“I let myself want you;

I let myself hope.

I let myself feel things;

I know that you don’t.

You’re not mine anymore,

But I’m still a little bit yours.”

“A Little Bit Yours” ~ JP Saxe

“Hi, Honey.” My mother said, adorning a hospital gown, and waving me into her room the next morning.

“Hey Mom.” I replied, confused and uncomfortable—I hated hospitals. “What…what’s goin’ on?”

“I just have a little pneumonia…that’s all.” She explained, shaking her head and waving me off. “They just kept me overnight.”

“Oh, so you’re comin’ back home tonight then?”

“They haven’t told me yet…we’ll see.”

“Where’s dad?”

“He’s at the park. I told him to go. I’m fine.” She told me. “He’s makes me nervous anyway.”

“So…pneumonia, huh?” I said, beginning to look around the room for any evidence that supported the contrary.

“Just a little pneumonia.” she confirmed. “And I brought my Vicodin with me, so don’t get any crazy ideas.”

“Oh, good because I was going to ask for a few—it’s the only reason I came all the way out here for.” I retorted. “That was a joke, by the way.”

“Not funny.” she responded, placing a needle laden taped hand upon her lap. “I’m starting to wonder if you only come to see me for pills.”

“I was only joking.” I told her, sadly knowing she had a legitimate right to feel that way. “Do you remember all the times I’d come see you before I started taking Vicodin or did you forget?”

“Here.” she blurted, handing me a dull orange labeled bottle. “There’s twenty in there. I expect those to last you a while.”

“Thanks.” I said, reluctantly but happily taking the bottle from her. “It’s not why I came out here though.”

“What will you do when I can’t get these anymore?”

“I’ll figure something out. This is only a temporary fix…I promise” I tried to assure her. “When I find a job again, I’ll be able to get off them—I’ll feel better about my life enough to not use them anymore.”

My mother looked at me for about ten seconds in quiet contemplation, a look of sadness and distrust forming on her face. After she nodded, I internally vowed to not let her down and to find a way to get off of them—I hated hospitals and being in one seemed to scare me straight. With stage four cancer now, hospital trips seemed to be on the horizon for her from time to time now. While she laid there in a light blue hospital gown, her bare head sunk into a large white pillow with IV bags hanging above it, I wondered about all she had yet to face—and how ridiculous my problems were in comparison. Sadly, I felt like the one in the hospital bed.

“They told me they’re gonna start chemo treatments again next week.” she revealed.

I nodded, not knowing what to say but knowing it was the best course of action.

“They’re going to be the strongest yet.” she further informed me. “I’m worried.”

“What did the doctors tell you?” I wondered. “Are they optimistic?”

She nodded.

“They would know better than anyone.” I encouraged, reaching out to lightly touch her bald head. “Although it’s normal to worry, if there’s anyone who can beat this, it’s you, Mom.”

My mother nodded, giving me a cautious smile then closed her eyes. I spent another twenty minutes with her, long enough to learn the nurses were sending her home in a few hours. Seeing the smile break on my mother’s face when she heard the news made me feel relieved enough to head back home—leaving her both in good hands and in good spirits.

After visiting my mother, I grabbed a Vicodin from the bottle she gave me and swallowed it with water. At this moment I knew I had to find a way to get the drug from another source. The last thing I wanted was for my mother to feel guilty about feeding me an addiction I was solely responsible for. Although most days were spent contemplating suicide, overdosing wasn’t my preferred method, but if it did become that, the last thing I wanted was for my mother to feel the burden for something she had no control over. After returning home from the hospital, my focus turned to reclaiming my life by looking for work instead of the drama starting to unfold each day at the Good Morning Café. The sole purpose of visiting the café was to hopefully run into Anya, but all my visits did was suck me into the vortex of craziness its patrons provided. There was a lot to like about Paul, Theresa and even Crazy Dave. They all brought me some smiles that never would’ve graced my face staying in my room during an extremely hard time for me. Only good vibes were needed now though, and nothing could be allowed that would set me back. Although well-intentioned, Theresa’s judgment of Anya’s love for me broke me into more pieces only furthering the need to scale back my visits to the café.

The weakening economy forced my business idea into a state of urgency. Needing to figure out my cash flow, I created a three-year budget to determine the costs required to get the business off the ground. I never dreamt I’d ever start my own business, but the universe had to be telling me something when I struggled to find a job due to the economy. Having a CPA license and being able to sign audit reports, I would only be cutting myself short by working for someone else—especially when it seemed the only person, I could depend on income for was me, not an employer. Losing my job just before becoming a partner after being betrayed by a trusted friend and mentor put a sour taste in my mouth about ever working for people again--it just seemed everyone was out for themselves. I understood Kevin’s disappointment after losing the partner position to me, but if I were in his shoes, the last thing I’d ever do is betray a friend. It was a rude awakening learning the day they let me go that I didn’t work with trustworthy and honorable people. The sudden taste of success and wealth turned them all into Jackson Caiaphas.

KSR claimed to be a conservative firm and they should’ve known after eight years with them the kind of person I was. I knew enough to know that if the truth ever came to light about Jackson, I’d be looked upon as the better person. Since people treated all marriages the same, when they were simply not, there would be no light shone upon its fraudulent existence. If they knew Anya’s pain because of Jackson’s emotional abuse over the years, they would see me in a different light—especially being a conservative person myself, never jumping into an extramarital relationship without serious consideration. Maybe I should’ve been more wary with kids involved, but Anya reassured me that the only reason she was still there was because no one would be there if she left—she was afraid to be alone. Once I gave her that, leaving would be easy for her to do. Little did I know, she placed a caveat in there I couldn’t read nor pick up on. Unable to apply the brakes after falling for her, there was no way out but to fight for all she led me to believe and trust in. If that’s the way KSR did business with the employee who helped them get to where they were. If they couldn’t give me the courtesy to truly consider my side of things instead of writing their own narrative and applying their own general rule to my situation, then I wouldn’t want to be a partner there anyway.

My bank account had dwindled to eight thousand dollars, down from nearly forty thousand when I first lost my job. Estimating it would cost me about three to five thousand dollars to legitimately get my business off the ground, it inspired me enough to put the black binder aside for the time being. My biggest concern was generating business—marketing was a challenge in public accounting more so than other business ventures and I needed to land a solid consulting gig hopefully spring boarding from that into future work through referrals. With monthly rent of seventeen hundred dollars due each month, I also continued applying for other traditional jobs at the same time. Although memories haunted me every single day at my apartment, the last thing I wanted to do was move into a smaller one.

Each night, like the earth revolving around the sun, my missing of Anya still got the best of me in different ways, especially through the music she left me with. Most songs she burned for me always seemed to carry a meaning, a moment, or an emotion at some point in our relationship with them. Anya was the only woman I ever cared for that I envisioned in each and every love song. The last line of Diana Krall’s song “The Look of Love”, a song she burned for me, was “Don’t ever go.”—breaking me down each and every single time I heard it. Anya would tell me not to read into any of the songs she burned for me, but I would’ve told her the same thing if I burned those songs for her—too afraid to let her know how much of a hold she had on me.

Did Anya honestly think after all we shared together, the good, the bad and even the ugly, I could ever let her go from my heart? Even I had lingering doubts about her love because she was still there, yet I still found myself defending her against Theresa—wanting so badly to prove her wrong. The one thing I was sure of was that she loved me—I only questioned its form and the strength of her love for me, not that it never existed. I could never tell Anya “You don’t love me” because I’ve heard and seen her tears over losing me. On the last day we spoke, and I coldly and pridefully told her “What makes you think I’d want to be with you now?”, I’ll never forget how much she cried after she heard those hurtful words. This was why her love for me was never in doubt, only the form of her love was. The bigger question was if her form of love was true or because of my role as her confidant. I’ve never been married or even engaged before so Anya’s experience with love was much more than I ever had—I just didn’t know love could have many variations, always believing it was black and white with no areas of gray. I’d listen to the songs Anya burned for me, holding onto her musical taste for dear life. They allowed me to hope, wish and dream just as much as the day she gave them to me, and I wanted her to have one from me too. I wanted her to know she was in my songs as well, even the old ones that were playing when she was nowhere in my life yet being the only woman in them.

Holding love and forgiveness in my heart for Anya was easy after putting her in a bad spot on the final day we spoke. I hurt too badly to understand the spin cycle I was putting her through. In my heart and eyes, she never betrayed her kids by choosing to be loved and she would never be confused for the general public who easily gave up on their marriages for the wrong reasons. When she told me those things, I felt betrayed by her—it was love, not lust. My only problem was with Anya’s form of love—I struggled defining it because it seemed out of alignment with mine. I never believed she didn’t love me and for anyone, including my own mother, to tell me she didn’t love me on top of all the hurt I already felt, it was the hand that could push me off the bridge.

