We talked for so long that the room became dark, and I was a little bit confused why he wasn’t turning on a light, or lighting a candle, or even pulling out an oil lantern. His house was old and in the country, so I totally would have understood if he had to be inventive about the electricity, but as it turns out, that accident I passed on my way in was actually a car versus a transformer so, there was no electricity anywhere. Not in his house, not a half mile up the road at the neighbors, not even in the streetlight that was outside. And, it was at that exact moment that I knew I was going to be murdered. Here I was, a single woman who had met a strange man at his farmhouse in the country, who was now a bit buzzed, and there was no light. Brilliant. I think he must have noticed my uneasiness.
“There’s a pub not too far away. Maybe we can run up there and grab a bite to eat. The electricity should come back on by the time we get back.” I told him I should probably just head home. He protested. “We can do recon in the parking lot. If you recognize any cars, we just won’t go in.”
I smiled. He took my hand.
He ordered some kind of Irish nachos. I don’t remember exactly what was in them, but I remember devouring them. I remember being so comfortable with him that as we sat at the little round table in the middle of the bar, people were joining in on our conversation, laughing, patting him on the back and toasting their half-full beer steins to whatever was to come next. I half expected a crew of people to come out of the back singing, “To life, to life, l’chaim,” but then I remembered we weren’t Jewish nor were we in a rendition of “Fiddler on the Roof.”
By the time we left our newfound friends, his arm was around my waist, and my head was nestled into his shoulder. He took my hand again, helped me into his truck, and drove me back to his house to my car.
Still, no lights.
At least not in the house.
But the sky. Oh, that magical country summer sky just happened to be in the middle of a meteor shower. An amazing, active, meteor shower. The sky literally sparkled like the Queen’s tiara as the stars fell from their place and burned into another dimension. It was a sign. It had to be a sign. I had never seen anything like it. Nature’s fireworks, I guess. I have no words to accurately describe it. But, I couldn’t turn away and, apparently, neither could he. Because before I knew it, he had pulled out two camping chairs and began strolling out into the middle of the sagebrush. He turned, slightly, just enough to look at me and motion for me to come along. Just a quick jerk of his head. No words. I followed him. And, suddenly, both of our worlds were quiet. Absolutely silent. We sat next to each other and said nothing. I could hear my chest filling with air, careful not to blow it out too fast. We both fixated on the sky, both of us ingesting the most majestic sight either of us had ever seen. I don’t think I even blinked until he reached over and held my hand. And, for the first time of so many, I memorized him. What his hand felt like on mine. What was going on around us. The spicy, bitter scent of the sagebrush. What the air felt like as a small breeze picked up. How fascinated he was watching heaven perform. I almost couldn’t take my eyes from him, but I forced myself to turn back to the sky and look up. I knew, even then, that if I stared too long, my heart would be in danger. Because six hours into meeting him, I knew. He knew. In this perfect, still moment - we both knew it. Nothing was ever going to be the same.
And it wasn’t. For the next week, we found ways to be together. We met every day for seven days - sharing, laughing, cooking, and making plans. He hadn’t even kissed me yet, but it didn’t keep us from deciding what we were doing the next month. I figured out later that he was “love bombing” me. He was showering me with undivided attention. Calls. Texts. Dinner dates. Wine. Uninterrupted conversation. True interest. He treated me like I was the only person on the planet, or at least the only important one.
And, even though I was healing from my husband’s death, I truly believed that my husband started sending signs. Signs that Joe was the one. Or, so I thought.
The first one came the morning after our first date. He found a silicone bracelet in his driveway with my late husband’s police badge number on it. Ones we had made to raise money for his medical bills and travel to specialists. He sent me a picture of it and I immediately checked my purse. I thought maybe one had fallen out, but they were all there. Surely, that meant something, right? Clearly my husband was telling me he approved, right? I wanted to believe that so badly, but later, I would come to believe that I think my husband was warning me. I think he was trying to scare him off. I think he was trying to make it known that he didn’t approve. Otherwise, why, after dropping me off, would Joe get his first speeding ticket in twenty years five weeks after he met me – a cop’s widow? I should have listened to what he was trying to say, but I just couldn’t. Because every time I would question something, Joe would create a distraction.
And a big one was coming. Two words: Ozzy Osbourne.
EMME
Everything was her fault. She drank too much. She smoked too much. She cheated. He only let her move in because she lost her place and he needed to help her with bills. He was still seeing Rosie at the time. There’s not much to say about her, though. Certainly not a whole chapter. The only thing I ever knew about Rosie was that she was the “best sex he had ever had.” I’m guessing because she came without a commitment. Oh wait, I do know that at some point he blocked her on his phone. I’ll get back to that later, but first – Emme.
Emme. The long-term girlfriend before me. At first, I knew very little about her other than she existed at some point. I knew they had lived together, and I knew there was some kind of falling out, which I’m actually not going to describe out of respect for her privacy. But, the way he told it – he was her Lord and savior and when he realized he couldn’t “save her from herself,” he let her go. He mentioned something about her going back to an ex-boyfriend and that he had “dodged a bullet” thinking he would be the next one she would “falsely accuse” of “beating her up.” I look back at that statement now and it seems so odd, but he clarified everything. He had an excuse for everything. I truly believe he did that in case I ever ran into her or ever sought her out to talk to her. He tried to make it so that her side of the story wouldn’t hold water because, in his mind, I would already be convinced of what the truth was. And, let’s be honest, at this point, I had no reason not to believe him.
Our summer was quickly turning into fall, and my visits to his farmhouse moved from drinking a beer on his tailgate when the weather was warm to inside on the couch with a glass of wine. There was hardly ever any silence between us. We talked and talked and talked until one of us was too tired to make words anymore. I told him about my life, my loss, and how we were moving forward. He told me about growing up in Seattle and one day told me, quite out of the blue, that he was adopted.
“I don’t know why I told you that. I don’t ever tell anybody that.” He brought his hand to his face, almost to shield his emotion. I scooted closer to him and took his hand in mine.
“It’s okay. Really, it is.” I didn’t exactly know what I was consoling him over, but I felt the need to say it.
“Thank you, it’s just...” He rubbed his eyes. I searched for tears. “I’ve been looking for my mom for almost fifty years. I’ll be fifty next year, and it’s the only thing I’ve ever really wanted.”