Early the next morning, my phone buzzes—a text notification. Waking up at 7:30 AM on a Saturday feels like a cruel joke. I grope for my phone and blink at the screen. Jeff: “Donuts at Giant bakery were excellent. I had a fun time last night. I’m glad it worked out.”
“Glad it worked out?” I mumble, the words pricking at me like a thorn even through the lingering fog of sleep. The phrase snags on something within me, a tiny, insistent unraveling. My mind, already an editor, instinctively rephrased it: I’m glad it went well.
That’s the phrasing I would have offered, the one that settled cleanly. Yet, here I am, dissecting a simple pleasantry. I hadn’t even named it a date. Perhaps the subtext is entirely my own projection, and I’m reading too much into it, searching for meaning.
After an hour, fueled by coffee and a quiet breakfast, I finally reply, “Good morning. Thank you again for dinner and the ice cream. It was great talking to you. The donuts at Giant never disappoint me. Enjoy your weekend!”
His silence is fine. I’m enjoying a lazy morning to decompress. Still, his text hangs in the air of my quiet morning, pulling my mind back to last night. The Courtyard Creamery, the two of us tucked into those little tables, trading opinions on everything from desserts to the Starbucks versus Dunkin, or Dove chocolates versus Take 5, and Krispy Kreme versus Dunkin Donuts. My loyalty, of course, remains with Giant’s bakery.
Yet somewhere in that easy banter, I pointed out another blind spot of his. A subtle discord when I observed his struggle to truly connect with the layered stories of divorce, especially Amy’s. Even after I explained the unseen depths beneath the surface of her experiences, a certain blankness remained in his gaze, a fleeting, almost imperceptible closing off.
To make my point, I mimicked him in class. Every time Amy opened up, he’d immediately dive into his phone, scrolling away.
Jeff covered his mouth, though a laugh escaped. “Oops, I’m laughing like a girl.” His words, not mine. He shifted, looking momentarily uncomfortable with the accuracy of my portrayal.
I showed him my own practice of keeping my phone face down or tucked away when I’m with people. It’s my small way of saying, I’m here. You matter.
Jeff straightened up, his eyes blinking behind his glasses, and set his phone screen facing down. “Oh my word, I didn’t realize that could come off as rude.”
“I’m not offended,” I said, spooning up more coffee ice cream. “If your family needs you, answer. They’re important. I don’t judge how others manage their attention. My family scrolls through their phones, too. This is just what feels right for me.”
“Thank you,” he said, a little quieter. “I’m learning a lot from you.”
Maybe. But sometimes I’m not sure. I’ve noticed how dismissive Jeff can be. My mind drifts back to the server last night, his polite check-in about dessert. My simple “no” would have been enough, yet he continued to ramble a series of explanations and near-apologies, as if the silence of acceptance was a void he had to fill.
Jeff said he appreciated my honesty. He admitted to feeling the pressure of explaining himself. Even though people came to their own conclusions regardless, I understood. Sometimes, I’d slip into people-pleasing just to avoid conflict, even if that meant ignoring my own needs.
The next evening, another message from Jeff: “Ice cream??? We can meet at the same spot or somewhere in between.”
I shake my head, half amused, half exasperated. “Seriously?” I mumble. Is he just bored? Or is this about loneliness? I thought he’d left that behind in Big Sky country.
But the word “ice cream” brings a wave of nostalgia. Summers with Reginald, Lizzie, and Reggie, hopping from local shops and dairy farms, trying every flavor, savoring simple joys. I don’t have that tradition anymore, and the memory aches in my chest.
When the feeling fades, I text back, “Hey there! I just made dinner for the family. Another time? My treat at this place I’ve always wanted to try.” I add a link to Silk Creamery, already curious about their honey lavender flavor.
He replies, “Enjoy your dinner, and yes, let’s try that place. It looks great. I head to Ohio tomorrow night, but I’ll be home Thursday.”
His answer is simple. Still, something unsettles me. I reread his work schedule—another Friday night, another hangout. We’re just friends, I keep insisting to myself. It’s casual, I repeat. But my inner voice sounds less convincing.
Midweek, I send him a text: “Hi! Are you OK to get ice cream this Friday?” I try to keep it light. Just ice cream, hoping that’s how he’ll read it.
A few minutes later: “Hey you. I was talking about you today. You able to chat for a minute?”
Talking about me? My heart skips, wondering about what Jeff said and to whom. Before I can overthink it, I agree to a call. Turns out he already has plans this Friday. We rescheduled, and I let it go.
His texts grow more frequent—quick, casual updates about his day. With each notification, my phone feels a little busier, the space he occupies in my day expanding. I’m not sure how to handle the sudden influx; this unfamiliar back-and-forth rhythm I find myself in.
