting?

P: No

You seem angry

S: So do you

P: No not angry

S: what then

P: Better informed

Than before

Looking back on those instances she knows now that while she may have been acting judgmental, she was really jealous. Jealous of anybody with the guts to step outside of the rules and do something just because it felt good. Jealous of anybody with the courage to admit they needed something that they weren’t getting, finding that thing, and taking it, right or wrong or good or bad. She was jealous.

She kept telling herself that by remaining rigid and focused on doing what was ‘right’ she might be unfulfilled right this second, but it would pay off later. Someday. Somewhere there was a reward for living in an ordered, correct way.

P: Feel like you have chastised me

Let me know that you think I'm wrong

I feel exposed and vulnerable

S: Hey, that's my line.

P: Lol

Yeah sok. I get it. And I'm glad you were honest

with me

Not mad or anything

S: I'm sorry you feel chastised.

P: Not a problem

But it feels funny now that it seems that you are

looking down your nose at me

Then her ordered, correct life bottomed out. And she realized all of those times she clung to her rules instead of her people left her with fewer people to cling to when her ordered and correct life went to shit.

That is what she was doing when she met P; taking a leave from her ordered and correct life. Questioning her belief system and analyzing her rules. Being honest about her shortcomings, of which she had many. Finally taking the time to acknowledge problems in her marriage, jealousy in her heart, and the hard feelings and insecurities that she had been ignoring as she navigated through the challenges of their years together.

Mostly she had been dealing with these things on her own. But once she connected with him, without even knowing it, he became her partner. Her backup. Her sounding board. And occasionally the person she pounded with questions because she thought he had something she wanted; the ability to seek out what he needed, even if that thing wasn’t what was popular or accepted or correct.

And when he’d say something she didn’t understand, she’d first react by lashing out. Judging. But already he was carving out his place in her brain. His words would stay with her all night, somersaulting through her rigid thoughts until she finally relented, allowing her long-forgotten flexibility a chance to come back.

S: I'm sorry.

I started asking the questions about boundaries

because you just seem so okay about it all, and

I'm always feeling like I'm doing something

wrong.

I'm not judging you. I am trying to understand

you

I feel like you're my friend. And it’s silly and

weird and all cyber-virtual-fantasy-something or

other.

But I really like knowing you're out there rooting

for me. And I'm out here rooting for you

But there's something about the way you

communicate about sex that I just don't get. And

sometimes it makes me uncomfortable, other

times it makes me feel like I should challenge

you on it.

I guess because I'd want somebody chatting with

my husband all sexy like to remind him he has a

me.

P: So it would seem. And I am your friend

S: Have we kissed and made up?

P: Yes

S: Good. Because my fantasy P finds it

impossible to stay angry with me.

With P, she tried choosing her person over her rule, and while it was a much scarier choice, he had a way of making her feel safe. He took away a lot of her loneliness. And she learned it didn’t make her feel guilty to allow somebody to help her figure out what it was she was missing.

TO: Pavlov

FROM: Sudan

I look for pieces of me in your posts; I wait to see if you'll leave me a comment. I hang on every one. Because I don't get you in person. I don't get to know what you sound like or smell like. I don't get to reach out and touch your arm when you say something that makes me laugh. I don't get to bat my eyes at you over a martini glass. I don't get to agonize over what to wear before I meet you somewhere for dinner.

I get your words.

And I cannot explain how I can feel so connected to some random man I've been chatting with for a few days, but I do.

She found it difficult not to compare him to her husband.

She and her husband had a lot about them that was in opposition. He lets life just happen, unfolding before him like a path he is supposed to follow. She prefers to plan, to choose her route, and impact her outcome. He accepts things, where she analyzes them to death. He can walk away from conflict, where she needs to stand up and sometimes fight and always try to resolve. He decided one time that he was going to love her. She decided every day that she was going to love him. She recommits every single day.

Those differences were so attractive to her eleven years ago.

Eleven years ago she craved uncomplicated. She wanted a man who could be taken at face value. She didn’t want to have to dig around and extract who he was, then find out later that she had uncovered a monster. She just wanted to find a man who was nice. Honest. Kind. Simple.