My mother spoke her mind because I was her son, but I felt disrespected when Theresa attempted to. She went through the same thing I did and I never questioned her ex’s love for her. Was there any validity to Theresa’s statements? Anya could never make me a promise, so it’s evidence against her love for me, but wouldn’t she have returned my necklace to me by now? She could’ve written me back angrily demanding me to never contact her again, but she never did. I questioned the strength of her love more than I questioned if she was ever in love with me. For Theresa to ask me “Would you have left” or “If she loved you, don’t you think she would’ve left?” brought me even greater pain during a time I needed to get back to working again. Spending most of my days, days I should be making money, sitting in a coffee shop, depressed, my eyes inside a three-ring binder and hopped up on a drug just to get through the day was not me. The only thing that kept me going, was the belief Anya loved me, and that she still did. My opinion mattered the most—no one else was in my room when Anya and I were together. The outsiders all speculated at my heart’s expense and I didn’t appreciate it because I’d never do that to anyone I knew who was going through a terrible heartache. Everyone in a relationship seems to think they know more about love than others, but they never dreamt of it the way I did. Theresa should’ve known the rules of engagement regarding my heartbreak more than anyone—the three-ring black binder was deeply real.

In order to put my budget plan in place, the continuing recession forced me to sell all my investments before they fell any further. No matter what it took, the time was now or never to get my life back on track—whether that was building my business, accepting interviews for new work, and writing my book. Eight months of unemployment, depression and drugs had officially worn me down. My mother showed me every single day that life was too short to be spent depressed. If I didn’t change my ways, I’d soon find myself in the same hospital. I had to do something that could build Anya’s feelings of love for me, one that elicited an emotion within her specific to us—something remaining depressed and broken would never accomplish; something that reminded her of what we had together and that I still believed in our love. I wrote her a heartfelt thirty-page apology letter and I meant every word. I then sent her a piece of my heart in the CD I burned her, to make sure she knew she was still on my mind. She sent me songs from her preferred genre and I ended up loving them all, so I hoped she felt the way about the songs I sent her. I also had to do something else to keep her fond memories of us alive, deciding to send her a DVD, Jim Gaffigan’s “King Baby”. I just didn’t know what day should it arrive to her…on Mother’s Day or June second—the day we met?

After a few weeks to get my life back in order, I braved the Good Morning Café with my black three-ringed binder still in tow and perched myself in my usual available black leather chair. Both Paul and Dave were there and we waved at each other as I entered. Paul then rose from his seat, taking the one next to mine. Dave shook his head a few times in feigned disbelief before making his way towards me.

“I can’t believe my eyes!” Dave exclaimed. “You’re back!”

“I had to take care of some things.” I told him. “Had to get my house back in order.”

“That pretty Croatian, the one who has the crush on you…” He yelled as if no one else was in the café but us. “has been asking where you’ve been. You got HER worried SICK!”

“Oh.” I replied shaking my head, laughing. “She does not have a crush on me—I can assure you.”

“I know a crush when I SEE a CRUSH.” He retorted, nodding. “and SHE is crushing on YOU!”

Paul then tapped me on the shoulder with a countenance that acknowledged Crazy Dave’s antics annoyed him enough to leave his side and come sit next to me instead.

“We all know he’s a little wacky.” he told me, low enough so Crazy Dave couldn’t hear. “but even he’s thinkin’ clearly on this one.”

This was the last thing I wanted—what gave them the impression she had a crush on me? Because we had a conversation outside? Or was it because Dave liked her and she shot him down? I thought the possibility she liked me could exist, but if she did, it explained why she bashed Anya so much—she wanted me to fall out of love with her. I guess Theresa and her infinite behavioral therapist wisdom believed the big black binder was a hoax. She had “pretty” features but Theresa just wasn’t my type at all—too plain Jane for my taste, but I had no room in my heart for anyone but Anya anyway. Theresa could’ve been a Playboy cover girl and she wouldn’t have appealed to me. That’s another reason I got upset with Anya—I was picky enough before I met her but allowing me to love her this deeply ruined me for others. It also annoyed me when people discounted feelings I made known to them—especially feelings of love because I respected it more than others—refusing to take it for granted. If Theresa did have loftier goals in mind for us, she basically said to me that I’m the kind of man who had no idea what love was and that I was like most, jumping from girl to girl without any emotional ties. Love wasn’t a word I threw lightly around, hoping to connect with people on. If I had known believing in love would’ve caused me such great despair, I would’ve never tried to connect with Anya. Now I had to find a way, while dealing with a heart beyond broken, to let someone know I wasn’t interested in dating anyone, if ever again.

I also didn’t want to assume anything or hurt Theresa’s feelings in anyway, but it upset me that this kind of conversation possibly needed to take place. She should’ve known better to underestimate the love I clearly still felt, especially in a circumstance not different from hers. Instead, she tells me Anya didn’t love me hoping the closer she got to me, the greater the chance a light will go on inside my head to choose her? That I would eventually end up dropping all the things I ever felt for Anya and choose her instead? I just couldn’t believe I had to deal with this anxiety all because I wanted to get out of the house and feel less broken. Although she pushed her beliefs on me, Theresa was a kind person who actually helped me, but everyone other than Anya was not my type now.

“Where have you been the last two weeks?” Paul asked.

“On job interviews—tryin’ to get my life back in order.” I told him.

“Still haven’t found anything, huh?”

“Nope.” I acknowledged, shaking my head. “I decided to start my own business since nothing is coming up on the job front.”

“That’s the best way to go if you can do it.” he replied, smiling. “Good luck.”

After thanking him, Paul patted me on the back then went back to his post next to Dave. When he sat down, like a tag team duo, Crazy Dave then rose from his chair and strutted over to me. He never took Paul’s chair, opting to stand next to me before making an announcement.

“I saw you in here once with a brunette.” he blared, then pointing outside the window. “You were sittin’ right there in the patio.”

“You remember that?” I responded, astonished. “That was like three or four years ago.”

“You bet I do!” he exclaimed proudly. “Gorgeous brunette! A knock out!”

“She wasn’t bad.” I told him, thinking if he only knew she left me there alone with the unfinished drink I bought her.

“Are you kiddin’ me? “She wasn’t bad’?” he mocked me, with a look of incredulity on his face. “I stuck my head once in a killer whale.”

“I know. You told me all about it one day while I was in line.” I reminded him, his memory not as refined as he thought it was.

“I’ve been married five times.” he announced. “And divorced that many times too.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“The killer whale, or the third wife, was the one that did me in though. She crushed me.” He revealed. “Blonde with big breasts--used to be a Playboy Playmate! She used to love driving in my convertible—top down. I gave her the world. Give her more if she wanted it!”

I didn’t know what to say. A part of me wanted to laugh, but I knew the place where he was headed.

“I used to be a teacher in the LB school district. Came home from work one day. Found her in bed with another man.” He continued. “No more killer whales for me.”

“We’re all just seals.” I told him.

“Look out for that pretty Croatian.” he retorted, breaching the subject. “She has the hots for you.”

“I don’t think so.” I told him, anxiety swelling inside me. “You can’t tell those kinds of things.”

“Oh…it’s in the eyes. She lights up when she sees you!” He shot. “She’s been coming in here for two years, never talking to anyone until you started showing up.”

“She doesn’t have a crush on me.” I hoped, shaking my head. “She’s a behavioral health therapist working on her profession.”

“She’s never helped anyone before…Paul,” he claimed, pointing a crooked finger at our friend. “he’s an ALCOHOLIC and she couldn’t care less about helpin’ HIM!”

“Hey, watch it.” Paul crooned.

“Sorry Paul, but it’s TRUE!” Dave roared back.

“I was an alcoholic--you don’t see me runnin’ around tellin’ everyone you’re with a killer whale.”

“I’m not with the killer WHALE! My head is out now. WAY OUT! See my head? I still have it!”

“Do you, Dave?” Paul replied, scratching his head. “Do ya really?”

Whether out of boredom or defeat, Dave then turned his attention back to me while Paul shook his head with understanding—knowing he couldn’t win a reasoning battle with the unreasonable.

“Are you doin’, okay?” He asked, a serious look on his face. “Do ya need any money?”

“Thanks for the offer, Dave but I’m good.” I told him while being completely thrown off by his question. “I’m fine.”

“Well, the pretty CROATIAN has the hots for YOU. Everyone can see it! Right Paul?”

