Like a Team of Mules Pulling Hell Off From its Hinges

We met on Bumble. It was kismet. Maybe one of those first signs I tried to ignore. I'd been over to Lena's house when she hurt her back to help. I was run ragged. Burning a divorce and a broken heart and trying to be a good mother with a hurt shoulder and a dozen other things. I'd been lonely for a very long time. There was something in his eyes that I liked. I liked that blue so pale it's like white-hot fire and deep as Thor's Well. And his dog. In so many of his pictures. Experience has shown me never to trust a man with that much of a bullshit profile.

We chatted a little bit and kind of let it drop over Thanksgiving. My divorce was finalized and I went home. I fell all apart and got temporally smushed back together with the glue of roots. I hadn't checked my messages. But there was something about his sincerity. His openness. So when I got back home, I checked in. He gave me his phone number. I texted.

I don't know how long we went before we talked on the phone. I remember being in my bedroom on the phone with him. I think Nikola was here and I never wanted to hurt Nikola for anything in the whole world, so I went upstairs behind a closed door. I told him that and he with this softness told me that I was too empathetic and kind. Straight to the heart of me. But still, I was not ready. I knew that. Caution.

I went to a few shows. I screamed my lungs out to BJ Barnham. The man is therapeutic to the id. Neck down music tempered with a little neck up suffering and joy. "I hope you feel the way I do now." I went out one night barely dressed to his show. A bubble gum pink foil pencil skirt with a metal mesh top over a strappy bralette. I sent him a picture. He was attentive. He always told me how sexy I am. I felt that way when he said it. And I knew I always would. He said we should meet. I just said okay. I was not ready.

But we talked. I told him about this blog and that I'd give him the link if he wanted it, but that it was full-frontal and that some people told me it felt voyeuristic in its openness. Felt like reading my diary. Well, it is my diary. But, Hemingway said to write hard about what hurts. How will you ever become a good writer if you never let anyone see it? He said he felt like then he would know me and I'd not know anything about him and it seemed unfair. Another arrow. 

I eventually then offered him a link to a music review. I referenced John Moreland. I do so adore Moreland. All pain and soul and hope and love. He read it and came back to me surprised that I knew Moreland. Okay, sir. I see you. He suggested we do this thing on Spotify called "Blend." It's really cool. So you have this playlist that takes your music and their music and compiles a list of some of the similar music and some stuff that one person listens to that the other person might like. And it tells you which ones are yours, theirs, and mutual. Well, this man, yo. The War and Treaty, Dexter and the Moonrocks, The Red Clay Strays, Mt. Joy, Caamp, Evan Honer, Ian Noe, the list goes on. Damn. Well, I had to meet him now. So I obliquely said I'd been waiting for this man I might kind of dig to ask me out. And so we planned Friday.

Candice came into town Friday. I am a moron. I kept thinking it was  Saturday. I didn't need to pick her up from the airport and I had no plans, so the exact schedule didn't stick in my brain. She rolled in before lunch and I was set to meet him at 7:00. She'd been up all day and went up to bed when I left. I'd washed my hair and it looked as it will. The weather was okay for December. Put on a casual tank that shows my shoulders, my favorite jacket and boots and off I went.

This was just supposed to be fun. He seemed fun. He had great taste in music. He was handsome. He was military. He was clean-cut. He had a dog.

He met me in the parking lot and gave me a hard hug. He felt good. Strong, bigger than his height suggests. Told me I smelled good. I was wearing "I Am Trash." It's one of my favorites. Or it might have been my hair. He smelled like lanolin. I'm sure it was his beard oil. I don't find it at all unpleasant. We sat and ordered beers. I think he drank Heineken. I think he drank three. I had something on draft. Two of them. We ordered food and we talked. It flowed like water. He made me laugh. I made him blush. I made a Marine blush almost purple. I'll hang on to that as a badge of honor until I die.

He's so very blond. His eyelashes are like gold glitter on his cheeks when he blinks. He really is so handsome. I think so, anyway. Beautifully built and expressive. I never even liked blonds.

He's a mechanic. But his nails were perfectly clean. I did not expect that. He was clean. So squared away. He wore this soft flannel and his haircut was fresh. The sure sign of a Marine, but a little long on top because he knows he has good hair. A vain Marine. I knew under there was a beautiful jawline and at least three sets of dimples. I knew that first night I'd hang around to see him clean-shaven. I didn't really think there was a choice.