And when she found just that, she planned to keep him. Amidst warnings from friends who thought they’d never last, who thought she’d be bored, who figured he was just her rebound, she agreed to marry him. And she was happy. It was easy to be happy with somebody like him; somebody who was constant and stable and free of baggage and skeletons and darkness. They laughed hard and fucked a lot and enjoyed just being together.

And for a long time she felt really content.

TO: Sudan

FROM: Pavlov

I'm not sure how random it is. I think we seek out things we want. I think when we sense similar needs in others we draw close. I am drawn to you. I can't get you out of my head. You invade.

As far as me pushing you I think you need that too. An excuse to go farther than you want to take total responsibility for. That's why I am no longer pushing. You will ask for more soon enough.

And feel special because this isn't something I make a habit of despite what you might think. I want to know all your secrets. All your desires and even stupid stuff like what side of the bed you sleep on or the color of your toothbrush or if you have one of those fuzzy toilet seat covers or if you just go bareback.

I also like knowing that you think of me when you touch yourself. And wonder how long it will take to see me in your minds eye whenever he's inside of you.

Good morning by the way...

His simplicity made her feel safe. They weren’t in competition with each other. He was just proud to have her on his arm, and she was pretty thrilled to be there. He was always where he said he’d be. He always called when he said he’d call. He was always willing to try whatever restaurant she suggested. Always willing to wear whatever clothing she chose. The sex was very polite and loving. They rarely argued. It was just easy to be around each other. It was important to both of them to keep the other happy.

P: Tell me how I'm in your head

S: If I tell you how you're in my head, you have

to promise to take a moment before

you tell me I'm off my rocker.

P: Ok

Pinkie swear

S: Alright. So, I do think about you. Because I am

really attracted to who you are in my

head - I think I've said this - I get to relive all the

fun parts of meeting someone I’m

attracted to. The getting to know you, the talky

talky that we chicks just love. You're

interested in things that are old news to my

husband. And you make me feel very sexy.

In a new way, not in the way that is predictable

when you've been with someone a long

long time.

So,

I make jokes about your other girlies because

if there were some,

I'd be jealous.

There was no jealousy between them. Even early on, when they were still living in different cities and in totally different worlds – him in the frat house, still being a student, and her in her own place, wearing a suit to work every day – there was no reason for distrust. The weekends she went to visit him were fun because she could relax from the pressures of her job and just be free for a couple of days, and the weekends he came to visit her were fun because she had a date to bring to dinner parties or events and she could enjoy learning how to sleep next to somebody without feeling suffocated.

She never had a reason to be concerned that he wasn’t exactly who he seemed to be, and he never had a reason to be concerned that she was anything but crazy about him. And despite their differences, their connection evolved into a bond, and their bond evolved into an engagement. Much to the surprise of the friends surrounding them.

S: Should we have a "safe word"? In case one of us

Thinks it’s going too far?

P: Lol

Ok

S: ok

kumkwat. our safe word. kumquat.

P: Ok

There were times when she was feared he was falling in love with her under false pretenses. Because she was pretending. Pretending to be somebody else. Pretending to be someone who was confident and calm and strong, not this twist of anxiety and doubt. She was allowing him to think that her demons were under control, locked away for good, only to be discussed in the past tense like an old boyfriend or a childhood pet. In fact, she’s not even sure he would have called them demons at all. She’s not sure he ever gave her secrets that much thought.

Then there were times when she’d sit up in bed alone at night and allow herself to feel the chill under her skin, the butterflies in her stomach, the tightening in her chest just under her heart. Because no matter how hard she tried to pretend otherwise, it was there, as much a part of her as the color of her hair or her birth mark or the way she always stood with her legs crossed and her arms all wrapped around herself. Her whole life, in quiet moments of silence, she could feel the anxiety twisting around inside. It’s a family trait; her dad has it, her grandma, her aunt. Her son. While sometimes it can be crippling, other times she felt almost proud to own it, because it makes her resemble the people she’s related to. It’s where she came from.

S: Are you beginning to wish you had a more calm

internet fantasy girl?

P: I want you

All your warts and hangups I can match with my

own

Stop apologizing and

Let me be with you

His reliability and predictability made her begin to think she might be able to trust him. With her. Letting him know just how trapped she could be in her own head, by her own thoughts, by the anxiety that lived in her chest all the time. So every now and then she’d give him a little test. Show him a few pages of a story she wrote, suggest some obscure topic of conversation, or even offer to answer one question, any question, whatever it was that he wanted to know about her. With complete honesty.