As Paul waved him off, opting to stare off into nowhere rather than responding, Dave doubled down.

Hey, Jonas Brother?” Yelled Dave at one of the baristas who supposedly bore a resemblance. “Does the pretty Croatian has the hots for him or what?”

“I don’t know.” responded the young barista with both hands in the air.

Dave then looked quickly back at Paul for anything he could add.

“You know how I feel about it.” Quipped Paul.

“I don’t think the pretty Croatian is a killer whale.” Exclaimed Dave loudly. “And I should know—I’m the EXPERT!”

Now that everyone pretty much knew the pretty Croatian had the hots for me, all I could do was shake my head.

“Thank you for imparting such words of wisdom upon me, but she’s only trying to help me out with some things I’m going through—there’s nothing more than that goin’ on.” I explained. “Glad you lived to tell of the killer whale ordeal.”

Crazy Dave then nodded and shook my hand, for whatever purpose that served, and went back to his chair, hiding his face behind a newspaper. Moving my eyes over to Paul for some kind of explanation, all he could do was shake his head hoping Dave didn’t lead him back to the bottle. At that moment a smile broke upon my face—a warmth I hadn’t felt since my breakup. Mitch told me about Dave’s divorces, but to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, I better understood why he was so messed up. Upon learning what I did, it seemed rather cruel to refer to him as Crazy Dave—as if I were immune to the same fate someday. The truth was, I had come to appreciate Dave and Paul. Life had done a number on them and I respected how they were shaped by their experiences. They were old school—too virile to seek help and now finding themselves in the public eye dealing with their pain. Paul clearly cared, but Dave was oblivious to the judgments and scrutiny around him—he was too busy scrutinizing everyone else. They lived here much longer than I have and they just wanted to pass their knowledge onto me—or anyone within earshot. I came to learn that Paul and Dave were harmless to others, and only harmful to themselves—I couldn’t say I was much different than either of them. My pain just hasn’t manifested the way theirs did yet. Then again, I didn’t consider myself too proud to seek therapy.

As badly as Anya broke my heart, I couldn’t imagine my reaction if I found her in bed with another man. Then again, I would’ve never married Anya for her big breasts, the color of her hair or because she loved my convertible—a divorce was written in the stars for him before it happened. Unfortunately, his superficial view on love factored in his decision to marry—and to be divorced five times. One would think he'd realize the criterion he based love upon was deeply flawed, but the very definition of insanity was to do the same thing and expect a different result—he wasn’t known as crazy for nothing. It was easy to see how Dave and Paul saw a piece of their old selves in me, bringing them both back to a better time—adding a dimension that made them feel normal, even alive, again. Although I preferred not to be a source of anyone’s entertainment, if it helped them, I was good with it. When I first began frequenting the Good Morning Café, I wanted to avoid Crazy Dave like the plague, but he seemed to get less boisterous over time. Although I tried to disassociate myself from him, I found an appreciation in both his generosity and authenticity and after our pretty Croatian exchange, I never referred to him as Crazy Dave ever again—I was glad to know him.

Theresa walked in about an hour after my conversation with Dave and Paul. The very second, she sat down next to me, I sensed four sets of eyes were fixed on me. When mine sought them out for confirmation, two quickly disappeared behind a newspaper.

“How have you been?” she asked with wide blue eyes. “I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks?”

“I’ve been good.” I told her. “How’s your friend?”

“My friend is doin’ better! Thanks for praying!” she replied excitedly. “See! The power of prayer works!”

“Happy to hear that.” I smiled, but knowing my unspoken prayers never made it through the wire to help aid in her recovery.

“Please say a prayer for my friend, Elise.” she added. “She’s going through a rough time right now and needs prayers.”

“I’m sure she’ll be just fine without my prayers.” I smiled, holding onto the fact for dear life her other friend improved without my help.

“Oh no! I need my prayer warriors! Have you ever heard of Jim Canfield?”

“No, but I’ve heard of Jim Cantfield.” I joked. “Are they related?”

“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” she deadpanned. “Jim Canfield uses visualization techniques to manifest certain outcomes. I’ll email you a video so you can watch it—he’s really good.”

“Sure, thanks.” I replied, annoyed.

“Come outside and sit with me. Get some Vitamin D.”

The very second after her request was uttered, those same four eyes from earlier were right back on me.

“Thank you for the offer, Theresa, but I’m leaving soon.” I quickly responded. “Maybe next time.”

“Oh. Okay.” She nodded, disappointment filling her voice. “Next time.”

“My mom wanted me to thank you for the card.” I told her, feeling responsible for her tone. “She said it was very nice of you. She’s enjoying the book.”

“Oh, she’s most welcome! I’m happy to hear she’s enjoying it.” Theresa’s voice still reflecting disappointment. “I have to get outside now. Talk to you soon. I’ll email that video to you. Don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t—I’ve decided to cut down my visits but I’ll be by again this week.”

“Have a good day.”

“You too.”

After she exited, I rose from my chair, tucked my heart’s black monstrosity of despair under my arm and then faced the folks.

“Sorry to disappoint you guys.” I told them, grinning.

“I’d be outside right now—that’s for DAMN sure.” Grumbled Dave before disappearing behind his newspaper again.

“See ya next time, Land.” Said Paul, saluting me farewell.

I nodded then returned to the most dreadful of all places on earth—my apartment. Ten minutes after jumping back on the computer to work on my life, the strength to do so left me. It only took two Vicodin before deciding to torture myself—getting back on the computer only to search the internet instead. Upon checking my email, Theresa already sent me a link to the Jim Canfield videos she promised, but I kept the email as unread as a reminder to watch them later. The only new development was that Anya came up as a friend suggestion on my Facebook account. But how could she come up as a friend suggestion if she wasn’t even a friend of mine on Facebook? Could it be because I visited her profile too many times? If that was the reason, how come Katie never appeared as a friend suggestion nor did Jackson? I looked at their profiles just as much if not more? Could Anya have visited my profile, to deal with all the emotions we were left with, too? Was this why she protected her husband’s curiosity? If she ever got curious herself? If she truly did look me up on Facebook, it would warm my heart to know—to feel the safety in that. After all we shared, how could I be the only curious one? Most importantly, if curiosity got the best of her, she had to feel what I still did for her. Every single day without her in my life was like waking up to a nightmare—like reliving my own murder. To believe she may have been curious gave me a ton of hope that we could work our issues out one day—without a situation in our way. The love was there, only the situation stood in the way. Even with everyone saying she didn’t love me, I held the belief she still did, and it was instances such as this, Anya showing up as my number one Facebook friend suggestion, made me feel certain they were wrong.

I didn’t want to get upset with Theresa about her opinion—it wasn’t done to attack but to help me. The way she pushed God, and even Jim Canfield on me though, made me feel she was trying to mold me into someone I simply wasn’t—the man for her. Before I met Anya, I would’ve entertained Theresa’s intrusion into my life, but after falling in love with Anya, I knew I had found my soulmate—what every woman, not just Theresa, was up against now. If she continued to mold me or become more judgmental about someone I still loved, I’d have to let Theresa know how her sentiments made me feel.

I found myself at The Good Morning Café the next afternoon. Paul and Dave were both in their usual spots and they acknowledged me upon arriving. The Vicodin I took began setting nicely in as I pored through the full heavy black binder on my lap. Upon learning of the possibility that Anya’s curiosity got the best of her, hope was easy to find within its pages on this day. After an hour passed since arriving, a gentleman with an open black leather jacket I had never seen shared pleasantries with both Dave and Paul. He was a thin figured man, with thinning black hair and wild eyebrows upon an unspectacular face that bore an undecipherable boyish grin—one ostensibly of passion, wonder and madness. He vigorously shook hands with them, talking loudly as if they have known each other for years after returning home from a long trip. I had grown to like Paul and Dave, but I didn’t know if I was ready to make any more acquaintances at the coffee shop. Unfortunately, Dave wouldn’t allow me to have a voice in the matter.

“Land!” yelled Dave, trying to get my attention. “Land! LAND LAST man!”

“What’s up, Dave?” I asked, annoyed.

“This is Barney.” he informed me. “Barney’s an artist! He’s a MAD man!”

“Nice to meet you.” I waved, trying not to laugh at Dave’s subtle jab at his friend.

“Nice to meet you.” Barney replied, nodding.

“Landyn is a writer.” Dave informed Barney.

“Is that right? A writer?”

“A hobby is all it is.” I clarified.

“I’m a small-scale artist. My work is in a few museums.” Barney claimed. “Have you published anything?”

“I just write for fun.” I explained. “Do you live around here?”

“I live in Torrance. Where’d you grow up at?”