He kept telling me how gorgeous I am. I'm sure I blushed too. I was so unaccustomed to that after my marriage. It felt so nice. He told me stories and I listened. He's got a wild streak since he was big enough to think for himself. Still right there on the surface.

There was something in his mannerisms, something in the way he acts when he's excited or happy. The way he grins. He reminded me so much of someone that I must love, but I could not quite put my finger on it.

Two hours in, it hit me like rollerblading into a wall. Jay Tate. I have no idea what came over my face, but he saw it and asked if I was okay. I almost just dumped in in his lap. Then my self-preservation instinct kicked in and I told him I'd tell him later, to shelve that. And he mimes having a little box in his hands and turns to his left, reaches up, and puts it on the imaginary shelf. It was damned endearing. And also something Jay would do. I will never in my life get over how those two are so similar. Almost every time I see him, there's something that Jay would have, may have, done. May have lived to do if he'd had support that my 20-year-old self could not possibly grasp.

I hated two things: that I had forgotten these small things  that I had loved so much about Jay and that it scared me so much that this man was so much like him and the fear that set in me. Sweating panic. Terrified of anyone ever making me feel that way again. Too afraid to allow it. To afraid not to explore it. I am a fearful thing. Fearful of my heart. In both directions. Nothing in this outcome could have saved me by then.

These days, he's his own in my mind. I still have moments that I see Jay. I think Jay would like that. But he also wanted me to move on and be happy. He always said that. He was never jealous that way. I wonder what they would have been like together. Gasoline and matches. But a good time and a whole ton of charming.

Around midnight, he walked me to my car. There was a light rain falling. A mist really that kind of blurred the streetlights. He stood back from the car. He gave me space. I said from that point that he "respected my space" and seemed to understand the vulnerable position I was in, standing in a parking lot with a man I might be attracted to, who might be attracted to me. I suggest this post for the exact situation he understood and didn't want me in, https://thejournier.blogspot.com/2013/12/doctor-date-rape.html. He was already protective of me. Even protective of me against himself. Against so much as a flash of fear.

He did not attempt to open the door, he rarely does. I find it charming. I stood close to him. We hugged. Goodness, the man gives a hug. I just kind of melt into him every time. I want to stay there. We separated and I stayed close, with his arm still at my back. He touched the back of my arm so gently I barely felt it. He wanted to kiss me. I wanted to let him. And he did. The man is the most gentle man I've ever met. He kissed me like a man in love. Gentle, sweet, tender. It fully scrambled my brain. When we finally made space between us, I was idiotic. I said "That was effective." Look at this smart woman, who thinks she's smooth, going fully clinical because even when my brain barely works, I can be analytical. He chuckled and I realized how terrible it was that I said what I said. He never has lost the ability to kiss me idiotic. I told him and still tell him that he makes a very smart woman very, very stupid. And he has never let me live down what I said. I love that.

I have never stopped enjoying his company. If I did, I could shut him out and move on. Just sitting beside him, shoulder to shoulder and working makes me better at what I do. He makes me feel calm and capable. Smooths down all the panic and fear. He brought me to a place I feel at home and a place where I can help, which is my love language. I love those guys. I see what they're doing and my whole heart is in that. And it feels good. Not just do the good, but to see that things can get better, no matter how much it hurts right now.

He fucked up. I let him try to explain. He never really could. I don't think he truly understands himself. I could tell that he regretted hurting me. He took my anger and my confusion and my questioning and apologized. I asked what he wanted after that. He said he wanted to try to earn back my trust. And he tried and failed. And tried and failed. And tried...and succeeded. Something shifted in the past month. I don't know if it was my losing hope that he could ever be more than my friend or if it was his realizing that if he didn't get it together, I'd walk out of his life forever. And I will. Through everything, he talked about how he respected women and knows how to treat them. Then spectacularly failed at that. He disrespected me in the worst sort of way. But also managed to respect me in the best sort of way. And that second kind has stuck and grown and I trust him. I feel safe with him. In every possible way. No matter what now, I know he won't do anything that he thinks might hurt me and he won't let anyone else either.

I saw him really hurt once. It was when I told him that we can't keep talking, spending time together, texting, all that stuff. It hurts me to see him, to speak with him, texting and talking and song links and long hugs and kisses that still kill me. It still does. That he isn't mine and he's so there and I want him so very much. That hurts me, but the thought of losing me hurts him deeply enough for a physical demonstration. I think this is the time when I have to be as strong as I know I am. I have to stand my ground. I have to draw lines. It's so hard. So far, so good, but it hurts me every single time. He tells me that he can't make space between us any more than I can. I wish he would. I wish he could. It hurts me, going on this way.

