“Get busy livin’ or get busy dyin’. That’s damn right.”

It had been weeks and weeks without him. I tried to get on with life. I really did. I bought new bedding so I wouldn’t seek his scent anymore or fall back into memories of him in my bed. I tried to get my hair cut into a sensible “mom cut” but my long-standing hairdresser in her fancy salon refused. She trimmed me up and sent me home after a very long hug. “Shannon. Shannon. Listen to me. You look like the walking dead. Your boobs are shrinking, for God’s sake. Eat something.” “I’m fine,” I said. She raised her eyebrows at me. “You’re not fine. You asked me to turn you into a soccer mom. That’s not you being fine.” “It’s time for a change,” I argued. “It IS time for a change. He jump started that, didn’t he? Do you think he went to his man spa and asked them to give him a new look because he’s so sad and depressed? Hell no. Why? Because HE is fine.” I chuckled at the idea of him going to a “man spa”, being the Alpha that he was. “He’s not crying, Shannon. He’s just fine. You are not.” “Yes I am. I … ” “Stop.” She said, with her hand up. “Go home, burn some sage or smash a plate or whatever the Hell ritual you need to do, but do it and get him out of your head. Because, my beautiful client of 11 years,” she said as she held my face gently in her hands, “if you ever come in here again asking me to cut off your long natural blonde hair and make you look like you sell Tupperware, I will go find him myself … because I don’t do makeunders.” I smiled. “Okay,” “Okay.” She echoed.

I drove home in silence. The sky was low with dark swollen clouds, threatening to burst, and the increasing wind was stealing the orange and yellow leaves from the trees; vibrant leaves swirled and dipped over my windshield as I drove through the streets of my town. I wondered where he was, what he was doing, and I wondered if he thought about me, too. I knew he didn’t, but I still grasped at those straws, and I winced and scolded myself for doing so. I also wondered how long this was going to go on! How long does my mind chase it’s own tail and run in circles before it spots the door and leaves, getting on with life, already. Accordingly, I began to see myself in a different light; I used to pride myself on “how strong” I was and how “nothing got to me” and “Wow, I would never allow that to happen to ME.” I thought if anyone ever broke my heart the way I had seen others broken, well, by God, I would tell him to get the Hell out and don’t let the door hit you!  Well, look at that, Shannon. It happened to you and not only did you not tell him to “get the Hell out”, you actually collapsed to the floor sobbing, grabbed his ankles and let him drag you clear across town as he tried to escape. Not exactly the way you thought it would go, Miss Big Mouth. That’s the last time I allowed myself to pontificate over other people. Lesson learned.

The next morning, Saturday, I woke up earlier than usual and decided to just start my day. I rolled over, face down, burying my face into my pillow, releasing a long moan as I stretched my legs. I turned my face to look at the window and yawed. And then, from my kitchen, I heard the Harp strum. Immediately wide awake and on full alert, I gasped as I felt my heart twist up. It was him, he sent a text. I slowly pushed myself up from the bed and sat there for a second, my stomach flipping over again. Just the sound of his text made my body respond. I climbed out of bed and slid my bare feet into my slippers to protect me from the cold hardwood floor. How long had it even been since I heard from him? A few weeks, at least? Walking into the kitchen, I saw my phone blinking, but ignored it (as if he would know I was snubbing him by not looking at it right away) and adjusted the thermostat, to get some heat going. I turned on my Keurig, grabbed a cup, still ignoring him, (again, as if he would somehow know, but it gave me some sense of control, at least.) and I got the cream and set it down. Rubbing my face with both hands, I exhaled as I prepared myself for my own pathetic reaction to whatever it was he wanted to tell me. Here we go. I took my phone and swiped the screen, tapping his text to open it. “Hey, I have a free day and I know you have tons of leaves to rake. Let me come over with my dump truck, and we’ll load it up so you don’t have to line your curb with bags. I’ll just take them away for you.” Admittedly, I was elated at the thought of seeing him again. It had been a very long time since I had. Be casual, Shannon. Act like it’s no big deal. “Sure, thank you. That would be really nice,” I answered. “What time do you think you’ll be here?” “Probably a little over an hour, I guess.” He said. I immediately turned at look at myself in the large mirror I have in my kitchen. I looked like a scarecrow. Great. And in a true moment of clarity, I realized that he had seen me at my shining best, and still dumped me for reasons unknown, so why should I bother making myself beautiful now? What’s the difference? But, you know that my bruised pride took over and I did indeed try to make myself beautiful. But not too beautiful … I had to be “accidentally” beautiful. ( Oh, the games we play … )

I got myself dressed and polished and went back into the kitchen to make a pot of potato soup so he had something hearty when we finished. I added some water to a pot, plunked in a smoked ham hock from the freezer, rough chopped an onion, some celery and chopped some white potatoes. My heart was pumping as I kept glancing at the clock. Please don’t cancel. Please show up. Please show up. I twisted the pepper grinder over the pot, tossed in some garlic cloves, stirred and tapped the spoon on the edge of the pot, placing it on the counter. I picked up the cutting board and tilted it over the steaming pot of water, letting everything slide down filling it up. I looked at the clock on the stove. My eyes slid over to my phone to see if I missed a text. Just text if you’re not coming. I stirred the soup and watched it swirl, mentally running through the list of ingredients. Potatoes, onion, garlic, celery, ham hock. I turned up the burner a little and got the cream ready to add in a bit. As I turned to the sink to rinse off the large spoon, I heard a knock at the door. Startled, I dropped the spoon and scrambled to turn off the water and dry my hands. Turning to glance in the mirror once more, I put the little towel back with shaking hands and walked through my living room, preparing myself. I opened the door, and there he was. He had lost weight, too. He looked fantastic. “Hi,” I said. “Hi.” He answered. ” … why’d you knock? You know you could just come in. You never knocked before … ” He shrugged. I stood there looking up at him, wordlessly. He smiled. “Ready to start?” he said as he jerked his head toward the yard. “Oh! Yeah. Yeah. Let me put on my shoes.” I walked away to get my shoes, internally deflating with every step, achingly disappointed that he really had come just to help me with my leaves. I thought … I hoped … never mind.