“I know Torrance—I used to work there years ago. I grew up in Harbor City.”

“I know where Harbor City is—it’s across the two bridges.”

“Yep.”

“Small world.”

“Yep.”

“Nice to meet you, Landyn.”

“Likewise, Barney.”

After meeting Barney, I tried sinking my eyes back on my big black binder of hope, but before I could, Theresa entered the café. Instead of saying hello as she passed me, she went straight to the end of the ordering line—something she never did before. After she had her drink in hand, she took a seat into the empty chair next to me. This time though, I noticed six eyes on me, and not just the four I was used to.

“How are you this morning?” she asked. “Did you get my email?

“I received the Jim Canfield link. Thank you.”

“How’d you like it?”

“I haven’t had a chance to watch it yet, but I will.” I told her, not sure if I’d ever view it at all.

“You’ll love him! He’s absolutely brilliant!” promoted Theresa. “He’s helped me out a lot!”

“How’s your friend?” I asked, purposely changing the subject.

“She’s doing well, but please keep praying for her! It means a lot to me.”

“I’m happy to hear she’s doing better.” I replied before laying it on the line. “She’ll surely be in my thoughts.”

“And prayers?” She smiled widely, her eyes ballooning.

“Sure.” I responded defeated, fighting back the urge to tell her no, just thoughts.

I didn’t want to say anything that would hurt her feelings—she gave a thoughtful gift to my mother and even helped me, but my past made me resistant to her faith. If my own mother couldn’t reach me after years of trying, Theresa had no prayer in accomplishing the feat. I didn’t appreciate her pushing of faith on me, making me feel like a bad person. She needed to respect that other people didn’t need Jim Canfield to derive their strength from. If I were to ever find God, the greatest miracle ever, it would have to come on my own terms and time. Pushing God upon me wasn’t Theresa’s biggest offense, but rather how she didn’t respect the deep love I had for Anya, even attempting to demonize her. All because her and I weren’t together right now didn’t mean we would never be. Theresa knew as much as I did that love was not black and white sometimes. There was a lot of gray in both of our relationships and it was disappointing she chose to ignore that.

“Did you want to get some Vitamin D today?” she asked. “It’s good for you.”

“I’m wearing a sweatshirt today—I’d just sweat if I went outside.” I told her. “You’re welcome to sit here if you’d like.”

“Um…too many old guys in here.” she whispered, looking around. “All I seem to attract are old men.”

I then nodded as three pair of old eyes that Theresa was oblivious to gazed over at me.

“Are you leaving soon?” She asked.

“Yeah, I have to get back home.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Okay.” I replied, reluctantly.

“Do you think if you and your ex were together that things would be perfect?”

“I don’t think anything in life is ever perfect.” I answered. “But my life certainly would be.”

“I thought things would be rosy too when he left his wife. Our wedding song was “Unchained Melody”. Everything seemed like a dream come true.” she revealed. “The truth was it wasn’t—his kids didn’t like me. I could do nothing right in their eyes, and the man I loved and thought I knew, turned out to be the wrong one.”

Theresa’s words made me instantly reflect upon Anya’s fears in a different way for the first time—how she wanted her kids to like me if we were ever together. How Anya never made a promise to me because she had to make sure her kids loved the man she loved too. It made me mad to think how being separated from the turmoil helped me to consider this for the first time.

“It just made me think about you, and wanted to share that with you.” She continued. “It could be different for you though, but sometimes we should be careful what we wish for.”

Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

It was very thoughtful of Theresa to share that with me, and although it felt like Anya mattered to me more than I mattered to her, she simply didn’t fall in love due to being bored in her marriage. Anya’s husband abused her mentally and emotionally—why I believed my story would end up differently than Theresa’s. It was also clear; Anya was far more considerate of my feelings than Theresa’s paramour was of hers.

Over the next couple of days, Theresa emailed me another link to Jim Canfield, including sending another email pointing out thirty-five reasons why she thought I was “great”. Her email was unexpected and super sweet—she put a lot of thought into writing it and likely some fear into sending it. It also made me realize everything Paul and Dave suspected all along—she liked me. She had a goal in mind—bring him close to God and away from his Ex so she could date me. Theresa could try, but I would never feel like a “great” guy because no one ever showed this kind of interest in me—Anya never sent me an email detailing five, let alone thirty-five reasons, why she thought I was special. If I had met Theresa before Anya, I may have been interested, but I was no longer the same man. In order to distance myself from her, if she didn’t already know my heart wasn’t available, I never responded to her emails. When I saw her enter the coffee shop a week later, it was time to get some Vitamin D to let her know where I stood.

“Did you get my emails?” she asked before I could say hello, holding a drink in her hand.

“I did. Thank you.” I said, closing my black binder.

“How come you didn’t write me back?” She questioned. “Not even a squeak from a mouse to let me know you received them?”

“Can we talk outside? I need some Vitamin D today.” I smiled.

“Sure.”

Under a partly cloudy sky we both sat down in her usual spot on the patio. Upon noticing no one was around us, relief filled my senses—it should be easier to communicate what I had to tell her.

“I’m sorry I didn’t write you back—your emails were very kind and thoughtful.” I said, taking the lead. “I appreciate them and wanted to tell you that in person.”

“I just wanted to make sure you got them.”

“Theresa, I’m afraid I’ve opened myself up to you a little more than I should have and I owe you an apology for that.”

“Oh?” She responded, her head tilting with steady eyes.

“I appreciate the fact that you want to help me--you’re a much better person than I am, honestly.” I continued, fighting to keep my eyes in hers. “You deserve nothing but all the happiness in the world. I’m sorry you found yourself in a situation like I did and I hate the fact it didn’t turn out the way you thought it would.”

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit.” she countered. “You’re a wonderful man.”

“I’m not a wonderful man though—the exact opposite.” I told her, shaking my head. “I respect your beliefs because it’s a source of strength for you, but when God is pushed on me, like when you asked me to pray for your friends, it pushes me away. Not because I don’t care about their wellness, but when you ask someone to pray after they’ve made it known they don’t believe in God, you’re being disrespectful towards their beliefs.”

Theresa appeared before me speechless—her silence only forcing me to continue.

“I guess I would’ve appreciated it if you asked me to “keep my friend in your thoughts” or “think of my friend” instead of asking me to pray for them—it would’ve shown me you acknowledged you were aware of my life experiences that led me to feel the way I do about God. There’s a real reason why I believe in “goodness” and not “God”. Maybe that’ll change one day? I don’t know the future, but if I’m a good person then I should be worthy of “heaven” regardless of my faith in God.”

“If that’s the way you feel.” she replied dismissively, bowing her head and looking away from me.

“I must also admit I took it to heart after you played “devil’s advocate” by asking me “Would you have left?”.” I carried on. “I know I told you “yes, I would” but after much thought, I take that back. The truth is our situations were very different.”

“What do you mean different?”

“It’s just different for a mother. It’s easy for me to say “yes, I would” but I don’t know how easy it’d be if I were a mother of two.” I explained. “She used to tell me whenever she was with them that she would miss me so often that it made her feel she wasn’t there for them. Although it was mostly because she was unhappy with the marriage, it probably went a little deeper than that. This may have been the case for your ex as well…I don’t know.”

“If she wanted to be with you, why wouldn’t she?” She quipped.

“She used to tell me all the time that if we were together, she would not leave my side—that I’d get sick of her. She couldn’t have been more wrong about anything.” I smiled after speaking of the memory. “If she left him for me, she probably wouldn’t be there for her kids because she’d want to be near me. If she neglected them, because she couldn’t stand to be away from me and her kids struggled with that, she’d heap the guilt upon herself because she chose to be with me.”

“You truly believe that, Landyn?” She questioned, shaking her head.

“As much as we would love to believe otherwise, love is never black and white—there’s always some gray in there.” I told her. “It doesn’t mean you don’t love that person if you also have to live with the guilt of ruining the future of your children. That maybe following your heart is sometimes selfish. I know she was afraid her kids would hate her for it, and then hate me too. It wasn’t because she wasn’t “in love” with me that she chose to stay.”

Theresa nodded then sighed.

“You don’t know about this, but about a month ago, a girl approached me inside and asked me for my number wanting to go out on a date.” I revealed. “After all my heartbreaks I’ve learned to cultivate a “gut” feeling that wouldn’t allow me to give my number to her. The other day she came into the cafe clinging onto the tattooed arm of a bald ganger banger type guy. I knew something didn’t feel right and I was right.”

“What does that have to do with anything we’re talking about?” she posed, shaking her head again.

“Well, that’s how it is with my Ex—I feel in my “gut” I’m still meant to be with her. It’s just not right now.”

