That “relationship” with Adam was my longest running. To this day, it probably still is. I could probably call him tomorrow and we would transport back to 1986 recounting all the memories of young love and easier times. Like the time he let me wear his Letterman’s jacket. Or the time I ran away much later in high school and he picked me up and let me sleep on his couch in his dorm. Or when he moved to the other side of the country for school and I wrote him letters. I thought I remembered him writing back, but sometime after my husband died, I met Adam for dinner. A sweet restaurant sitting on a pier overlooking the ocean. We talked. We laughed. We reminisced about what it was like being young. He still had the same dark, thick, wavy hair and he still had that coy smile that I remembered seeing from the time I was eight. He had traded in his high school baseball uniform for an expensive suit and an even more expensive watch, but when I looked at him, he was still that guy. You know. That one. The one that when you see them as a grownup, you wonder where the time went and why you didn’t hold on a little tighter.
We went back to his house to get my car, and he invited me in for the proverbial “nightcap” to which I agreed. Not because I thought something would happen between us. No. I was much too broken and damaged at the time. But he was comforting for me. There is something about being around the people who knew you when you were young and who remind you of who you are at your core that naturally brings you peace. And, he didn’t want anything from me either. He wanted to show me his Letterman’s jacket and see if I remembered. Of course, I remembered. And, then he summoned me over to his desk where he slowly opened a drawer and pulled out a letter.
FROM ME.
To him.
From 1989.
A letter he had held onto for almost thirty years. A letter he had never responded to. One that I sent him when he was in college and, apparently, my last. I guess I was frustrated that he didn’t write back and so, in this letter, I sent him a self-addressed stamped envelope, blank paper, and a pencil. He still had it all. I wasn’t sure if I was more concerned about my apparent desperation back then or touched that he still had it. He didn’t have a good reason for not responding. Just that he didn’t want to hurt me. I’ll never understand why he kept it all those years then, but in the end, it really didn’t matter.
Because as much as Adam was important to me, and as much as I believe he could have been “one of the ones,” I look back at every point in our life together, and it was never the right time.
And part of that was because there was another one, at the right time. Because, lemme back up if you didn’t catch it.
I am a widow.
I’ll go back to that in a minute, but for now, back to high school.
Ninth grade brought Eddie, a good looking, long haired head banger who said he had a rock band, but I’m not so sure. I never saw one. Or an instrument. He was the first of my “Asian Attraction” period. The next was Yasuo, which lasted long enough for me to meet his brother, Kenji, who I immediately fell madly, passionately in love with until we broke up a month later. I was devastated. So much so I vowed to stay in my room and never come out, surviving only on Cheez-its and Pepsi.
Except, I had to go to school.
And in so many ways, I am thankful I did. Because one day, when I was hitching a ride home with Yasuo, he introduced me to one of his friends, Jimmy, who changed my life forever.
Jimmy. Yes, Jimmy. The bad-boy-next-door with the infallible blonde hair, steel blue eyes, “Hard Rock” T-shirts and perfectly pegged jeans.
It was the summer of 88’. He was my first real love. He was my first car ride. My first ice cream date. My first midnight phone call. My first real dinner date. My first warm summer night. My first long walk. My first commitment. My first severely broken heart.
There would be more of those, for sure. Like, the guy who I dated after my divorce, who asked me to marry him only to break off our engagement when he announced one random morning that he was going back to his ex-girlfriend. I was brushing my teeth of all things. He didn’t even give me time to spit, the coward. Oh, yes, that hurt. That hurt bad. But, contacting me again sixteen years later asking me to “give it another shot” because she turned out to be a meth addict made it feel a whole lot better. And no, I don’t care that you finally realized you made the wrong choice. I saw a recent picture of you. Your shoes are as ugly as your petrified heart. No thanks.
And then there was Kirk. Tall, super tall. Handsome, super handsome. He stole my heart quickly, but I think he was afraid of love. So much so that he actually told me he “joved me.” Jove? Yes. Two letters away from “love.” Not kidding. Jove. Close, but not close enough. Incidentally, we’ve always stayed friends. And I like it just like that.
Then there was Jack, who was just too nice. Chris, who actually wooed me for so long we friend- zoned. And Bill who spent more time telling me about the problems in his love life than actually having a love life that I finally just gave up.
But back to Jimmy. Yes, Jimmy. He was my first, that’s for sure. And I was his last.
Because after we found each other again thirteen years after our young love affair ended, we got married, had a daughter, and lived a fairytale life.
Until he died holding my hand.
And, that was about the time my life fell apart.
That was the time when everything changed.
That was the time when nothing would ever go back to normal again.
And that was the time I met him.
When I met the Electric Man.
YOU CAN’T COUNT TO a Million
You think when you look evil in the eye, you will know. You think when you meet a monster in person, that they come with sharp claws, baring fanged teeth. Oh, yes. You think you know. But, it’s not true. Sometimes, the worst evil comes with brown hair and blue eyes on a warm summer night in the middle of nowhere.
That’s where I met my monster. A man so full of demons that his blood burned with fire, yet his skin was cold. A man with scars so deep that only one left a mark on the outside of his body. It was on his right side, under his ribcage. It laid flat on his skin, with small ridges that I could feel with the tips of my fingers. So many nights I laid with my head on his chest, tracing it, over and over and over, memorizing it. I don’t know why I did. I think it was because it made him human, when so many times I questioned if he was. He told me once it came from his birth, some kind of emergency surgery to keep him alive after he took his first breath. He often told me he almost died that day, and sometimes I wonder why he survived.
Maybe that sounds callous of me, but what kind of life did he lead? His entire life was full of hurt. His entire life was full of discontent. His entire life was collecting scars, but none you could see with just your eyes. No, his other scars were so engrained into him that they were stitched into his dark soul, yet he did his best to keep them intact.
He could never let anybody see. He can’t unravel. He can’t let his imp rear its ugly head, because his story can never be told. Because when the world finds out how twisted he really is, he will have nowhere to hide. Not here, not in hell, because not even the Devil himself will take him under his fallen angel wings.
But, I did. I took him in. I brought him into my life. And, from the very beginning, he told me he was a monster. At first, I thought he was joking – just a silly hashtag on social media. But when I finally realized he was telling me the truth, I decided I was going to save him. Yet, in the process of saving him, I almost lost myself.