He struggled to pass her tests, not because he was a bad guy, but simply because it was hard for him to come up with any meaningful answer or feedback or input; he just wasn’t all that curious about her. What he saw on the surface was enough. It was all he needed to know in order to love her, and to dig any deeper just wasn’t his nature. He’d try to do it because he knew she wanted him to, but it was difficult for him to come up with a question. When he would make an attempt it generally left them both feeling a little weird and unsatisfied. He just wanted simplicity. That’s all he needed in order to feel loved. Simplicity.

P: It's real

It's a connection

You feel it

I feel it

Don't hide

It's ok

Let's just stay honest and open

S: It's not real. My husband is real. He's the

one that knew I had a crazy morning, so he set

the coffee pot last night. He doesn't drink coffee.

He did it for me. That is real.

This is something else.

This is a game.

Because if it isn't, then it's wrong. No matter what

it feels like.

Instead of being hurt, she decided it was actually a good thing. It was how ‘normal’ people behaved. He didn’t need to know all of her secrets to know he loved her and would stand by her and take care of her forever. He didn’t need to know all of her preferences in order to make her happy, because even if he didn’t get all of the specifics exactly right, the fact that he made an effort at all showed his devotion.

And that’s when it began to happen that they started disappearing. Her preferences. Not all at once - she didn’t just wake up one morning and decide that she no longer had a favorite flower or color or wine. But it happened in bits and pieces. Like always letting him choose what to pick up at the party store when they planned to have cocktails, because he didn’t like whiskey like she did, but she could tolerate the rum that he preferred to drink. And she loved him, so it didn’t matter that he always brought home his favorite, and never hers.

And when they’d make love they’d do it his way, when he initiated it, all within his boundaries and comfort zones. He was always gentle and reassuring, and she’d let him think she had an orgasm every time. Because she wanted him to feel loved.

S: Did she ever want to meet you?

P: Yes

I declined

S: Because that's a boundary or because of another

reason?

P: My boundary

One of them

S: Okay. We found one.

What's another one?

P: I will not love you

S: Have you ever pushed that boundary?

P: Never

But I fear it with you. Seems like we are new

frnds with old history

S: You're saying that because you think it's what I

want to hear.

Because you're good at this.

P: Rude

S: No. I didn't mean it like that.

I meant that you always say things to put me at

ease.

And it doesn't make me uneasy to have you say

you'll never love me. This is our circumstance.

P: Agreed

And in those moments when her anxiety would overwhelm her, he was there to hold her hand or stroke her hair or call her parents or do whatever he needed to do until it passed. Or during those times when her doubts would make everything dark, and she’d struggle to even lift her head off of the pillow, he’d be there running a bath and telling her everything would be okay. And when he’d run to the store to get a bottle of wine, he’d also bring home flowers, because he wanted so badly for her to feel better. He wanted her to be better. He wanted her fixed. Back to normal.

And in those times when they would disagree or argue, he could do it without yelling or throwing things or hurting her. He never threatened to leave. He never tried to embarrass or humiliate her. He was kind, even in anger, and it all just seemed so healthy. Normal.

That’s what she wanted to be for him. Normal. Worthy of his kindness and affection and focus. She wanted them to work.

P: Tell me

S: What?

P: What you want

S: Exclusivity. No other pretend internet girlfriends

while you're with me

I'm old fashioned that way. One

rendezvous at a time. What do you think?

P: I think you are old fashioned. And one at a time

seems like a good idea.

So S, do you take me

P

To be your one and only fakity

Fuckchatting pretend

Beau?

S: I do.

And do you P, take me

to be your one and only

rule mongering, nervous, old fashioned pretend

internet girl?

P: You bet your sweet ass I do

And as they went from engaged to married, it really felt like it was working. Being in love with a completely trustworthy, solid man who wanted a traditional, simple life. She was happy. She chose to be happy. It didn’t matter that she was flawed and complex and far from perfect on the inside, because with him, what was on the surface was enough. The laughter and smiling and the look of it all. It was enough for him. She was enough.

S: Thank you.

P: For?