“Come on, now…how can you believe that’ll still happen?”

“Of course, no one truly knows what’ll happen, but I do know this, Everyone has a soul mate and I know she’s it.” I told her, an attempt to eliminate her negativity. “I appreciate our friendship but if our conversations are intended to get me to believe in “God” or to help me “fall out of love” with my ex-girlfriend or to think badly of her in any way, I can’t be a friend you deserve.”

Again, she just stared at me in disbelief of the honesty I dealt to her, forcing me to continue.

“I just hope you don’t think I don’t appreciate the fact you care, I do, it’s just those things are like sacred ground to me.”

“Here, I thought I was helpin’ you…but I guess it backfired.” she exclaimed. “I must say what you just said shocks me. I need some time to process this.”

I didn’t mean to catch her off guard, but she caught me off guard when a person I met a month ago decided to take a sledgehammer to destroy everything I ever felt for someone as if she knew me for years. I lived for love my entire life—breathing it every single day for someone over the last three years, Even if Anya didn’t feel the same way, what I felt for her was more than real to me. I appreciated Theresa’s help, but I never asked for it.

“It’s not necessary to process anything—this is the way I feel.” I shot, shaking my head to mimic her. “We’re two nurturers on different wavelengths—there’s more to gain if you devote your time to helping other people. I’m still in love with my soulmate, so there’s nothing to really process or debate.”

“I’ve wasted my time and energy.” she groaned, then removing a book from her bag. “This makes me kind of mad.”

“I never asked for your help, Theresa. You took it upon yourself to assume I needed help after sharing something we had common ground on.” I countered, worried she would tell people what I shared with her the way she wanted to see it. “I don’t care what anyone says. I went into my relationship for all the right reasons while you chose a man who was bored with his marriage. What did you think the outcome would be?”

“I resent you for saying that.” she barked. “I took an emotional risk with you.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not receptive to your challenges, disrespecting my relationship and my religious boundaries.”

“I don’t know what you mean by disrespecting your religious boundaries.”

“Did you know I never prayed for your friend? Not because I didn’t care, but because I don’t believe in God? Even without my prayers, your friend got better. Imagine that.” I told her, sneaking sarcasm into the conversation. “You can go ahead and resent me for being honest with you, but I refuse to mislead you into thinking I’m interested in dating you. You’re a good person, but the timing is awful—you know how I feel about my ex.”

“I’m not interested in dating you nor have I ever been!” she replied chuckling. “I don’t know what gave you that impression!”

“Okay, good. Then why do you want me to feel guilty about the emotional risk you took for just a friendship?” I inquired. “Or was the emotional risk taken in an attempt to change me into a God-fearing man with the hope I’d be a good match?”

Theresa looked at me in disbelief I could ever come up with such a scenario.

“I’ve made it more than clear who holds my heart.” I told her, pointing to the black binder. “So, forgive me for not understanding why you’d ever make me feel guilty for takin’ an emotional risk, that had all the red flags out there, for you not to take? You questioned my Ex’s love for me after swallowing my pride and sharing with you all I felt for her? This is why I can’t date anyone, anymore. I don’t understand women…at all.”

“Well, I did think about datin’ you.” She admitted. “I did find you attractive, and I actually don’t really question your ex’s love for you so I’m sorry you felt that.”

I nodded with humility and as much grace as I could muster.

“One thing I want to remind you of is that I was the one who said that leaving the one you love is the deepest form of love. I meant it then and I still believe it. Not actually knowing her, I have to trust and respect what you’re telling me you both felt.” She continued. “I believe you have the ability to recognize deep and rare love. How you love is beautiful and would be a gift to any woman.”

Theresa’s words left me speechless—she was able to recognize in such a short time what Anya did. It made me even contemplate for the first time in my life, after learning Theresa did like me, that maybe God did exist—the possibility He brings people in your life intentionally for different reasons. He used Theresa in my life as a Maybe Person—maybe she’s the one, maybe she’s not, but in the end, she brought him a little closer to me. The realization God may have brought Theresa in my life made me also consider Dave’s and Paul’s introductions—could they have all been united for a common purpose? Could it be while I was hating God that He heard me and continued doing work? Then again, this all had to be just one massive coincidence.

I never believed Anya leaving me was a form of deep love but rather abandonment because of all I felt for her. Although it was hard for me to feel this way, for Theresa to recognize how much I appreciated a deep and rare love meant a lot to me, while remaining both a blessing and a curse. I put my entire life on the line for it with Anya, but it was something most people never dared to do—the purest form of suicide.

“Thank you for that.” I told her, nodding with a smile.

We talked for a few minutes before departing on a good note…and with Vitamin D and some things off of my chest. I hated to tell Theresa the things I did, but if I kept it from her, I would’ve only wasted more of her time. Now, she could focus on someone who would appreciate her help. The only common ground we shared was that we dated people who were legally married. I decided to love someone who was not in love with her husband nor was there for him emotionally. Theresa on the other hand, loved a man who still loved his wife but was seeking excitement—he was never emotionally withdrawn. If Anya was just bored with her marriage, I would’ve never dated her unless she left—Theresa was a lot braver than I was.

Theresa was a good person, but she didn’t respect my boundaries and the walls I constructed—they would always be Theresa proof. I was still in love with someone that was now in my life and heart for three years. I carried a big black three ring binder that contained the story of our love that I held dear and read every day—even out in the public eye. She didn’t even know how badly I relied on unprescribed pills to get me through each day. Regardless, she had to respect the barrier I made known to her. I’m guilty of sharing some private information with her that maybe made her feel special, but I never asked for anything other than an ear. Being open with her wasn’t a plea for help, but rather just being honest about what I was going through. She had to take a step back and better assess what people needed from her—she was a behavioral therapist. Theresa went for someone who’s partner didn’t seem like a bad person when Anya’s significant other could be the offspring of Satan after all she told me about him. How a good person like Theresa, could get swept up in love without recognizing the pain she caused a likely good spouse, showed a lack of understanding on her part. I could never put a faithful, loyal husband through that kind of misery because I could easily be that man one day. Theresa tried taking a sledgehammer to my walls in the middle of construction, yet all she considered was the emotional risk she was taking—without understand she only had the power to add another brick or stone.

I found myself resenting Theresa for asking me if I would have left. How could she ever imply Anya never loved me without also considering she was a mother with two kids? It wasn’t right for her to demonize Anya when she didn’t even know her. She never heard how hard she cried when my phone battery died while witnessing a wedding in Canada. Or how much she cried when she came to my place to break up with me. She never even heard her despair on the phone the last day I heard her voice. It wasn’t just Theresa, but no one knew the love Anya showed me that allowed and encouraged me to feel so strongly for her. No one saw the love in her eyes when we were alone but me—I was the best source of information because I knew the truth. All others had to go on was the fact Anya wasn’t with me right now. I didn’t want people to sugarcoat things for me, but don’t assume I was too blind to see. If I truly felt she screwed me over in any way, I would’ve taken care of business. People are going to question my judgment but I don’t think Theresa, of all people, had that right—why I resented her question. I shared the best times of my life with Anya and it was never about the “excitement” of dating someone who was married. The situation was the only thing that destroyed us. All the women who were ever free to love me, didn’t come close to loving me as well as Anya did. If Theresa seriously contemplated dating me, then how could I ever rely on her for an objective opinion about Anya?

I stayed away from The Good Morning Café for two weeks after my conversation with Theresa, purposely distancing myself from her. Opting to only visit on days and times when I knew she likely wouldn’t be there—the weekdays. One late Saturday afternoon, in a depressed mood, I went there with my big black binder in tow. Saturday nights were especially tough imagining her and Jackson likely out to dinner together, and I took two Vicodin trying to cope with that upcoming reality. Surrounded by nothing but memories there were also things I never got to experience with her. Like getting ready together for a night out and the excitement of stepping out in public with her as a couple—and it wrecked me to know she shared that with another who wasn’t even grateful for it. During my darkest times, it was hard to see it was for the kids, but there were times when I did. Unfortunately, this night was not one of those times. By now, six months later, why did it still hurt so much? This freedom never carried a sense of peace but only a paralysis of loneliness—there was no room in my heart to love anyone else, remaining true only to agony. The only solace I had was how on most days now that Anya appeared as my most featured friend request on Facebook, helping me to hope against all hope she still felt the way I did. Although nothing could ever feel right about us being apart, Taubee’s words found their way into my head—"you would’ve only enabled her to stay if nothing changed”. If the missing for her was anything remotely near to what I felt, she’d have to realize the truth about my love for her was the solution to her unhappiness. A melancholy she didn’t deserve to feel for the sake of others—they didn’t know the truth of her pain. While I reeled in a black leather chair on a two Vicodin high, an unexpected visitor walked through the door. Not the one I hoped to see, but was thankful to see—Theresa.

