The weather is perfect — warm sun, light breeze — the kind that tricks you into believing things could be easy, that life might be simple. Yet it’s another busy day at work. I come back to the office after a brisk walk, awake from the sun, the air tasting faintly of cut grass and blooming rhododendrons hugging the walkway with their vibrant shades of pink.
My body thrums with a weird, nervous energy, a discordant chord struck by too little sleep and too many hot flashes. Or maybe it’s the lingering buzz from last night’s group get-together. I’m retelling the story for my two co-workers, laughing about Jeff’s old-fashioned “washroom” slip. “Excuse me, ladies,” I mimic, adding a little curtsy. Their laughter follows me down the hall as I return to my afternoon blur of patients and notes.
I’m halfway through charting, dreaming of my back patio, when my phone lights up: Jeff. I don’t open the message right away, but my pulse jumps just the same. Did he overhear us? Was I too loud? The memory of him last night, how he watched me when he thought I wasn’t looking, flicks across my mind.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just a man with a goofy smile and a weird vocabulary.
Still, I wait until my next patient is in a room before I check the message. “Hey Lena. Do you have any plans for tonight? I don’t, but I’d like to get a bite to eat. Wanted to see if you were interested in joining me.”
I have to read it twice, my brain refusing to process the words. A typo? A group text sent to me by mistake? But no, it’s addressed to me. “Hey Lena.” The period after my name feels like a firm tap on the shoulder, and then the heat starts, a flush crawling up my neck and behind my ears. I glance down the empty hall, my body convinced it’s being watched.
Just a hot flash, I try to convince myself. I’m overreacting. It’s just dinner. Harmless.
It isn’t a date; I insist to myself. He isn’t my type. And I, certainly, am not his.
I step into the staff kitchen, letting the refrigerator’s cool sigh wash over me, my gaze lost in the counter’s void of discarded hummus and pita, a silent testament to a day already consumed. After a moment, I take a deep breath and text, “Hey, still at work. Not sure when I’ll be done. I’m traveling from Jersey dressed in scrubs. Any place in mind?”
Minutes later, he responds. “Not really, but two crossed my mind. The Vista Grill for its great view. Or Billy’s Pub…love the pizza there.” He attaches links.
I click through, scanning menus as if it’s a test I have to pass. Vista Grill is up in the Little Gap Mountain ski area, a full hour away. Billy’s Pub is still twenty minutes away, and not exactly “on my way.” I point this out: “Those look good, but they’re both too far for me. Are you open to something closer to the Jersey border?”
“Not at all. Any place you like? We can meet there. FYI, with the other two, I was thinking I’d pick you up after you got home, cleaned up, and changed.”
My stomach does a full somersault. I blink, reading and rereading the sentence. The wording is careful, but the intent isn’t. He’s thinking of it like a date.
I tell myself I’m being paranoid, but my skin prickles, and that familiar sourness, a ghost of Reginald’s “suggestions” that are always demands, rises in my throat.
The thought feels stupid, dramatic even—he’s just a nice man from the group. Yet, I can’t shake the premonition: a familiar sense of being managed, my choices narrowed, one polite text at a time.
Then again, I’ve seen his sincerity, his kindness. And if I’m honest, I am so tired of being alone.
Minutes pass, and Jeff follows up. “Wait…we can go to Northampton Grille. It’s close to the border for you.”
Relief floods me. At least it’s local. I check the website and it’s nice — white tablecloths, fancy cocktails, the kind of place you wear actual pants to. The idea of changing out of my scrubs is suddenly daunting, though I feel a flicker of… not excitement, exactly, but something like curiosity, maybe.
I reply, “I’ve never been to this restaurant. By the looks of the place, I’ll have to go home and change out of my scrubs. I’ll text when I’m leaving to meet you.”
He sends back, “Yay! Take your time. I don’t want you to feel rushed. FYI: I’m hungry, lol.”
I roll my eyes at the “hungry, lol,” but text back, “Just don’t be hangry, lol.” No idea why I’m entertaining him. He responds with a laughing emoji.
When I get home, I repeat to myself that it’s just dinner. Harmless. But my closet seems to disagree. I pull out jeans, then put them back. A simple t-shirt feels too plain. Soon the floor is buried under a decade of discarded selves. I finally settle on a pink blouse with a soft, flowered pattern. Something that doesn’t scream “date” but whispers “notice me.” I slide into tan wedge sandals, adding two inches of height I don’t need, but a little less invisibility I desperately crave.
I text Jeff that I’m leaving in ten minutes. He asks if he can pick me up. No way. I’m not getting in a car alone with him. What if he’s psycho? Even though I’m being dramatic again, I grab my wallet and reply that I’ll meet him there.
He’s fine with that and insists on treating me. Here we go again, the “it’s on me…it’s my treat.” Yet I drop my own expectations of paying my share and simply accept his kind offer. After all, he invited me.
The drive is uneventful, although my body stays one notch above baseline the whole time. I pull into the lot, park, and take a moment to breathe in the evening air. A breeze carries the scent of barbecue from somewhere nearby. There are voices and laughter from the patio, the sound of glasses clinking, the indistinct murmur of people who don’t know each other’s secrets.
I text him. A minute later he appears, striding across the street with that awkward, loose-limbed gait. Tall and broad, same khaki shorts, a different blue top this time, but the same loose-fitting style. He waves, and for a second I want to laugh at that goofy, over-eager grin of his.
Still not my type. Definitely not a date.