S: All of it. The funny and the sweet and the pushy

and the sexy. You make me feel pretty

great.

P: You are pretty great

And I'm happy we are getting closer

S: Me too.

While she thought she was choosing their happiness, she was slowly realizing that really she was choosing his happiness. She wanted to be a good wife, to make their home the place he wanted to return to every night, her dinners to be his favorite thing to eat, to blow his mind in bed, and for his kids to adore him. Focusing on his feelings, his needs before her own, was what she once thought to be the secret of a happy marriage. But as she disappeared, as she watched different parts of her fade and wear away, she began to suspect that what she had really discovered was the secret to a typical marriage. Ordinary. One that will reach that point where somebody, someday will wonder whatever brought those two people together in the first place.

chapter one

You’ve got me, and baby, I’ve got you

-Sonny and Cher, I Got You, Babe

The move was supposed to be a new beginning for her family. One of many new beginnings they had been offered over the years. That’s what life had turned into for them, a series of fresh starts, of bouncing back from hardship, of being the example of how to land on your feet. Everything from where they came from was gone; their home, their money, most of their dignity. The only choice that really worked for them was going somewhere new and starting completely over, out of sight of the people who had watched this happen to them over and over again. After a few years of coping with unemployment, illness, death - even among their inner circle they were beginning to feel like the boy who cried wolf. Always yelling out for help, then having some eleventh hour miracle save them from near disaster.

She began to believe that the relationship she had with her husband was charmed. Lots of couples don’t make it through all they experienced together. Or, if they stay together, they do it if only to punish each other for their own misery. But not them. They were old school. Kept their problems to themselves, prayed them out in church, defined the roles they’d fill in their marriage and family, and carried them out to the best of their ability. Together. Solidly together. Because that was the only way.

From the start of their relationship, they were The Fun Couple. If somebody was having a party, they were top on the guest list because they were lively and funny and low maintenance. If somebody needed a favor, they were the ones to call because they were always able to help a friend in need. If somebody had a problem or needed an opinion, their honest and direct counsel was sought. Their group was tight knit, often described as being a tough nut to crack, and she and her husband were kind of the leaders. The idea people. The ones who made sure the right guests were invited, that everyone felt included, that all of the details were handled. The ones who remembered the birthdays and anniversaries. The ones who made sure everyone had a fresh cocktail. The ones who made sure everyone had a good time.

Later, when they were in need, their friends did not let them down. As they went from loaded to broke, from expecting to grieving, from employed with disposable income to jobless with few prospects, their friends had their back. Holding their hands, pulling them out of bed, making them stay connected, picking up tabs, surprising them with gifts or even occasionally slipping grocery store gift cards in their wallets. There was always somebody who loved them enough to make sure they put one foot in front of the other.

Their life together changed over the years. It changed dramatically.

And it changed a little ahead of the curve. Now you turn on the television and even the Real Housewives are talking about the tough financial times they face, but for S and her husband, it happened before it was chic. It was for all the same reasons: struggling economy, crumbling industry, dead-end town. They were trendsetters. It is happening everywhere now, but it happened to them first.

They agreed that they would not be that couple destroyed because of money. They even got a bit arrogant about it. We’ve weathered storms about things so much more important than money, they’d say. Money is not going to be the thing that breaks us.

And it wasn’t. They still managed. They laughed and spent time together and worked hard to focus on the simple things. They leaned on their faith to help keep their priorities in what they thought was a proper order. They were in church every Sunday, hands folded, hearts open, recognizing that even though things were hard, there were others suffering even more. They worked to remember that even though they were struggling, they were still blessed.

Even sitting in the office applying for public assistance, they managed to laugh at the absurdity of it all. At just how crazy it was that two capable and educated young people who once held the whole world in the palm of their hands, who once had financial security and fit bodies and sparkly jewelry and all kinds of potential for greatness were sitting in a dank and musty basement office, watching a very old woman with wrinkly fingers hunt and peck her way through typing up their application for food stamps. It was funny. It was fucking hilarious.

She swallowed a lot of anger and resentment, but she didn’t mind because she assumed her husband was doing it too. Together, they were both choosing to focus on moving forward. It couldn’t have been easy for him to not be able to provide for his family, especially when his in-laws lived three blocks away and kept a close eye on their only daughter. So, she remained his cheerleader and his problem solver and his lover and his biggest fan. And she didn’t stay down long. Even when she wanted to.

