Jeff texts a photo of our new yoga mats, a bright splash of color against his desk. His message radiates eagerness for this evening, and a corresponding ripple of excitement moves through me. I imagine us practicing in the park, sharing the peaceful joy I usually only find alone in nature.
But as the afternoon wears on, a thread of uncertainty pulls at the feeling. We still haven’t settled on dinner, and I’m still at work with the possibility of running late. When I ask, Jeff is breezy. “We’ll figure it out,” he texts back, and I try to let the feeling go.
The pressure has gone. I can look forward to another promising evening.
We meet at our usual spot near Lowe’s, the midpoint between our hometowns. I’m dressed for our agenda, yet Jeff arrives in the same khaki shorts. The only athletic thing about him is his sneakers and shirt. His casual disregard for the plan is a little unsettling. He seems to operate on his own terms.
After he greets me with a hug, that goofy smile plastered across his face, I let his choice of attire go. Perhaps he’s comfortable in those shorts. We exchange quick summaries of our day before he asks for clarification. “We’ve been meeting together weekly so far. Are we dating?”
My mind races, a familiar panic tightening my chest as I stare at him wide-eyed. Dating. The word feels like a trap. Forcing a calm I don’t feel into my voice, “I don’t really do labels like dating,” I say. “I’d like to think we’re just enjoying our time together.” It feels true enough to be safe. We are friends, having fun. That’s all this needs to be.
Jeff smiles, nodding. “I like that. We’re enjoying our time together.” He repeats it, then adds, “It takes the pressure off me because I didn’t know how to view this.”
Thank God. The breath I was holding rushes out. His question had echoed other conversations, the precise moment an easy friendship becomes a negotiation. I can still feel the silence that replaced laughter with another friend, the ache of a connection lost because I couldn’t want what he wanted.
I don’t want to lose this. A hopeful part of me insists that men and women can be friends without it all falling apart. Though a quieter, more cautious voice holds the memory of every time it did.
Once I choose a spot on the open grassy field at the park, we both unroll our brand-new mats. Of course, Jeff and I are already laughing at one another, as he predicted. He eyes me in my yoga pants and tank top while I point out his khaki shorts, which don’t leave him room to be flexible enough to stretch. Not the athletic shorts I suggested he wear.
Jeff tells me it’s an oversight and I shouldn’t be focusing on his flaws, and maybe we should just talk about mine instead. I laugh at his absurdity and begin our session with deep cleansing breaths before moving into our first pose, Warrior II.
Throughout and between poses, Jeff grunts and strains, claiming how much he hates me for forcing him into these stretches. I can’t help but laugh at his struggle to hold the pose. He’d much rather do the easy ones, like Child’s or Corpse.
When we reach the end of my sequence, I forgo the Namaste, since Jeff doesn’t practice the closing. I suggest we sit and breathe for a few minutes to unwind, to be in the moment of gratitude. He’s open to it, suggesting we lie on our mats instead as he slides his mat closer to mine.
Jeff closes his eyes, saying the sound of birds chirping helps him relax. I agree, letting nature wash over me. The gentle breeze on my skin, the distant bird songs, and the scent of cut grass fill the air. It’s all so peaceful.
He stirs beside me, and I turn my head, my eyes opening to find his already on me. This close, the late sun illuminates a shade of blue I hadn’t seen before, as clear and startling as a summer sky. It’s a subtle detail amid the warmth of the breeze that holds my gaze.
Jeff smiles, admitting, “While we were resting side by side, I wanted to reach out and hold your hand.” He pauses, turning onto his side. “It’s an uncomfortable honesty, but I wanted you to know.”
Something shifts inside me, as though my guard is dropping a little each time Jeff shares his vulnerability. I can feel myself softening as a smile tugs at the corners of my lips. “That’s so sweet. Thank you for letting me know.” I take a deep breath and roll onto my stomach, his blue eyes distracting me. “Honesty is scary, but it’s OK to be open with me. It helps me understand what you’re thinking or even feeling. This helps build trust.”
“I want to be transparent with you,” he responds, turning onto his back to gaze at the sky. “You make it feel easy, almost safe.”
Safe. The word lands in my chest, heavy and hollowed out. I remember trying to explain it to Reginald, my voice small in our bedroom, how safety was the single thread we needed to reweave everything. But the thread had snapped long ago. Trust had frayed into suspicion, honesty curdled into silence, and connection became a space we stood on opposite sides of.
Jeff’s easy use of the word feels both like a remedy and a warning. It asks me to open my hand, and I don’t know if I can.
That uneasy feeling from my past creeps up my spine, forcing me to shift my gaze from Jeff toward an object in the distance. A windmill standing tall, its shiny blades catching the sunlight, mesmerizing me for a moment. Long enough to snap a picture for remembrance.
“I’m hungry,” he complains, sitting up. “Can we finally get something to eat?”
I laugh at his crankiness. “Sure thing,” I answer, rolling up my yoga mat.
The walk back to his car isn’t far, and since he hasn’t put on his sneakers, I suggest we walk barefoot on the grass to ground more. He questions the act of grounding, and I summarize the benefits of connecting to the earth for improving well-being.