Jeff pulls me into a hug. It’s not a bad hug, but it’s not great, either. Too awkward, too weird, so I pat his back lightly, the way you do with relatives at funerals.
I force a smile and ask, “So what’s the occasion?” trying to sound breezy, but my voice comes out thin.
He tells the hostess about our reservation and says, “It’s sort of a celebration.”
I arch an eyebrow. “Celebrating what?”
Jeff shrugs, grinning. “New beginnings. A transition from unhealthy to healing.”
I feel a familiar impulse to roll my eyes, to retreat into cynicism. Don’t get your hopes up, a voice warns. Yet I force myself to stay open, to listen past the slightly rehearsed words. There’s an earnestness in his tone I can’t dismiss, a flicker of sincerity that makes me wonder if he really means it.
To my surprise, Jeff doesn’t dominate the conversation during dinner. He listens, really listens, nodding and making eye contact. He wants to know about my life, my work, my values, my faith, my dreams, my interests… like an interview, but somehow not annoying. Usually, I’m the one collecting stories, not giving them away.
For the first time in ages, someone is listening to me. Not just unloading their own problems when I’m always the ear for everyone else. Instead, I share what brings me joy, what makes me laugh, like Jeff’s hurried hand gestures and self-admitted social awkwardness. He’s nervous, which is oddly endearing.
“I have blind spots I’m not aware of,” Jeff confesses, asking, “What blind spots do you see in me?”
I almost choke on my water. “You really want feedback?”
He laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “Yeah, why not? I appreciate your perspective.”
I pause, surprised by his willingness to hear the hard stuff. “Sometimes you can come off a little… rigid, closed-minded. Like there’s only one right way to do things. Life isn’t always that black and white.”
He nods, encouraging me to continue. I explain my own beliefs, my mixed Catholic and Christian upbringing, my simple attachment to the Golden Rule.
Jeff asks for more, and I give him a little. “You might want to soften your approach. Be less analytical, more understanding. Not everyone likes being put on the spot.”
He smiles, a practiced earnestness. “Please point out more. I want to learn, to change, and to grow. How can I be better, not bitter?”
That phrase, “better, not bitter,” is an anchor in my own swirling thoughts, a mantra I’ve been trying to live by, weeding out old hurts. He said it in the recovery group, and hearing it again, so readily offered, feels like an echo of my own deepest longing. Yet something in the way he delivers it, like a well-worn motto, makes a tiny seed of doubt sprout in my mind.
Then Jeff shifts gears suddenly, asking, “What do you think of Brad?”
“He’s quiet,” I answer. “Not a man of many words, but when he speaks, he’s insightful. I appreciated his input.”
Jeff nods. “I think he’s a solid guy,” he states with a flatness to his tone.
“He is,” I agree. Older, wiser, and grounded by his life experiences.
Jeff tells me his life goals. “There are three things I strive to be. I want to be rooted, solid, a man of integrity.” Rooted in faith, solid in character, and a respected man.
He wants to work on his blind spots. Even admitting to his flaws, his past mistakes with his family, his struggle to let go of control and trust in God. I respect that, and for a moment, I see the man he wants to be, and I almost like him.
Suddenly, the topic switches to running. Mountain biking. Maybe rock climbing. Would I be interested in it? So instead of being interviewed, I’m getting recruited. I laugh, promising to consider it another time as our server boxes up leftovers.
He excuses himself. Again, the “washroom.” I chuckle to myself. Who knew the night would go this well?
When he returns, I excuse myself to the restroom, thanking our server on the way. The server and I share a laugh about Jeff’s overly detailed dessert refusal. A simple “no” would have been fine, the server comments, and I agree.
Jeff carries the takeout bags as we leave, and I thank him for a dinner that felt more like an exploration. My mind is still processing the intensity of his questions, the feeling of being thoroughly seen.
Once we enter a local ice cream shop, the conversation turns lighter, but I feel a subtle shift inside me. The wariness, a familiar shadow, still clings to me, yet a tentative warmth blooms beside it, like a stubborn wild poppy pushing through stone. As we stroll through Center Square, I find myself not wanting the night to end, chatting more until time dissolves.
He asks, “Are you parked at the garage?”
“Yep…” I have a strange feeling he is, too.
“So did I.” He lingers at the bench and compliments my style. “You look really nice tonight. You’re very—”
“Put together?” I chime in when he can’t quite find the word, because I practically put this outfit together after discarding maybe five tops.
He grins, stretching his legs out in front of him. “Sophisticated. You know how to dress well. Even your sandals match.”
It’s late. My social battery is depleted. I’m ready to go home and sleep. “Thank you,” I acknowledge, slowly walking towards the parking deck.
As we climb the stairs to the second level, he mentions, “I think I parked near you.”
A cold knot forms in my stomach. Dozens of cars fill this level. How could he possibly know where I parked? I tell myself I’m being ridiculous, yet the question hangs in the air.
Then I round the concrete pillar, and my breath catches. Jeff parked his Forester right next to my Sonata. His key fob chirps, a cheerful sound that feels menacing. It’s not a coincidence; it’s a choice. It’s information he collected and filed away. The feeling of being watched settles over me like a veil.
Still, I enjoyed the night. We’re just friends, I remind myself. I say goodnight after another awkward hug, and we go our separate ways.
Driving home with the windows down, the night air cool on my skin, I try to translate what just happened into a language I can understand. My heart is still racing from this rush of adrenaline, but now it’s less fear, more of something else. Relief? Or maybe hope?
Yet sleep won’t come easily. My mind churns, circling a quiet, nagging sense that something is off.
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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