“What am I even doing?” I whisper into the air, the question hanging unanswered.
The following night, he messages, “My friend canceled for tomorrow night. Let me know if you want to goof off after work! We could do something fun. Movie, food, casino, thrift store…”
His plans keep shifting. I pause, staring at “casino,” and then “thrift store,” texting back, “I have many questions. Your fascination with casinos, and how does thrifting fit into this?”
“Too funny. I’ve been to the casino 6 times in my life. 3 times in the past 6 months. It’s fun,” Jeff explains. “Thrifting is so much fun. We go there first and buy shirts for each other. Then we have to wear them to the Friday night event.”
Thrifting sounds creative. The casino? That’s a red flag. I remember Jeff pitching that for a group event. Of course, Lesley and I nixed the idea. “The thrifting sounds interesting. What do you play at the casino?” I ask.
“Blackjack, but not at the table,” he answers. “They have these big comfy chairs and you play at your own pace, no one looking over your shoulder.” Then, a few seconds later, “Let’s just hang out tomorrow. Sound good? Can I pick you up, or would that be awkward?”
Awkward is exactly the word. A man I barely know, picking me up for what started as ice cream and now includes thrifting and maybe a casino.
“Once we agree on a place, I can meet you there.” Maybe I can pull things back to my original plan.
He replies, “I understand! We’ll meet somewhere. I’m looking forward to it.”
I relax a little, responding, “Cool! Looking forward to it, too.”
Friday comes, busy as ever, my nerves wound tight. We still haven’t finalized the details, and I’m determined to keep things casual—ice cream, that’s all. My coworker arrives, dragging from a long week, although I spill everything about Jeff before she can even sit.
She covers her mouth, fighting a smile. “Lena. You’ve been holding this in for a week? You’re not doing anything wrong. It’s OK to be friends with him,” she reassures me. She tells me her best friend is a guy, and it works.
Her words land, settling in me, and I see the shape of the truth. My anxiety isn’t just about Jeff; it’s the ghost of Reginald, of seeking permission. It’s the feeling of sneaking around. She’s right, of course. Reginald and I are separated, and he no longer has a say. The thought is liberating, but the feeling still lingers like a stubborn echo.
I text Jeff, suggesting the restaurant near Silk Creamery. He’s open, emphasizing the “goofing off” part, whatever that means.
We agree to meet at Lowe’s so he can pick up supplies for his home. When he arrives, his Hawaiian shirt, a riot of faded hibiscus, stretched a little tight across his shoulders, catches my eye. We both laugh, a genuine reaction that seems to dissolve the simmering anxiety within me. In that moment, he seems disarmingly harmless.
The spot I chose is rustic and full of charm. Their local urban winery is the highlight. Over dinner, Jeff talks about revamping his house. Out with the old and in with the new. Then he opens up about the awkwardness of divorce, how he’s still close with his father-in-law. I listen, realizing how hard it must be. You don’t just stop being family because you’re not married anymore.
My experience is different. I still get along with my in-laws. Reginald and I are on good terms, which helps the kids stay connected to both sides.
Jeff admits he grieves the dream of everyone gathering for his kids’ milestones, all in one happy family. Divorce has been hard on him and his sons. Strangely, his father-in-law—a pastor—gives him spiritual support.
Suddenly, something clicks, and an odd sensation fills me. I know who Melissa’s father is. My family and I used to go to his church. Pastor Crane. I remember Melissa, too, if only briefly. She didn’t fit the picture Jeff paints.
When Jeff asks about my son, I probe gently. “Reggie’s eighteen. Has good friends at school and in the community. He still keeps in touch with Pastor Denis’ grandson, Tommy.”
Jeff goes silent, face blank as if he’s seeing a specter from his past. “Pastor Denis?” he utters, his voice barely audible.
“I used to go to Hope Bridge Church,” I mention, biting into my pizza. “I know Pastor Denis. And Pastor Crane.”
“Well…” Jeff clears his throat. “Pastor Crane is my father-in-law.”
“What a small world,” I comment. “I stopped going to Hope Bridge when he retired.” The coincidence unnerves me, so without further thought, I excuse myself to the restroom.
The odd sensation I felt earlier sharpens into a cold, insistent prickle down my spine as I wash my hands. How did I know that? The feeling isn’t a discovery, but an uncovering of something I’ve always held.
A memory flickered—a crowd at the church, a celebration for Pastor Crane’s retirement. I saw Melissa and her siblings gathered around him. Then, in the cluster of family, a familiar face. Jeff, holding his youngest son, while Melissa held the hand of their oldest. The image solidified. I was sure of it now.
