Weeks ago ~
It’s another Saturday afternoon, and we’re on our second video call before my trip to Ithaca. Jeff starts the call with Lesley and me, but immediately blacks out his camera. Lesley and I exchange shrugs as we greet each other, both of us a little bemused.
A moment later, Jeff’s face pops up. His hair sticks up in every direction. He apologizes for the delay, admits he just jumped out of the shower, running late, and forgot to put on a shirt. I glance quickly at Lesley, both of us at a loss for words as Jeff breezes past the awkwardness and launches into meeting mode.
Men. Sometimes I wonder if they’re just oblivious, or maybe Jeff is just… odd. Didn’t he start this call? Wouldn’t you wait until you’re actually presentable? The whole thing feels strange, a slight discrepancy I can’t yet figure out.
Still, we get down to business, working through our growing list of group activities. We finally settle on Riverfront Park’s live music concert series, and just the thought of it excites me. I love live music. I crave that feeling of being alive and carefree again.
As I sort through my closet for an outfit, I already imagine the music, the crowd, the energy, and a small thrill runs through me. It feels like I’m on the verge of something new, a different season, though I can’t yet name what it is.
Present day ~
I arrive right on time, folding chair in hand, strolling along the walkway toward the venue. Jeff texted that he’s already there and has snagged us a spot. I see him sitting alone.
Nope, not yet. A familiar knot tightens in my stomach—the old anxiety of anticipation. I make a beeline for the food truck, needing a moment to ground myself. The limited menu is a welcome relief, a simple problem to solve before facing a more complicated one.
Something prompts me to glance to my right, and there’s Jeff, striding over, waving, his grin almost comically eager. I half expected him to be slimmer after two weeks of hiking and biking, but he’s still husky. Or maybe it’s just that loose button-down shirt. He looks larger than I remember.
I wave back and give him a hug, welcoming him home. He studies the food options and asks what I’m getting. Chicken tenders and fries, I say. He orders the same and insists on paying for mine. I protest that it’s generous but unnecessary, yet he won’t let it go, so I accept.
That old, uneasy feeling creeps in, familiar as a childhood shadow. It’s a kind gesture, but my guard goes up, automatic as breath. An internal ledger opens, and I’m already calculating how to pay him back, how to stay level. It’s a game I never agree to play, but often wind up in.
We catch up with everyone as they arrive. Abigail snaps a group selfie for the Healing Collective group chat. Cody chimes in, saying we’re a good-looking bunch, and I find myself smiling. This group really feels like friends reuniting, not just survivors of broken relationships. Though perhaps that’s exactly what we are, survivors learning how to be friends.
Eventually, the conversation turns to me. My chest tightens as I answer: still separated, still living in the same house. The financial realities of divided homes flash through my mind. A chill runs down my spine at the thought of losing the comfort of a family under one roof, the only structure I’ve known for decades.
My mind drifts a little when someone brings up age. Lesley just turned 48. Jeff jokes about being “practically 50” but he’s only 47. Brad’s about to be 55, and Abigail’s in her mid-40s. Then all eyes land on me.
“I’m 52,” I admit.
Brad’s eyes widen behind his glasses. “52! You don’t look like you’re in your fifties.”
Must be the Filipino genes and all the water I drink. I chuckle, “I hope that’s a compliment.”
Jeff interjects with a bit of sarcasm. “Well, he’s not saying you look older. Of course he thinks you look good for your age.”
That little jab irks me. I shoot Jeff a sideways glance, my arms folded. “Thanks, Brad,” I respond, ignoring Jeff’s undertone. Nobody else seems to catch the hint of jealousy in his laugh, his goofy smile, the way he hides behind that holier-than-thou persona, even sharing his chicken tenders and fries with everyone else.
But I catch it. My body registers it: the slight forward lean, the proprietary tone, the way his hand rests for a second too long on the back of my chair. He’s marking territory without seeming to mark territory.
Later, we move our chairs away from the crowd so we can actually hear each other. Jeff kicks off his Birkenstock sandals, bare feet pressing into the grass, and I watch his toes creep toward my chair like he’s testing how close he can get without being called on it. He dives into a story about mountain biking in Colorado. How having coffee before a ride was a disastrous idea. Five miles in, he nearly bursts trying to hold it until the next restroom. He describes the ordeal, and I cringe, realizing people nearby can probably hear.
I notice Abigail’s raised eyebrow. Lesley shakes with laughter across from me. I’m laughing too, even as Brad keeps a blank expression. I wish Amy and Donna were here to witness this.
Then I catch one woman from a group sitting nearby suppressing a smile. I lean toward Jeff, my voice low. “I think you have an audience. They definitely heard you,” I murmur, tilting my head in their direction.
Jeff’s eyes go wide as he follows my gaze. “Oh, my word! I didn’t realize I was so loud,” he claims, laughing at himself.
That weird laugh surfaces again—nervous or shameless, I can’t tell. “Well, you gave them a good story,” I giggle.
As the sun drops behind the Delaware River, the air cools. The group wants to continue the night at Clash Sports Bar for drinks and BINGO. I spend more time chatting than playing, and I buy a round for the table, including Jeff’s soda, so I don’t owe him anything. That feels better; the scales rebalanced, my autonomy restored in this small way.
While the girls practice line dancing, Jeff turns to me, locking eyes. “I’m glad we’re having so much fun.”
He can be irritating, awkward, and confusing. But right now, he’s sincere. That goofy smile says it all. “I’m happy you’re having fun too,” I reply.
It gets late. After I pay for our table, we all say our goodbyes and walk out to the parking lot. Jeff walks me to my car since he parked across from me.
“Thank you for being you. I had a lot of fun,” he admits.
It’s sweet. I did have fun catching up and laughing with everyone. “Thanks! I had lots of fun too. Goodnight.”
Jeff pulls me in for a hug and murmurs, “Have a good night. See ya,” before heading to his car with a wave of his hand.
As I settle into my seat, I realize he sat next to me at the park, and then again at Clash. My stomach does a little flip. I press my palm against it, half to quiet the feeling, half to hold it. The engine turns over, but for a long moment, I don’t move, wondering what that really means.
This post is part of a fictionalized memoir. The emotional experiences and themes are drawn from my life, but all names, identities, timelines, and circumstances have been altered, obscured, or combined to protect privacy — including my own. These writings are not meant to diagnose, label, or describe any real person. Instead, they illuminate relational patterns that can occur in emotionally imbalanced or narcissistic dynamics. Any resemblance to actual individuals is coincidental or intentionally obscured. The intention is healing and awareness, not identification. These posts are for storytelling purposes only and do not constitute professional advice.
The images woven through My Journey and The Lessons are my own photographs — moments I captured on trails, in forests, beside rivers, and under open sky. They are pieces of my story and are not to be copied or used without permission.
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