Patrick. Just Patrick.
I met up with Patrick to sign papers that no one ever did anything with. He had a crushing handshake, and I didn’t think he was all that attractive.
But a few weeks later, I thought to offer him some Russian learning materials (he was in a lower level class) and an invite to the Russian group near Detroit. We exchanged emails, IMs, he was charmed by my websites and read every page. We chatted for 20 hours straight one day and night. We went to hockey games and movies.
I was scared. I figured he would change his mind sooner or later, so I held back. I was so deeply in love, in a way I never thought I could be. Cynical, cerebral me was gone. I was a weepy, sleepless, restless mess.
You know what, I can’t go into the details of the next two years. It still hurts too much.
And yet I have written them before. When I went to do NaNoWriMo last fall, all I had inside me was the story of us. And me without us, which is in a way the more interesting story–one chapter sees me writing a desperate declaration of love on Craigslist, and making a bunch of new and supportive internet friends.
This is the last of the series. If I am smart, and we all know I’m not, I will not add to it again. I do not feel strong enough to withstand the heartache again.
Where is he now? Seattle. We talk occasionally. I never have the nerve to ask him if there’s somebody in his life. I would guess there would be by now. But to hear it would probably shatter me, so I don’t ask.
I hope he’s happy and safe and healthy. He probably wouldn’t tell me if it were otherwise, but I hope he’s really okay. I am finally over the urge to fly out there and see for myself from across the street in the bushes.