She looked over at me then quickly walked past me without saying a word. Apparently, our last conversation didn’t sit well with her, but I thought she’d at least say hello to me. After reasoning she’d say hi to me after grabbing her drink, she again strode past me and to her usual spot on the patio outside. Although I didn’t think I deserved the silent treatment, I respected the way she felt.

Burying my face inside my binder and back into the past of both hope and despair. The black bible of my creation was probably not the best way to heal my heart, but I just wasn’t ready to let go. I still believed as much as I did for two years—as crazy as that sounded. The truth lied in those pages—all the answers I ever wanted were there. I just needed to know I had wronged her—that it was me who did this to us. That she was with Jackson against her will and because I pushed her to him. All I found were memories—the good, the bad, the downright grotesque. There were so many things I wish I could’ve handled differently, but my heart was too vested in us and my emotions ran too deeply. Now here I was, the nurturer always seeking to nurture…even against nature.

After fully immersing myself in the memories of her love for me, Theresa suddenly reappeared inside, walking right past me like I were a ghost yet again. After coming to the conclusion, she was upset with me, I focused on the contents of the binder while my Vicodin high numbed me to her indifference.

“So, are you just gonna ignore me?” a female voice asked, pulling me away from my solitude. “Is that the way it’s gonna be?”

“Theresa, you know where I sit—you just walked right past me as if I were a stranger.” I told her, trying to keep my voice down as a couple heads turned in our direction. “You’re the one choosing to ignore me.”

“You’re an ass.” she stated loudly, wagging a finger at me.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.” I replied, keenly aware of the few people inside watching the weekend drama unfold. “I was told that I need to stay away from unhealthy relationships, and that’s what this has turned into. I also need to be around people who can give me objective opinions without ulterior motives—so just continue ignoring me. I don’t care.”

“I’m unhealthy for you? You’re writing a book about a failed relationship and about a woman who doesn’t love you.” she scoffed. “You’re wasting your life away believing she’ll ever come back to you. That binder you cling onto for dear life is never goin’ to help you—it’s only bringing you more pain. Remember, “would you have left?” You may not like to hear it, but I’m sorry I wasn’t afraid to tell you the truth!”

“Weren’t you leaving?” I politely asked, but feeling the fallout within me.

“No.” She announced. “I’m gonna stay.”

“I see.”

After coming to the conclusion my dark day was not going to get any better, I nodded then flipped about five hundred pages over to close my binder. After rising from my chair, I tucked it under my right arm and saluted her goodbye. As I opened the door to leave, she tugged on my arm asking me not to. When I looked back, her blue eyes were no longer with her, morphing into a completely different person—I couldn’t tell the difference between the psychologist and the psychopaths she aimed to help. At this moment it seemed Theresa needed as much therapy as they did.

“Theresa? Please.” I told her as she tried to coax me back inside the asylum. “This is ridiculous.”

“Why are you leaving?” she wondered.

“Because you make me feel uncomfortable.” I replied as she followed me outside.

“Why don’t you like me?” she inquired, her blonde hair suddenly rivaling Doc’s in “Back to the Future”. “Why don’t you think I’m pretty?”

“It’s not about looks, Theresa.” I explained. “I’m in love with someone else.”

“Someone else who doesn’t love you!” she retorted, grabbing my arm again. “Someone who never truly did!”

“If you don’t let go of me, I’m gonna have to call the police.” I told her. “You’re acting crazy.”

After removing her hands from my arm, she then began to sob, leaving me to wonder if this was all I ever did anymore—make women cry? Then again, I had fallen for this ploy one time before—remembering how that same person’s tears I cared enough for to dry, made fun of my own. My heart now cold after my experiences before I met Theresa. While nobody cared for me, did I really have to care for anyone anymore? I was too broken to care for another’s sorrow other than my own. Theresa inflicted this pain on herself—caring for someone she knew was completely unavailable emotionally. Not only was it all spelled it out for her in a monstrous black binder, but spelled checked for her too. Theresa had no idea how truly shattered my heart was over Anya—she didn’t know I needed Vicodin to cope with the pain. How I committed suicide every single day but there was no secret how sensitive I could still be, considering she claimed to go through it one time too. Her barrage of careless words about how Anya never really loved me could easily lead me to hike a bridge to end it all if Anya had never written me back. Yet, she could never understand the profound sadness I felt, even witnessing it most days in a café, but expected her tears to weaken me to consider how I’ve hurt her? Then again, what unfolded before me only proved what I always knew to be true—most women only threw themselves at jerks and assholes.

“I hope you can take this as constructive criticism, but you’re finding out what I’m beginning to learn—you need to work on you before you can work on other people.” I told her before turning away. “Take care, Theresa.”

With that final jab, Theresa turned away and stormed off back inside the café. Walking back to my car, I hoped Anya wasn’t anywhere near this dreadful scene—knowing my luck, this would be the one time she would show. The more I hung out at the Good Morning Cafe, the more I learned the only time she ever came to this particular coffee shop was to meet with me. Leaving even more depressed than when I arrived and regardless of the way she made me feel, I hoped Theresa would be fine.

After our falling out, Theresa thawed over time, but we never talked like we did up until I never saw her walk inside the café ever again. As much as she annoyed me with her attempted manipulations, I was thankful I met Theresa. She gave me some things to think about, even giving serious consideration to God, regardless of how I disagreed wholeheartedly with her. Her heart and soul were both in a better place than mine, and I was unable to hold anything against her even after she minimized my struggle. Meeting Theresa only left me wishing more than ever Anya would prove her wrong, and everyone else who didn’t believe she ever truly loved me.

By asking me, a person she knew was a bit of an atheist, to pray for someone, Theresa didn’t respect my religious beliefs—why I was averse to granting her request, and not because I didn’t hope her friends would be fine. I’m not saying I’m even right—I wish God were real, but he’s given me nothing for my belief in him. If he brought Anya back into my life, maybe I could find a reason to believe in Him. If He could see the good in us being together, like I did, then I would believe in Him. But if he continued to show me the world revolves around money, and marriages full of broken promises that are kept alive just for the sake of appearances under the guise of morality, then I can’t believe in Him. Anya and I should be together—we were made for eachother and the fact we’re not and He even allows that, does not make any sense to me. I get it with Denise—she never showed me love, but Anya? I don’t get to have the one who showed me more love than anyone ever has? Our love was the kind of love that brings people together forever, not tears them apart! If He exists, how could He ever allow that to happen? Jackson never deserved her for a single day, yet he’s the one God gave her to? If it’s not righteous down here on earth, then how could it ever be righteous in heaven? If God wanted me to trust His plan for me, to believe in Him, then why couldn’t he give me this one simple thing? I wasn’t asking for someone who could care less for me and had to suddenly spring to life with love for me. If God truly existed, allowing Anya and I to be together should be an easy test for Him to pass.

Like everything I ever did in life, I put my entire heart and soul into loving Anya. And yes, I even questioned her form of love at times—if it was as strong or on par as mine. Hell, I even questioned her intentions, feeling she misrepresented her situation to me by choosing to hide its serous depth. Putting my faith in she would leave if she fell in love with me, I only set myself up for the greatest heartbreak of a lifetime. Every day that passed, the black hole inside swallowed more of me each day—transporting me further from the light of tomorrow. This depression I used a drug to mask, took an incomprehensible toll on me, as nothing, not even my ambition or the fulfilling dreams I had before I met Anya, made an appearance to save me from myself. The Vicodin recreated the euphoria having Anya in my life gave me—I couldn’t get anything accomplished without it. If I lost this drug induced high, a little-known bridge would be my only savior. If people didn’t believe in love anymore, it no longer made sense to remain here—forever someone’s burden; never anyone’s hope. If Anya truly didn’t love me, and my life was only about lying to myself to make it through the day, then there was nothing left to live for. This continuous broken record on a loop in my head only drove me further to the edge.

When I came home to see Anya coming up again as a friend suggestion on Facebook, it inspired me after an eventful day at the café. Refusing to believe Theresa was right, I made the decision to send Anya a gift on Mother’s Day—the Jim Gaffigan “King Baby” DVD. Bringing memories to when she arrived at my apartment in a sad mood—she wouldn’t kiss me because of her cold sore. Anya told me about it three days before meeting, believing I would cancel on her, like her husband probably would have, but canceling was the furthest thing on my mind—I needed her within arm’s reach. On what would likely be an uneventful day, we watched this Jim Gaffigan DVD instead, laughing heartily hanging in my bed—having one of the best days ever. Composing a letter to accompany the DVD seemed appropriate, my hands now moving across the keyboard with purpose.