They kept surviving. One thing after another, it seemed, but they did it. And they remained committed. They remained loving and friendly. They chose to be that couple that defied the odds.

And her girls would ask her every now and then how they were doing. How the marriage was doing. Because they, too, recognized how she was living a life with her husband that other people might choose to leave. But she would never be anything but positive. Anything she could possibly have said about the potential cracks in their foundation he was already beating himself up over, she was certain. Already disappointed and humiliated and angry and embarrassed and worried. His confidence was already shaken. His pride was already disappearing. So why did she need to go talk to her friends, to their friends, about anything other than his most admirable and honorable traits? Why did anyone need to know about her fears or worries? He didn’t need anything other than the support of a wife who loved him, even if he occasionally deserved her anger, or disappointment, or doubt.

She simply decided that sharing all that would only make it harder for him to dig them out of the hole. He needed her to believe in him because he’d stopped believing in himself.

The days and months stretched on, their need grew, and her anxiety deepened, and she spent a lot of time fighting off panic in all of these subtle, secret ways. Lots of long walks and hot baths and cheap liquor, constantly praying that it wouldn’t eventually overtake her. He never knew how to handle it when she panicked. He took it personally and always assumed it was something she could control. So she tried to control it for him.

Finally the day came that he was given an opportunity for their family. An opportunity that was not really in his career path or his pay range; an opportunity that was miles and miles and miles away from everyone they knew and loved.

He was thrilled to have it.

And all of those friends who had lifted them up and helped them out and supported them when others wanted to gossip, those friends who have been part of their lives for so long that they could no longer be divided between his and hers, they rallied. When he left to get started, leaving her on her own to take care of their baby and their preschooler, to pack the house and tie up all of the humiliating loose ends in order to go stake a claim on their new life, those friends were there helping and hugging, rocking the baby and bringing them dinner. Fixing and tuning up and entertaining and sucking every drop of fun from their last few days together. Loving her so fiercely that she spent every moment of those last two months on the verge of tears, swallowing such a huge lump in her throat that at times it choked her. And they were there to load their life onto a truck. And they cried and waved when the truck pulled out and drove away.

They had her back.

And when those closest to her questioned whether this was the right choice, to follow along, she knew that concern came from a place of love. She knew they only wanted the best for her. That they didn’t want her to be hundreds of miles away from her people, find herself in need once again, and be alone. So she assured them that their marriage was rock solid. That she was happy being at home, running the house and caring for the kids. That she invested in the right guy. That their luck was changing. That they would be okay.

She was pretty sure that they would. Be okay. She was.

So that day when she pulled up to her new house, sight unseen, she had hope in her heart. It was her birthday, and her present was her new life, and she planned to see everything that was good about it. Instead of comparing its size or its lawn or its neighbors to where they were coming from, she decided to be happy to finally be living in a house made of brick. To be relieved that they didn’t have lots of stairs to keep the baby away from. To love the fact that it wasn’t full of big old trees that would drop a ton of leaves she’d have to rake. To enjoy the fact that the kid’s rooms were on the opposite side of the house from her own. To be happy that her washer and dryer were on the main floor and she no longer had to run from the upstairs to the basement with baskets full of clothes.

She decided, again, pulling in that afternoon, that she would make this work.

And over the course of their first year, she did. Starting with unpacking and arranging and making things pretty, to planning a few activities for them to do as a family and finding the best beach for them to visit the minute it got warm enough, she dedicated herself to making this new place their home.

She did a decent job, too. She made the teeny little house comfortable and pretty. She learned her way around town. She investigated the best doctors. She took banana bread and apple butter to their new neighbors. She joined the PTA.

She helped make them a new life.

And as her birthday again approached, marking the first anniversary of their arrival in this new place, she felt the old anxiety rising again. Because she wanted that day to be the day that they could lean back, reflect on the year, and see improvement. To see that, in one short year, they were landing on their feet. Hitting the ground running. Rebuilding their finances and their egos and their lives.