He seems to think he knows what's best for me. What I want. What I need. What I want, what I need, is his company. He's so busy. But I've witnessed him making time he doesn't have for me. He's talked about it, but not in a way to assert it. I think he really was just telling me because we were talking and shivering together.

And then, something. He's working hard to improve the situation in his mind. And I told him that I'd be there every step of the way for that. No strings, no expectations, just someone on his side who sees that he's trying to get better. I won't leave him alone during that. I won't. No matter what he does. And he's so capable of hurting me. I'm not going to leave him as long as this is his direction. And it is absolutely killing me. A permanent lump in my throat for wanting what he doesn't.

I started feeling like he really does respect me. Like he values me. I see the way he's protective of me. I see the way he does small, small things that make me happy. Making an extra hour to be where I am, the stories he knows I want to hear, a quick flash of jealousy when I'm paying too much attention to a man he knows enough and I just met, finally shaving that face. 

I was so right. He's gorgeous under there. All jawline and dimples. The way his mouth moves that I had never seen is a whole spectacle for me. He tells me he did it for me. To show me that I matter to him, in a way. That it's not convenient, but that he put what I wanted above what he wants. What do I even do with that past letting it break my heart?

I think it was clear that I was softening. That I was letting myself be vulnerable to him again. I know he must see that. And I think that his inching towards me shows that he needed that all along. As long as I keep seeing progress, I see no reason to do anything different. It might be the death of me, like my resident mystic says, but I can't let go of what this looks like to me.

His refusal to make this a whole formal thing because he knows he isn't the man he could be for me. He has these ideas of what it means to be a man. They're archaic at best. I don't need a paycheck or a handyman or someone to come clean up after me. I'm a self-rescuing damsel and I made damn sure of that so very long ago. I never want to have to have a man. I want to want a man. I want this one. I want him in all his shades of dark and light, wild and calm. I just want to sit beside him, shoulder to shoulder while we both work towards the same things, where I can reach over and put my hand on his knee every once in a while just to feel the comfort of him there. The only work I need from him is knowing that I am the only romantic interest in his life and any of the very limited time he can make for me. He's so busy. Always hustling. He's like me in that way. He can't just do nothing.

I want to do the small things to help him. I want him to do the small things to help me. And they will look so different between us. I don't want to see anything talked about as "fair" or "even." I want us both to do the best we can for each other. I want us to work towards things together. I think I can bring him to that. I need him to see that he is good enough. That he is worth the effort. That he is remarkable. I wouldn't want anyone who wasn't. I want to be a team. And I think we make a good one. A damn good one. And I know we'd both be lucky to have the other.

I believe him when he tells me he loves me. I know he believes it when I tell him. I hate to admit how very obvious that is. It's true. My face won't lie and I'm sure he can see my heart in my eyes. He has for a long time. Maybe that's why it's so hard for him. He thinks he doesn't deserve my kind of love. Well, he does. No one has ever deserved it more. He has this one friend who he says "cockblocks himself." Well, I see why the two of them can be friends. I love this man. God help me, let him let me love him.

I may die lovesick before he comes around. Or I may be lured away. That's not impossible. It's very unlikely. But it's possible. I've tried to date. One man stopped seeing me because he says I'm not over my ex. Well, honestly "it's not like we were an item to start with, it had no basis in fact" but I see what you mean. A couple have turned out to be that dumpster juice he swore he wasn't. I need what feels to me like such a small thing from him. It seems insurmountable to him and I do not understand that. I will keep trying to understand him. I won't ever stop.

Honestly, the kindest thing he could do is to tell me he doesn't love me. Take back that thing he told me a week ago standing in the shop office too late for anyone to be here. Tell me he has no romantic feelings. Tell me that when he sees my face, he feels nothing. Tell me we don't stand a chance and to give up. It might be a lie, and it would hurt me like hell right now. I might even cry in front of him for the second time. The first wasn't nearly where you might think it was. But at least if he delivered that, I could try to get over him. And it wouldn't be dragged out for four more months. 

I will wait as long as I can. That's all my heart can do. And in the event that I can't keep waiting, I'll tell him. And I'll still love working shoulder to shoulder with him for something we both love and believe in. We will still be that kind of team. We just can't be teammates in other ways. He may be the death of me. I told him early "You're going to fuck me up and I'm going to let you." I'm no fool. I saw what was coming up at me fast. This could be it. But he has to let it be. I can't do this all myself. I'll fight the world for him, with him, but I can't fight him for him.