We went outside together, and I saw he had brought one of his smaller backhoes to scoop the leaves into the dump truck, efficient and smart as ever. I waited as he drove it off of the back of the truck, onto the edge of the grass. Then, with him on one side of the large yard, me on the other, we raked leaves. I would steal glances, soaking in the sight of him. We spoke only a little, as he was very intent and focused on his work. When at last we had cleared the yard and brought the leaves to the edge, he climbed into his backhoe and dropped the bucket on the ground in front of me. I scooped leaves into a large plastic garbage can, and dumped them into the bucket where he would lift it up and dump them into the truck. We did this over and over and I caught him looking at me many times, completely lost in his own head. He shut off the engine and climbed out of the backhoe. “Looks good,” he said, looking around. “Yeah, thanks again. Really.” I said as I pulled my gloves off and hit them against my leg, shaking the soil and dirt off of them. I nodded my head and looked at the ground, understanding that he’s probably going to leave now that we finished. Oh well. It was really nice to see him.

I walked to my porch and up the steps, opening the door . He followed me, walking right behind. On auto-pilot, I started to close the door behind me as if I were alone. “Can I come in?” He asked. “Oh!” I laughed, “Sorry, yeah. Come in.” Feeling awkward, I stepped to the side and he walked past me, patting my bottom like he used to. “Smells good in here. What are you cooking?” “Uhh … I’m making potato soup for you. For lunch. I mean, if you want some, it’s here. But if you had plans or something … I guess you gotta go … so …” “No, I cleared my day. No plans. Yeah, lunch with you would be great. I have definitely missed your cooking. I love potato soup,” He said. “I know,” I whispered. He gently set his keys on the coffee table, and put his hands in his pockets, clearing his throat. It was obvious he felt as awkward as I did. Then he walked up to me, and as if nothing had happened, as if he had never been gone, he moved my hair off of my shoulder and pulled me against him for a hug. I felt him exhale as his arms tightened around me. I felt his warm breath in my hair, his steady breathing as his chest rose and fell against me. I closed my eyes and allowed myself the reward of this moment … the reward of surviving and not dying in my sleep, as I thought so many nights would happen. I swear to my God in Heaven, that I thought my heart would stop during some of those nights. I really did. And now, here he was. I couldn’t believe he was here. As I had always done, I inhaled his scent, felt the warmth of his body radiating through his clothes, warming me like he used to. I used to always say, “I’m so cold!” and wrap myself around him. He would always laugh. It was one of those sweet “couple things” that we all do, and I had missed those moments. Now I felt like I wasn’t allowed to do those things anymore because we weren’t a couple. Such a dichotomy of feelings: he was so familiar and just as I kept him in my heart all of these many weeks … and also he had become a stranger. I honestly didn’t know what to do, so I leaned into him and melted just like I always did. Just like I always will.

He gently pulled his body away and I looked up at him. His eyes swept over my face, really looking at me. It felt like he hadn’t ever really seen me before. It felt like he was almost seeing me for the first time. He felt different, somehow. New. But so wonderfully the same. Oh God, had I missed him. My eyes drifted around his face, and I drank him in, like I did when we first began dating. His pale blue eyes, his full lips, the shape of his eyebrows, his skin. He touched my hair, pulling his fingers through it’s length. He was breathing so softly, his lips barely parted. He was as masculine and male as ever and for the first time in all of those long agonizing weeks, I felt safe. Just the nearness of him removed the anxiety, and I was safe again. Without warning, he dipped his face down and placed his mouth over mine in a slow, warm, deep kiss. My knees involuntarily gave way and I leaned into him, holding on to him, feeling his arms tighten around me. The kiss went on and on, just like our first kiss, 3 years before. He broke away to run his lips over my jaw, along my cheek, softly kissing my face before he came back to deeply kiss me again. He breathed into my mouth and said, ” … can’t resist you,” and my heart split open right then, because he was always very physically loving, but not verbally affirming. He very rarely expressed feelings with his words, but I always knew how he felt by the way he handled me. I had learned his language. Right then, in his arms, hearing him say that was as validating and needed as anything he had ever said, because he had resisted me for weeks and weeks. I extinguished the obvious flip side of that sentiment and rejected the ache of not knowing why he left at all, and absorbed the moment. He broke our kiss and ran his thumb over my mouth, looking at me. Knowing better than to bring “it” up, and not even wanting to, I said, “Hungry?” “Yeah,” he answered. “Can I stay?” “Yeah,” I said. “I’m making corn bread, too.” He nodded, blinked a few times and walked to my bedroom, opened his drawer, smiling as he pulled out his flannel pajama pants and a t-shirt, tossing them on the bed. I guess he assumed I had emptied his drawer. I watched from the living room through the door. Oh. He’s “staying” staying. Oh. He sat on his side of the bed, removed his shoes, stood up to unbuckle his belt, unzipped and let his jeans slide down to the floor. He turned his head and saw me watching, as he stood there in his underwear, jeans pooled at his feet. I smiled at him, embarrassed that he caught me staring. He dramatically batted his eyes, and pretended to “cover himself” with his hands and said, “Don’t look. I’m shy!” We laughed, and just like that, he was back.

But where have you been? Where were you?

To be continued …