26. Maren #2
Ryan had been steadily, methodically sendin messages, and every single one of them had given me exactly what I’d asked for while making absolutely clear he wasn’t going anywhere.
I took note of how I trusted my own read of the situation.
That was new, or newish. For the better part of a year after Josh I’d second-guessed everything, had run every interaction through a filter of but is this what it looks like or am I missing something.
I’d treated my own instincts as unreliable because I’d missed things with Josh and the missing had cost me.
I’d been cautious the way I was cautious after a fall.
Overcareful, hypervigilant, braced for the ground to come up again.
I looked at Ryan’s texts and I didn’t second-guess them. I knew what I was reading. I knew the difference between giving someone space because you respected what they’d asked for and giving someone space as a tactic. I trusted myself to know that.
That felt significant, like something I’d earned.
The last two I’d read a dozen times.
I know what you said. I know what you need me to do. I’m going to do it. I just need you to know that there is nothing to figure out. I already know what I want.
Then Jag vill fortj?na din k?rlek.
I want to deserve your love.
Not I deserve your love.
Not I have your love.
The want of it. The reaching toward something he wasn’t sure he’d earned yet.
I thought about what that looked like in practice.
Not the grand gestures. I wasn’t built for grand gestures, had never trusted them much; they were too easy to perform and too hard to sustain.
What I’d watched Ryan do for five months was smaller than that and harder.
He remembered things. He asked questions and listened to the answers.
Absorbed them, the way I could tell because he’d bring things back up a week later unprompted.
He’d learned how I took my coffee and which shoulder gave me trouble after a long day treating patients and what I was reading and what made me laugh at eleven o’clock at night.
He’d sent me flowers from Calgary with a note that referenced a conversation we’d had three weeks earlier.
He’d taken a keychain off his own keys and left it on his counter because I might want a way back in.
None of that was performance. Performance was something you kept up. What Ryan did was consistent. Present. Like I was a thing worth paying attention to, continuously, without being asked.
That was what earning my love looked like.
I’d been watching him do it for months and hadn’t let myself call it what it was.
I made myself sit with the actual question instead of circling around it.
Is this love?
My first instinct was to deflect. To say it’s complicated or I don’t know yet or it’s too soon. All the things I’d been telling myself since October, the managed, reasonable, self-protective answers that kept me from having to reckon with what was in front of me.
I thought about the road trip. Nine days, seven games, tracking the scores each night from my couch because I needed to know how he was doing, not in a clinical sports medicine way but because his wellbeing had become connected to my own and I couldn’t sit through an evening pretending it hadn’t.
I thought about the hotel phone call, when he’d called me from Vancouver and we’d talked for two hours and I’d lain in my bed afterward staring at the ceiling knowing and I was in serious trouble.
I thought about his apartment at two in the morning with the ceiling fan turning and his hand moving slow through my hair and the way I’d pressed closer in my sleep without meaning to, reaching for him even when I was unconscious.
I thought about the keychain on my keys and the bracelet on my wrist and the T-shirt I’d slept in that I still hadn’t given back.
Not because I’d forgotten, but because every morning I’d looked at it and decided I wasn’t ready to.
I thought about Tuesday morning in his kitchen. The flannel shirt. Him pressing a kiss to my temple on his way to the stove without even thinking about it, like it was something he did.
I pushed back against myself. Because that was what I did, I was fair to myself.
I didn’t let myself fall into things without looking at them clearly.
Was this just the intoxication of something new and charged and secret?
Was I in love with him or with the aliveness of being wanted by someone who made me feel like the most interesting person in any room?
I turned it over. Tested it.
The answer that came back was that I knew the difference.
I’d had charged and new before. I’d had the aliveness of being wanted.
I’d been in relationships where the early intensity was real and the depth turned out not to be there.
I knew what that felt like. The way it burned bright and then started to feel like maintenance, like performance, like I was playing a role that required more effort than it returned.
This didn’t feel like that. This felt like rest. Like I could stop performing anything and be whoever I was on a given day and he would still be interested, still paying attention, still there.
Was this love?
I breathed out hard.
Yeah. It was love. It had probably been love for a while and I’d been calling it a name more manageable because love required something from me I hadn’t been sure I was ready to give again.
Love meant being vulnerable. Love meant deciding, consciously, to let someone matter enough that losing them would cost me something real and then accepting that cost as worth it.
I’d lost almost a week of him and it had cost me plenty.
That was my answer.
I picked up my phone.
I read his texts again. All eleven of them, Ryan giving me space while refusing to disappear. All eleven of them, keeping the door open with both hands while I decided whether to walk back through it.
I started typing.
Maren: I’ve read every text
Maren: All of them, in case you were wondering
A pause. Then the dots appeared.
Ryan: I was. Are you okay?
I almost laughed. Almost a week of silence from me and his first response was to ask if I was okay. Not are we okay, not what does this mean, just me. Whether I was all right.
Maren: Hard to say
Ryan: I’m going to see Griffin tonight.
I sat with that. Tonight. He’d already decided before I texted. He wasn’t waiting for my permission or my signal. He’d made his own decision on his own timeline, and he was telling me about it because we told each other things, because that was what we did when we were being honest with each other.
Maren: That’s really good.
Ryan: Maren
Ryan: I meant what I said. All of it.
I read that twice. Felt it settle somewhere in my chest. Not the cracking-open feeling of the parking garage, something quieter than that. The feeling of a thing finding the place it was supposed to be.
Maren: I know you did
Maren: Go talk to your best friend
Ryan: Yeah
Ryan: Solsken
I put the phone down on the table beside me and looked out at the yard. The scrubland and the fading afternoon light and the hawk gone now, off to wherever hawks went when the thermals cooled.
I was in love with Ryan Lindqvist. I’d been in love with him for a while. And he was going to go fix the thing that needed fixing tonight, not because I’d asked him to but because he’d decided to, and I was going to sit here in the late afternoon sun and let that be enough for now.
I picked up my cold coffee. Took a sip. Made a face.
My phone buzzed one more time.
Ryan: For the record. A reminder. I know what I want. I just need you to know I know. There is no confusion, and that’s the conversation I’ll be having with Griffin,
I read it three times.
Then I went inside to make fresh coffee and thought about what I was going to say when he came back and let myself smile for the first time in a week.