permanently.
It all came with the territory, and I’d learned to roll with the punches.
Growing up around all of that prepared me for Matt and everything that his own military career entailed. He was sent on deployments so frequently that his days home were far outnumbered by his days away. Still, though, I always knew when it was coming. When Matt left, it was usually planned, expected, and definable. He’d never had to leave suddenly or without notice, never had to go somewhere that he couldn’t discuss.
I knew he had an upcoming deployment, and part of me was glad that he would be away for those few months.
It would give us some time apart, provide some space for me to think without it being a question of avoidance. It would grant me a reprieve from the façade I was so desperately trying to maintain.
During the five months between our kiss and Matt’s deployment, we continued to see each other regularly, to do things together just as we always had.
But there was always an underlying current of pretense, an unspoken barrier that had never been there before now.
We avoided the topic of what had happened between us as though it was forbidden, a strange source of shame. I wondered sometimes what would happen if I broached the subject, if I asked him if anything had changed. If he ever thought about that night with anything other than regret.
My tenacity was diminished in the face of this – this fear. That’s what it really was, if I was honest with myself.
I was afraid.
Afraid of losing him.
Afraid to let go of the tight control I’d kept on my heart, in case letting go meant realizing that it had been crushed to pieces.
A more “modern-thinking” woman might have been able to view our kiss with cool detachment, writing it off as a failed experiment – but for me, kissing had always been far too intimate a gesture to be passed out willy-nilly at the end of a date. Matt had known this – had always known this – which made the fact that he had finally made the first move so much more significant to me. And why I’d been struggling so much to let go of it.
The day of Matt’s upcoming deployment was circled on my calendar in red, an inky reminder that there was an end in sight, even if it was only a temporary one. Maybe then I’d be able to take a step back and regain some sense of control. I watched time dwindle as that circled date approached, a strange mix of relief and dread filling me every time I crossed through the calendar days.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so alone, so at a loss as to what to do.
I had friends that knew both of us, obviously, but none of them were close enough for me to lean on. Which also meant that none of them knew me on a deep enough level for me to trust them with such confidences as this.
It was times like this that I lamented my lack of having a sister nearby – or, at least a close female friend. Which was another reason that the whole situation with Matt was so hard to deal with. He was my best friend, my closest ally.
My confidante.
And everything I was struggling with was related to him and our relationship.
I drove him to the airport the morning of his deployment, wondering what would happen between now and when I picked him up again, ninety days from this moment.
Would he change his mind and realize that he loved me and was in love with me?
Would he come home and want to start a life with me?
Would I, in the meantime, be able to decide that I was going to move on to a life without him, or would I be able to satisfy myself with friendship?
So many questions and emotions crowded my mind that the trip to the airport passed in thick silence, and when Matt walked through the sliding doors of the airport’s main entrance, I felt something break. Every brick I’d had so firmly in place for the last five months crumbled into dust, and there was nothing left for me to do but cry.
He’d asked me, his friend, to take him to the airport and drop him off. No parking, no long goodbye, no loitering outside the security gate while he wound through the throng of travelers lined up to go through all the checkpoints and x-rays.
Just drop him off.
I could do that, right?
Of course I could, or so I thought. We were friends.
Which was why I was now sitting in my car, falling apart at the seams.
I had the next ninety days to figure out my life, but I had no idea if anything would change.
Or even how it needed to change.
All I knew was that I was miserable, and I was alone, and I needed not to be.
I needed my mother.
I reached into my glove box and rummaged around for some tissues to wipe my soggy face. No doubt there was mascara running rampant streaks down my cheeks, but at the moment, all I really cared about was talking to my mother. My wise, loving, understanding mother, who would have the answers I was looking for.
My mother, who still didn’t know about the kiss.
I hadn’t told her for fear of what she’d say. My relationship with Matt had been a bone of contention between us – not because she had anything against him, but because she knew how much of myself I’d invested and didn’t want to see me hurt. Sometimes mothers know too much, even when they don’t know everything. They know you well enough to read between the lines and see that your heart is on the line, even when you’re too blind to see the danger you’re rushing headlong into.
I knew how much she wanted to see me happy, but I also knew how she felt about my continuing such a close relationship with Matt, despite the fact that he’d told me it would never be more than friendship.
Despite that fact that I was in love with him and wanted more.
Despite the fact that she’d advised me on countless occasions to end it before my heart was smashed to smithereens. All of which explained and – in my way of thinking, at least – necessitated my withholding the details of the night that Matt and I had kissed.
For all she knew, nothing had changed between the two of us.
For all intents and purposes, that was true – we were still nothing more than friends.
Now, though, there was also a huge complication that was making everything even more painful than it had previously been.
It was torturous.
I felt like I’d walked across broken bottles on numb feet and had no idea when I would regain sensation. All that was certain was the fact that when I did, the pain would be excruciating.
There was nothing left to do but tell her.
It wasn’t like it could really make things any worse, could it? Sure, she would probably tell me that I should have known better and kept better guard of my heart, but I also knew she wouldn’t lord it over me just for the sake of making me miserable.