But instead of being able to see how far they’d come, she spent that day thinking that they hadn’t come far enough. She felt sorry for herself. Quietly complaining that she wasn’t getting enough attention or praise for all she’d accomplished for them that year. Sad that there was no big birthday present to open. Whining because they were still pretty broke. That her friends were far away.

She just didn’t feel special. Actually, she felt kind of replaceable. Like life was something that was happening all around her, and she didn’t have any impact on it.

Every time she tried to explain her disappointment and annoyance and boredom that this anniversary was stirring up, she was met with some kind of effort to make her feel better, but nobody was getting it right. She didn’t need pep talks and greeting cards, she just needed someone to relate.

She swallowed it all and chose, again, to try to see all that was wonderful about her life instead of all the things she wished she could change, because she didn’t want to become that person who complained. She wanted to be grateful. And because it seemed that everyone around her just wanted her ‘fixed’, she pretended. It would at least make everyone else feel good.

Her birthday arrived without all the fanfare that normally accompanied the day. Most women wouldn’t have allowed the day to go on without it, but she felt powerless and stuck. She felt invisible.

When she sat down at her computer that morning to do the day’s blog post, she heard the chime that signaled that P wanted to chat.

P: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

S: Wow! Thanks. First wish of the day.

She ended up spending most of that day with him. He was the only person who could see through her act, and when he asked her about her sadness, her dissatisfaction with this new life was the first secret she shared. The first real one. He became the only one who knew exactly what was going on inside her heart and head that day. He didn’t try to fix it, he only tried to understand. And he was the person who made her feel special on her birthday.

P: I'm sorry your feelings got hurt.

S: don't worry about it.

No biggie.

P: Tell me what happened
Tell me your feelings

S: Are you being smartassy?

P: No serious I want to talk it out

S: No you don't. I'll ask you this one more time, are
you really a girl?

P: Guys like to hear how you are feeling too
And it's ok to want my attention
Especially after your confession
So I get it

S: Thanks.

P: No need to thank me
I want you to feel safe sharing

S: I never feel safe sharing.
But, my feelings are no longer hurt.

P: Good girl

That evening as she got ready for bed, she stopped in front of the bathroom mirror because something caught her eye. She was smiling. Without even knowing it, she was smiling. And as she looked at that smile she wondered if P was smiling, too.

prologue

The longer I remember, you’re the hardest to forget.
- The Samples, Did You Ever Look So Nice

Even after living here almost a year, she was still quite anonymous in the sleepy little tobacco town. She could run to the grocery store, stop at the school, or wander the aisles of Target and not run into a single familiar person. She didn’t have anyone to meet for coffee, or to take a yoga class with, or to invite for a margarita playdate on Friday afternoons. She became comfortable doing everything alone.

She tried to be excited about the move, and was happy that her husband had finally found another good job, but she had learned fast that southern hospitality, while heavy on the charm, was nothing like the open, genuine friendliness she’d grown up with in the Midwest. She was definitely an outsider here. Her accent and wardrobe, her direct answers, and the quick clip to her pace told anybody who might be looking that she was a stranger. And she wasn’t so sure she was ready to amend herself in order to fit in.

Her heart carried a heavy yearning for the love and familiarity of her life back home. She was tired of all of the introductions and exposition; she missed being with people who knew her. She missed the laughter that started in your gut and made you lose your breath, the kind of laughter that came from history and experience and belonging. And she missed being able to go wherever she wanted without needing her GPS to find it.

Her writing became her constant companion, the replacement for the conversation and the girl talk that was such a big part of her old life. She created a blog in her own little corner of the internet, and poured her heart into each entry, documenting the journey of settling in this new place and attempting to reclaim her body and her life and even her sanity. And before long, this online journal became interactive. People came to read her words and leave her comments, and she would go to their sites and do the same, and before she knew it, she had made a friend.

S: Yay! Now we’re email friends. A whole new
way to pester you for the latest blogger- lingo.

P: Finally! So tired of shouting my answers to your
questions out the window! Love your blog by
the way read it every day.

From the start, her connection with P was unique. While their very first words were upbeat and polite, they were each hiding a different longing. She wanted to believe that she wasn’t looking for him, but that wasn’t entirely true. She was obviously looking for something. She just wasn’t sure exactly what.

P: Loved your post today. LOVED it.

S: You get some kind of sick enjoyment from others
failures and pity parties?