I waited to send this to you on Mother’s Day because of what the day means. I know I gave you a hard time and I’ve said some painfully harsh things. Like I mentioned in the previous letter I sent you, it was because I was afraid the love you felt for me was only real because it was a “secret”. I always believed being in love with someone was black or white with no shades of gray, but those were the past relationships I’ve been in. In those relationships each of them had the freedom to love me and they didn’t even come close to loving me the right way—the way you loved me. I dreamt about our love before and everything about it—minus the arguing. I know for a fact, you remove the situation from the equation and with all other things constant, we’d last forever—no question. There are no assumed roles with me—we’re a team. Our love, us, and happiness would always be number one. It’s why I stayed single for so long—I knew it was out there for me. Now, I know the reason I never found it—my soulmate was in a marriage. Wait, this gets crazier! Just kidding! That’s just how I feel about us and always will feel that way. If I end up dying alone, I can die knowing I’ve found her—not too many people can say that. If I didn’t love you or believe you weren’t my soulmate, I would’ve just said been fine with everything and never challenged you in anyway. I felt as your best friend, if I didn’t challenge you, I was not acting like it. Of course, my heart was involved too, but it wasn’t a “be with me or die” kind of thing. When you’re in love with someone who is love with you, and she/he is with someone who you know doesn’t deserve them, it is extremely difficult to just stand on the sidelines—you want to get in the game no matter the cost. Listen, if I felt HE was a good husband and that he treated you the way you should be treated, I would’ve walked away because I know that’s where you should be. I could then tell myself “He appreciates her and we all make mistakes in life.” I would feel comfortable walking away knowing that. But Anya, I know that’s not the case because I know you. I know that heart of yours is too good to stray let alone fall deeply in love with someone else. I know everyone in the neighborhood, friends, family and co-workers see the tangible things. They see the cars, the house, the security but they don’t see the things we do. We saw through the same pair of eyes and we always will.

After reading the letter a few times, I reconsidered sending the gift on Mother’s Day—it might upstage the day with her kids. Maybe even putting a bad taste in her mouth if she believed our love betrayed them. I then thought of a better day, a more significant day. The one day that meant something to us; June second. Discarding the computer-generated letter, I handwrote a much shorter letter to her—a far cry from the thirty-page behemoth I sent her six months earlier.

Dearest Anya,

I apologize if you have trouble reading this. This may look like a ransom note, but it’s not. If I knew how to write in hieroglyphics, I would have—it’d be easier to read than my handwriting. Please forgive me, but this day will always have a special meaning to me. I included the comedy DVD by the comedian Jim Gaffigan, “King Baby”. I think you’ll remember him.

I think about you often and I hope you’re doing well. Take care.

Love always,

Me

Along with the letter and CD, I also sent three rose petals, each one symbolizing the number of years we’ve known each other—June second marked the day we met three years earlier. I double checked to make sure I sent the letter to the right address before putting it in the mail box. Although I hoped for a response, I would’ve only wanted to hear from her if she loved me—not because she felt bad for me. The last thing I wanted to show her were any broken pieces of me, even if it’s all I was. Most importantly I wanted her to know how this day still meant everything to me, even if it just meant a little something to her.

After sending the package, my computer screen beckoned me to perform one more deed—to answer Facebook’s friend suggestion with a request to be friends. Before clicking the box, I reeled myself back in unable to do it. If Anya writes me back after my latest attempt and we started to make amends, then I would. It would be disrespectful not putting the ball in her court before sending her a friend request. Each letter I sent was essentially a friend request, but in another form. Exercising caution had to go into sending each letter as well. A part of me didn’t feel right sending them to her—her kids could get their hands on them, but I had to take a chance—just not too many of them. If she didn’t respond to this letter, one clearly showing her how much I still cared for her, then it would have to be the last letter. She now knew enough, and even secure enough to know if she reached out to me, my arms would be open. Of course, I’d continue writing her letters to deal with my feelings, but I was done mailing them unless I heard back from her.

In the meantime, getting my life back in order remained my greatest struggle. After applying for a consulting job in the paper, they reached out to me and scheduled an interview. Imagining how the consulting job could springboard my business aspirations gave me an extra burst of unforeseen energy. When I was left to wait for a half hour after the scheduled interview time, I walked out of their lobby—they couldn’t have had a real interest in hiring me. With an economy leaving many people for dead, it wasn’t right for them to do that. That same evening, I hosted a meeting with ex co-workers to share our business ideas, hoping to generate a partnership or two. One of my ex-coworkers had a sister, a corporate lawyer, who had a specialty in setting up start-ups—informing us about the initial costs when you start a business and how each corporate structure worked. After she spoke, I took the floor—telling the group that our business ideas should yield the greatest intrinsic reward, and not just the greatest monetary reward. We had to first be passionate about the business without mainly considering the money it could provide us with. I wanted to help others be successful, but my only business experience came from being a CPA. My pitch to the group centered around what we all already knew—to start a full-service audit, consulting and tax firm. Another friend wanted to start a joint venture capitalizing on the “green” market by producing recycling service for major corporations who were trying to go paperless—a great idea with real intrinsic value. Another ex-co-worker pitched an App idea and even had an engineer ready to design the product. Each business idea was so well thought-out and professionally presented, I couldn’t believe they were being heard in my humble one-bedroom apartment. After meeting for just over four hours, we then decided to have weekly meetings to monitor and see how we could put the best business ideas into play. The more we collaborated, the more we could drive each other to be successful. The recession forced me to consider doing something entirely different from what I ever imagined—to not work for someone else for the rest of my life. The recession taught me a very hard truth—it was nearly an act of suicide to depend on someone else for income. I now came away with a new understanding to be successful—to devote the next five years of my life working to build my own CPA practice, the surest way of shortening my timeline to another partnership.

The very next day, as the Universe made an abrupt appearance, an unexpected phone call came my way.

“We’re sorry we didn’t get a chance to interview with you in person, but we love your experience.” The voice on the phone told me. “The pay rate is thirty dollars an hour and we’d like for you to start on Monday, if you’re still interested.”

“I will see you on Monday.” I told them, relief washing over me.

After eleven months of being out of work, I was finally back in the game as an independent consultant; technically my first client. The Company that hired me was a fairly large restaurant chain—Romero’s and were having cash issues. They hired me simply because of my auditing background—wanting me to come in and investigate why there were having liquidity problems. The investigative and problem-solving nature of auditing was what intrigued me to make it a career choice. I hoped going back to work would help me with my depression, but my drug addiction issues weighed heavily on my mind—it was too hard to quit. Diving back into accounting should help me keep my mind from thinking about my heartache, but what if it didn’t and I failed? What I suffered from was more than just a broken heart but also a form of post traumatic stress syndrome. And how would I handle the stress when the job pushed me beyond my current mental limitations? Would I respond to the challenge or feel like a failure? I just hoped the new venture would not sink me further into despair. When I told my parents the news, they were both elated for me, but it broke my heart to be unable to share it with Anya too. After six months, this was as hard on me as the day we broke up.

With five days before the start of the new gig, I headed to the Good Morning Café for likely the final time on a weekday. Breaking the news to Paul and Dave seemed to be one of the hardest things I’ve had to do. With Dave always asking me if I needed any money, which I always turned down, this might give him some peace of mind. Every time he asked me if I needed money, it made me laugh—I never took it personally. It seemed Dave was basically trying to have an impact on others. He hoped by giving me money, that maybe I’d say something good about him when he passed, but he already won me over without giving me a dime. Dave changed since I started going to the café—he had calmed down and didn’t annoy the customers much anymore, opting for a more silent approach. I guess he saw how it worked with me—silent as a mouse. When I broke the news to them, Paul and Dave said they loved having me around the coffee shop, and that the afternoons wouldn’t be the same without me. Looking back at my first days coming to the café, I couldn’t say it meant a lot to me, but it really did. It was funny how I hoped to run into Anya, never did, but in the end, it worked out the way it was supposed to. It felt like the universe brought Dave, Paul and even Theresa into my life to help me with the monster irreplaceable void Anya left. And although it was never enough to heal me, at least it seemed someone up there saw what I was going through—that I wasn’t completely alone. Barney, who I just met a week earlier, even seemed to struggle with my near departure. Knowing my days were numbered at the café, Barney opened up to me about his passion for art—a big part of who he was, if not everything he was.

“I do things on a small scale.” he explained. “I’m a realist though—I don’t do abstract art of any kind. How long have you been writing?”

