CHAPTER 2 #3
I’ll be honest—when I got offered the lead position for the new sports rehab facility Cameron University at San Antonio built, he flitted across my mind.
I assured myself it was natural to think about old memories of a place.
I shrugged it off, though, and didn’t let it play into my decision to take the job.
It was a great opportunity. Chris wasn’t the only person who went to Cameron U.
And it’s not like he’s here now. For all I know, he’s a plumber back in his hometown or selling sports equipment somewhere in Colorado, where he was signed.
Maybe he made a full recovery and is a personal trainer in New York City, living his best life out and proud. Maybe. Not that it matters…
I should eat something. I’ve hit the ground running at the new physio center ever since day one, sometimes refusing to stop for lunch.
Tearing my eyes away from the box of doom, I pad to the kitchen, admiring the endless wraparound of white cabinets.
I haven’t done nearly enough cooking in this beautiful space.
Maybe I’ll buy some cookbooks and try out new recipes.
Grabbing a leftover Cubano sandwich out of the fridge, I plate it.
Like a bad dream, however, I remember how many times I hoped Chris would ask me out to dinner, even though I knew that wasn’t possible at the time.
Putting my plate in the microwave, I spend the minute it heats assuring myself that I wasn’t in love.
Maybe he was just my first fairy tale that didn’t come true.
The microwave beeps, pulling me from my soul searching. I grab a glass of sweet tea and get situated with my plate at the table, telling myself it doesn’t feel strange to eat alone. It’s no different from the silence of having nothing to talk about with someone else. In fact, it’s better.
There’s a soft tapping sound against the patio door that overlooks the back of the property.
I take a bite of my sandwich and watch the iridescent droplets of rain dribble down the glass.
No doubt it will help feed the weeds I’ve seen sprouting up around the previous owner’s shrubs.
Flipping through my mail, I search for the gardening catalog I’d spotted the other day.
I should do something about the yard. The landscaping is a bit unkempt, and the stones in the walk up are cracked and crumbling.
I’ve done nothing more than cut the grass since I moved in, having been too busy situating things inside the house and possibly having an existential crisis.
The subconscious is a fascinating thing.
I’ve studied the human body extensively—having had to in my work as a physiotherapist—but the mind always baffles me more than muscles and nerve endings.
Are we ever really in control of our thoughts, or is there some little person inside our brains, controlling levers and pressing buttons?
Because as I stare at a page of sundials, any focus I thought I had escapes me.
‘Get some good sex.’
Jamie’s words come back to me, and my first thought is of Chris.
I’ve had enough sex now to know that Chris wasn’t the most thoughtful top, which tells me he had as little experience as I did when we met.
I was too sore plenty of times after our late-night encounters, but each time was pleasantly intense.
It was the kind of scorching intimacy you can’t wash away and wear the memory of it like a sore muscle for days.
There was something incomparable about the connection I felt when we were together that I’ve never felt since.
That memory leads to the next thoroughly depressing one.
I left him a voicemail after his accident. I don’t remember what I said, but it was something along the lines of hoping he was okay and that if there was anything at all that he needed, I’d do it. I think I checked my phone a million times in case I missed a call from him.
And he…never called back. The end.
Shifting my gaze to my plate, I stare down at the last bite of my sandwich. I pick it up and shove it into my mouth, chewing mindlessly.
That’s how it started, didn’t it? My addiction to making relationships work. Calling a man who’d already made his decision about us well before that. A man who made me unwittingly set a precedent for a level of passion that exists only once in a blue moon.
Shoving away from the table, I cart my dishes to the sink and scrub them with resolve. No shame. Just resolve. I’m too old to beat myself up.
I have a home, a good job that I love, and a best friend who’s always just a phone call away. I’m going to be happy being single while I work on myself. Maybe I’ll let myself ‘have some good sex’ now and then or not, and neither option will be some damning life sentence.
They say you find things when you least expect them.
Who knows? Maybe I’ll learn to be in a relationship without losing myself.
Maybe I’ll meet someone whose company I enjoy so much that life won’t make sense without them.
A spark that turns into a steady flame and doesn’t burn out.
I’m not asking for an inferno. I’ve learned a few things after all.