P: Not at all. Totally relate. Love how you
mentioned the envy. I feel that all the time but
hate to admit it. Just have this feeling that at this
age I should be farther along on the needs wants
slide.

Once they began talking with each other, swapping comments and emails throughout the day, that thing she was seeking began to take shape. She knew she was lonely. Missing her friends. Sad and jealous, watching their lives march on without her.

She knew she was dissatisfied with her new town, her new house. With her husband and even her marriage.

She knew she was frustrated. Not so good at being a mom. Not so interested in finishing graduate school or finding a job. Not really knowing what to jump into next.

She was uncomfortable in her life. In her skin.

And so it happened that she met him, and with every conversation, every joke made, every shared interest discovered, every point discussed or analyzed together or understood by him, he became that missing piece.

P: I like chatting with you. Do you have Gtalk?

S: I’m not even sure what that is. Does it require
antibiotics?

She began going about the business of her mornings at a faster pace; one child up and ready for school, other child fed and dressed and given some time to play outside. Errands run. Meals planned. Housework completed. Because she was anxious to get to her computer. Her fingers got itchy to type. To write. To talk with him.

P: Actually couldn't wait to talk to you this morning

S: Really? Why?

P: Just enjoy your company
Find myself looking forward to it

S: That's a nice thing to say. And, if I'm to be totally
honest, me too.

P: good girl

He became her go-to person. Bad day? He’d tell her a joke. See something funny on YouTube? She’d send him the link. Writer’s block? He’d help her through it. They’d talk about everything and nothing, and just like that he was the high point and the focus and the total course of her day.

Their banter was clever and witty and hinted at flirtatious. Their curiosities turned into games of Truth, where every question was excruciatingly personal, and answers possessed that special kind of candor that happens between strangers. She found herself thinking about things she hadn’t remembered in years, telling stories she had never put to words anywhere but in her own mind. Though she spent her days flustered and fidgeting and stumbling over thoughts, she surprised herself with her honesty. The secrets came spilling out. Hers more than his, but some of his, too.

And with every story came acceptance and understanding. Long before sex entered the picture, they were as intimate as lovers. Even more so, because all they had were words. Conversations. Questions and answers and secrets and revelations. They had nothing physical to hide behind, nothing to distract them. They had nothing to do but nestle deep in each other’s minds and hearts and days.

S: So, you and the wife play nice this weekend?

P: Yes ish. You?

S: Yes ish. I threw a teeny tiny hissy.

P: When why?

S: It's so silly I can't believe I'm going to admit to it.
We usually make a big deal out of birthdays, right?
Not so much with gifts, but with all kinds of
spoiling, (sleeping in, control of the remote, no
diaper duty, etc) and for the Whole Weekend.
So, in following tradition, this was My Weekend.
Right?
And there was No Mention. Nothing. Na da. Zip.
So by Sunday, when I was preparing my zillionth
meal, changing another pooper, and doing yet
another chore, I let him have it.
And not in a good way.

P: Dude! What did he say?

S: Well, he felt awful. But by that point anything he
tried to do seemed like he was only doing it
because I cried, NOT because he wanted to treat
me special.
AND, guess whose birthday is NEXT weekend?
Yep. His.

P: He's fucked and again not in a good way

S: Lol. But see, I don't want to do that. Here's my
deep thought for the day. Ready?

P: Hit a brotha

S: Well, I know lots of people that have been
married lots and lots of years. And not very
many of them are all that happy, or nice to each
other or whatever. And I wonder what happened

P: Ok

S: I mean, any number of things that my husband
and I have gone through in the last few years
could be that first step to 'issues' that would start
coming between us . .

P: True

S: So it makes me very nervous to go too far in
anger and hurt feelings and stuff, because I am
afraid of it being that first step to us becoming
like other married couples, you know?
Like, when that switch flips and you stop doing
those extra things for each other.
Like my birthday weekend

P: Yes I know EXACTLY what you mean

S: I thought you might.

P: I feel like you can't control what others do
just your reaction to it. I like that idea because it
puts me back in control of my happiness

S: Wise words, my friend.

Before other people in her real life, she began to seek him out, no longer content waiting to be sought. And within weeks, days even, that vague thing that she had been yearning for? It was no longer vague.

It was him.