“I’m learning a lot from you,” he comments as we stroll across the field. “The ground feels good. It’s calming.”
His responses bring a smile to my face. Then a memory flickers—Reginald and me, barefoot in our own backyard, eyes closed to the sun. A shared stillness that promised a connection and then later dissolved. The old pang grips my chest, a familiar tightening. I press my feet harder into the earth, focusing on a sharp pebble beneath my heel, willing the past to stay where it belongs.
Dinner at Billy’s Pub to finally sample their Detroit-style pizza. Jeff swears by it, claiming it’s the best in the valley. He had better be right because I’m hungry. Conversation flows easily, one topic bleeding into the next, especially when we recognize classic songs from the eighties playing in the background and try to sing the lyrics if we can remember them. There’s something disarming about this: the way laughter and melody fill the space between us, making the evening feel light, almost effortless.
Then Jeff leans forward, his expression shifting. “All this easy laughter,” he says, “it’s my favorite thing. Quality time.” He looks at me, asking about my love language, and I know what he means.
“Acts of service,” I answer, the words feeling heavier than I expect. “And words of affirmation. Only if the actions match. Consistency is everything,” stating it plainly, yet it feels like a confession. I’m telling him what I need to feel safe. I’m handing him the blueprint.
He takes a bite of his meat lover’s pizza, then removes his glasses and places them on the table. “So what words would you use to show this?” he asks. “My love language is quality time and physical touch. It’s the intention behind the touch that matters most to me.” He reaches for my hand, his fingers brushing mine, and adds, “Like a gesture of kindness when someone holds my hand. It feels like warmth, security, care.”
I nod, understanding the meaning beneath his questions. When someone backs up their words with consistent behavior, it shows me I can trust them. Trustworthy, consistency, care, warmth, respect, honesty, safety. I list them like a creed, though each word carries the residue of where I learned it, the absence of it in my marriage, the hunger for it now.
“Yeah, safety is important,” Jeff states, nodding as if considering my words. After a moment, he asks, “So how would you rank your love languages by importance?”
“Well, it all depends on the situation,” I reply, thinking of the five love languages. “It might change, but for me, acts of service are still at the top, followed by words of affirmation. Those lead to quality time, then physical touch. Receiving gifts isn’t high on my list.”
“I agree, sometimes for me it changes.” Jeff nods, smiling. “Quality time talking about things that matter, then acts of service showing care. A kind touch and words of affirmation tell me you care. But I like to give acts of service and gifts. My wife loved getting gifts.”
My wife. The words land somewhere between my ribs and stay there. Not an estranged wife. Not ex. Wife. As though the woman is still his, still present, still woven into his days. He’s been referring to himself as a bachelor for months now: free, untethered, ready. Though his mouth keeps reaching for the old word, the one that still has her inside it.
I reach for my water glass. The condensation is cold against my palm, grounding me. I take a slow sip and set it down, letting the silence hold for a breath.
Gifts are nice, I think, yet a familiar ache surfaces with the thought. I see my parents’ expectant faces, feel the invisible weight of every sacrifice they made for me, the sense that love was a ledger I could never balance. To give without conditions—that was a language I was still learning.
“To be honest, small gifts of appreciation aren’t bad as long as they’re given freely,” I reiterate. My voice sounds steady, yet something underneath it is not.
The waitress appears, asking how we’re doing. I smile and thank her for checking on us. Then she smiles at me, and her grin lingers, a little too long for my comfort. Her eyes seem to bore into mine, as if she wants to tell me something. I’m not sure how to respond, so I just nod and smile more. She nods back, taking a step away while Jeff thanks her for the service. Something in that exchange unsettles me, a flicker I can’t name.
After boxing our leftover pizza, Jeff pays the bill and I say goodbye to our servers. The waitress and I wave to one another while I tell her, “Thanks again,” and she replies, “Take care.” Those words linger in my mind as Jeff and I leave Billy’s Pub. There’s a mix of uncertainty and comfort in her goodbye. I brush it off as a gesture of kindness on her part, although it clings.
Jeff takes a local route back to Lowe’s so we can chat more. He’s done this before, taking a longer way to spend more time with me, he confesses. We drive through Henry Forge Preserve, passing his home, a modest but grand colonial amid a sprawling lawn. I can see the open woods behind his house. The landscape is quiet, almost pastoral, and for a few minutes I let the scenery hold me.
This time, we forgo chatting for singing songs from the eighties. Maybe laughing more than singing, just to reminisce about the lifestyle of decades ago. The ease of it, the shared silliness, feels like its own kind of intimacy.
He hugs me goodnight, and the feeling from the restaurant returns. In the silence of my car, the waitress’s face floats in my mind. The lingering smile, the intensity in her gaze, the weighted words, “Take care.” It’s not just kindness; it feels like a warning. A warning that now sits beside Jeff’s easy vulnerability and talk of “safety,” creating a dissonance I can’t ignore.
I drive home with the radio off, the silence loud enough to hear myself think, and still the unease stays, sitting beside me like a passenger I didn’t invite. Now it’s asking if I recognize the path I’m on.
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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