Too many coincidences. It’s unsettling, as if there’s something important just out of sight. I have no idea what it is. Although a quiet voice urges me to pay attention. Observe.
It’s the same intuition that guided me with Reginald, urging me to look past words for genuine change. That inner voice had been my compass through the end of my marriage, and it’s speaking again now. This is no coincidence.
I return to the table calmer, repeating to myself that there’s no such thing as coincidence. I ask God to steady me, to help me navigate this new friendship with Jeff. Whatever it may be.
To lighten the moment, I switch the conversation to something simple: ice cream. I tell Jeff how excited I am to finally try honey lavender. He sticks out his tongue, pretending to gag. “Honey lavender? I’m more of a vanilla and raspberry guy…yummy.”
I can’t help but tease him silently. Vanilla. He really is predictable, stuck in his comfort zone. No adventure for his taste buds.
He glances at my plate, a half-eaten flatbread pizza growing cold. “You haven’t finished your food,” he points out, furrowing his brows. “Aren’t you hungry?”
I glance down, realizing I’ve barely touched my meal. My hunger, overshadowed by the flow of conversation, mostly my own, I admit to myself. Still, it feels like a relief to speak so freely, to feel as if someone is finally listening, or at least not interrupting.
“It’s fine. I’ll take it home for lunch tomorrow,” I answer, finishing my wine and noticing his drink, I add, “You always pick Sprite over anything stronger.”
Jeff shifts in his chair, swirling the ice in his glass. “I used to drink. Beer, liquor, all of it. Then one night I got so drunk I threw up all over myself at a party. After that, I just stopped. Temptation’s funny. One taste, and sometimes you want more. So I don’t have any now.”
He signals for the check, and there’s something honest in his admission that makes me want to leave the past in the past. We decide to walk over to Silk Creamery, just to relax and see where the night takes us. This time, I offer to pay for the ice cream since he covered dinner. He seems genuinely touched, almost surprised. I wonder how many people ever bother to return his kindness.
Honey lavender is everything I hoped it would be, while Jeff digs happily into his vanilla and raspberry. We sit outside as the sun slips behind the apartments, the air cooling, our laughter drifting over talk of thrifting for our next adventure. The new rule: we each pick out a shirt for the other, sight unseen, and have to wear whatever we get.
I joke about the possibilities, like hideous old concert tees, brands no one’s heard of since the eighties. Jeff grins and grabs his phone, intending to search local thrift stores. “Oh. I can’t search right now. My phone’s locked.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Locked?”
Jeff shrugs a little sheepishly. “After 8 PM, my phone locks me out of the browser. It keeps me from going on sites that are questionable… or might have porn.” He observes me, bracing for my reaction.
Something in my body tightens, a subtle clenching I quickly mask. It’s a red flag, waving wildly. But the moment feels too delicate to break with confrontation. I make a choice to ignore it. “Well,” I say, pulling out my own phone, “I’ll search on mine then.”
He brightens, and his attention shifts again. “Hey, look! There’s a plane up there.” He points to a distant speck in the sky. “Bet it’s headed for Newark.”
I follow his gaze. “How can you tell? Could be Philly.”
“It’s going north, definitely Newark,” he says, a little smug. “I used to follow flight paths with a radar app.”
It sounds odd to me, but maybe that’s just another quirk. Perhaps it’s travel for work, or maybe he just likes knowing where things are going.
I let it go, teasing, “I still think it’s Philly,” as I scoop up the last bite of ice cream.
Jeff chuckles and rises from his chair, saying, “It’s getting late. We should head back to Lowe’s so I can get you home at a decent hour.”
We drive the local roads, talking about what we might do next. Thrifting is at the top of our list, perhaps a hike if the weather’s nice. I like how comfortable it feels, planning future adventures with him.
When we reach the parking lot, Jeff turns to me and thanks me, really thanks me, for another fun night. His gratitude is open, almost sweet, and I surprise myself by hugging him goodbye. This time, it doesn’t feel awkward.
As Jeff lingers, I wish him a Happy Father’s Day. I tell him he deserves a good one, hoping the words are true, wanting to believe in the kind man he appears to be. For a split second, he goes quiet, his eyes glassy. Then he hugs me again, a little tighter, thanking me for my kindness, my insight, my playfulness—for being me.
By the time I’m home and showered, my body is exhausted, but my mind replays the night in a swirl of nerves, excitement, and a fragile hope. I feel strangely wired with sleep just out of reach. As I lay in the dark, the unsettling moments—the casino, the phone lock, the coincidences—overshadow the laughter, and my hope sours into a low hum of anxiety.
Yet when I finally drift off, I slide into a nightmare already in motion, its whispers picking up where my nerves had left off, confirming the danger I’d spent the night trying to ignore.
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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