The Boy

I didn’t think I would write this post until at least Monday.  Probably Tuesday.  Something in me thinks he’ll be much less likely to read it once the weekend has passed.

But I’m writing it now.  Read into that what you will.

Chris and Jim – an “ex” and an old friend from college – came to the house for dinner last night.  Jim I see often enough, but Chris just moved to the South and I hadn’t seen him since…

I don’t know.

And I don’t know because I don’t care to remember because every time we see each other its as if no time has passed.   We have a natural, easy friendship.  He brings a part of my life with him that was happy and easy and full of any possibility I could imagine.

The three of us ate and talked and played Nintendo and watched Follow That Bird.

(Yes.  Three grown adults voluntarily watched a Sesame Street movie.  We were thoroughly entertained.)

And I was happy.  Thrilled, actually, to have these lovely, wonderful people in my home, complimenting the house, the cooking, the fact that I still have a working Nintendo.

But the last person I cooked dinner for was him.
And the last person I played Nintendo with was him.
And the last person I pulled up my website for was him.

I missed him.
I miss him.

ALREADY.

But I’ve been missing him.  I’ve been missing him for weeks, and not only that, I had to miss him without knowing what was going to happen next.  I had to miss him not knowing when I’d next find an inside joke text message waiting on my phone for me, when I’d next hear his voice, when I’d next lay eyes on him.  I never asked for very much, and maybe I should have, but I didn’t even get what little I asked for.

He didn’t think he could give it to me.

So now, I miss him, and I know.  I know I won’t be hearing from him, or seeing him, or fighting to keep my balance as he dives in and plants his lips on my cheek.  I know this, and it’s my doing.  I called it off.  I couldn’t handle not knowing anymore.

We were laying on my floor one night, just talking.  I had been having an atrocious day, and when he came over that night, I was sitting on the floor half-heartedly plunking away on my piano.  He let himself in, and just sat next to me.  Just sat.  I nearly cried, telling him how frustrated I was with all that had been happening, and he didn’t try to fix anything or get overly logical, which I know is in his nature to do.  He just listened and did his best to make me smile.

We talked that night about some of our past dating situations.  I don’t remember how they came up, but this subject often came up in one way or another.  He told me he wasn’t one to try to convince somebody she shouldn’t break up with him.  I said, “Me either.  I’ve done it; it never works.  I’ve given up on that tactic, mostly.”  He agreed, and we continued on for another short while.

After a few hours, we finally migrated to the couch for a little while before he had to go.  And when he left, I felt as if the whole world had just gone away.  I had no more worries, no more fears, no more frustrations.

Now I think back to that night as one of the last we really spent together, lovely and simple.  The way he said, “I hate the idea of you having a bad day.”  The way he said, “If a girl breaks up with me, even if I really like her, I’m going to let her go.”

I was having a really bad day.
And he let me go.

I knew that I could ask for what I thought I needed and he’d probably say no.
And I knew that if I broke up with him, there was very little chance he’d fight.

But a big, big part of me is hoping he will.
There’s still a chance.
I really do like him, and I know he really likes me.
What I don’t know is if he’ll miss me enough to think even a small change in his actions might be worth seeing me again.
What I don’t know is if he’ll believe that a simple, meaningful apology will allow him to slip his foot back in the door.

I don’t need him in my life.  I have friends who make me laugh, who play Nintendo with me, who sing and dance and bounce around.  And let me tell you, he never would have watched a Sesame Street movie with me.  I don’t need him.  I am fine.

But I want to be more than fine.
And there’s one big ball of forgiveness ready to drop, if he’s ready to stand there and catch it.
One.

But I can’t go back.
He has to come to me.