“Oh, I’m not a writer.” I told him, surprised he even considered me on the same level. “If you do art on a small scale, I do writing on a microscopic scale.”

“I brought something in I want you to see.” Saying with a smile before producing a book from a ragged tote bag.

As he handed me the book, it looked like it was broken out of its glass case at a museum.

“This is impressive.” I replied, carefully turning each page. “Are these all yours?”

“It’s a collection of art work from artists, including myself.” he said. “My work is on page one hundred sixteen.”

Flipping directly to that page, it showcased a painting of a simple box that left me wholly unimpressed.

“Oh wow.” I exclaimed, not knowing how to react. “It’s a box.”

“I know it doesn’t look like much, but there’s a story behind it.” He defended. “My mother gave it to me the day before she died from cancer—we never knew she was sick.”

“Oh wow.”

“She’s had this Bullock’s box since she was a little girl—a gift from her father, my grandfather, and she wanted me to have it.” He said, his wild eyes staring into mine. “He told her what she told me. Life is hard. Life is cruel. People will tear down your hopes and dreams, but don’t let life box you in. Love without fear. Trust without reservations.”

The story behind Barney’s painting left me speechless—how a simple box contained so much inside of it.

“To be honest, I wasn’t expecting that.” I confessed.

“It may look like a plain box to most, but there’s always something more behind it—that’s realism.” He spoke, showing me the passion behind his work, placing his finger on the inanimate object he painted. “Like life, it looks mundane and boring, but this box is meant to be more than what only the eyes can see.”

“I didn’t see all that coming from a box.”

“If you look closely, there’s more detail in my painting—the colors and shadows create a mood. Even the structure of the box, as unspectacular as it appears, is anything but as I tried to tell the story in its construction.”

“I can see the intricate detail in the dull colors and shadings…even the lines.”

“I think a lot of people in this messed up world need a Bullock Box.” he said before taking the book from my hand and putting it back inside his tote bag. “Too many people get boxed in and don’t pursue their passions. They get boxed in by their fears. They don’t even trust themselves—like all the dock workers in town. Sure, they make good money for not having a degree, but they never realize their full potential or use what God gave them—all they do is celebrate mediocrity.”

My greatest fear in life was to end up living a mediocre life and could never understand those who never pushed themselves to strive for more. Although I failed with Anya at the moment, I never let life box me in, pushing myself beyond my limits and even to the edge of self destruction. And although I lost my partnership promotion, my failure there also put me in a position to reach a greater potential—being able to utilize all my gifts. This also didn’t mean I wouldn’t continue to struggle to not let life box me in—my mind was still my greatest tormentor.

Barney told me he got his first job as an illustrator for medical books after he graduated from art school, but he wasn’t passionate about it, giving it up after three years. Being a fanatic about the athletes drawn on the covers of Sports Illustrated, he chose to freelance instead—painting what he wanted to paint. He then went on a rant about television—how he never watches it because television shows today disgust him.

“Too many people are letting the things they see on television shape them” he shared, handing me a photograph. “Instead of shaping the world, they are being shaped by another’s perception of the world through a camera lens.”

The photo, a section of someone’s living room left me wondering about the bullock’s box behind it. Sitting atop a brown circular coffee table were pink and white lilies in a vase while a crimson drape seemed to dance behind it from a draft of air through an open window. I didn’t get much from the photograph other than Barney’s art being replaced by a camera.

“Are you a photographer too?” I asked, handing the unspectacular print back to him.

A huge smile suddenly broke upon his face before he howled with laughter. I knew he had to be a little crazy because of the company he kept at the cafe, but was still thrown off when he exhibited the same symptoms.

“That’s not a photo.” He revealed, shaking his head.

“It’s not?”

“No.” He said, handing me back the photo. “It’s one of my paintings.”

After revealing the news to me, it clearly was not created from a camera, but by his own hand. The level of detail he put into his work was unworldly—he cared about its realism as much as I cared about Anya being real. This level of attention was an obsession—one that would’ve put anyone on the brink of insanity. Just like Barney’s need for his painting to appear real, was all I ever became obsessed about with Anya. His painting made me realize she didn’t need to love me if she didn’t—I just needed to know her love was real. I was every bit an artist in my relationship with Anya as Barney was—trying to drill into the details by challenging her to be honest with herself and therefore with me. It was nice to know someone as passionate about realism as I was.

Before there were cameras, there were artists like Barney to show us what something looked like. Now, he was much like the purple dinosaur, the last of his kind. I saw a lot of myself through him—an artist who didn’t life box him in. I created without a brush though, refusing to let society dictate what I painted—the truth about themselves and their crude manipulation of morality. Barney was all heart—willing realism into his paintings. And I did the same, willing realism about Anya’s love for me into existence. I needed her love to be real as much as his paintings had to be mistaken for photographs.

“How come no one in Torrance has ever heard of you?” I wondered, shaking my head in disbelief.

“They have.”

“It’s just that you actually have your works in museums and even in books. I just don’t understand why nobody has recognized you for your accomplishments on a grander scale.”

“I’m not looking for that.” he insisted. “I paint because I love to.”

“Have you ever heard of Harbor City The Mag?” I asked, feeling more people needed to know of him. “It comes out every month. They usually feature recently wedded couples from the area on the cover.”

“I’ve seen it.” he said, nodding.

“I have a friend who writes for the magazine—he also takes the cover photos each month.” I told him, hoping he’d be open to my wild notion. “Would you be interested being featured in the magazine?”

“What do you mean?” His bushy wild eyes now burrowing into mine.

“Well, they’d do an article about you and your work. You know…giving you some recognition for your accomplishments.” I sold. “In my opinion, you’re pretty much the town’s treasure and no one really knows of your work.”

“Oh, that’s awfully kind of you to say, but I wouldn’t want a feature on me.” he countered, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable—I’m a very private guy.”

“I couldn’t promise you that it would be written—I’d have to ask my friend. For all I know he has people lined up outside his door to be in the magazine.” I told him. “It’s hard to imagine he’d turn the opportunity down if I presented it to him, but if you didn’t want the publicity, I understand—I wouldn’t know if I’d be comfortable either with something like that.”

“I appreciate the interest and consideration, but I don’t want the publicity.” He reiterated. “I enjoy being in the shadow of the unknown, and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“Not a problem, Barney.” I nodded. “I completely understand.”

A few seconds after we finished this part of the conversation, Theresa suddenly appeared through the doors of the cafe. When she looked in my direction then quickly looked away before getting in line, Barney noticed and began speaking his mind.

“Dave and Paul are both crazy about her.” he informed me. “She’s pretty, but she’s vanilla—you have to be careful with women today. Just look at Dave…one woman can ruin a man forever”

“Yeah.” I told him, thinking of Anya and about all the black binder contained.

“Dave used to be strong in stature, known him for years, but now he looks weak and much older.” He said, looking behind him at Theresa then back at me. “That Theresa wants a young guy but she dresses like a mother of four—she’s a total older guy type of woman.”

Barney had to be in his early sixties along with Dave, and Paul who was in his seventies and yet they still yearned for the opposite sex. I always believed it was over by then, but they proved me wrong.

“I just came out of a relationship so I’m not interested in dating anyone.” I exclaimed, subtly letting him know Theresa wasn’t my type.

“She’s got a pretty face, but there’s something missing.” He turned around to study her yet again, shaking his head. “It’s like she’s just there—nothing attractive about her.”

I nodded in agreement because Barney hit the nail on the head—there was nothing exciting about her that sparked an attraction. Just like for most people, beauty lied in the eyes of their beholders. And although we didn’t find her attractive, Dave and Paul eyeballed her up and down like a Victoria Secret model. I tried to be as honest and fair with her as I possibly could, but every day was a battle for me—still reeling from heartache. No matter what I told her, it could never come out the right way—my emotions over Anya were too overwhelming to be anything less than brutally honest with Theresa.

I went home that evening and did my usual nightly routine—popping a Vicodin then getting on the computer to seek relief from my mental anguish. When Anya didn’t come up as a friend suggestion on Facebook, it made me sad, wiping away my hopeful thoughts. It seemed every single day prior she came up as not only a friend suggestion, but as my number one friend suggestion—providing me with a respite from the pain. But when I didn’t see it on this night, it left me wholly disheartened, dulling the excitement on a consulting job that could kickstart my own CPA firm. Rising from my chair, I walked through an apartment—every step carrying a memory of her. Even such an insignificant area, like the five-foot entry way, carried a special memory with it. Standing there, I felt like the vase in Barney’s painting—frozen in time. Anya still resided with me here, just not in a physical form anymore. The memories of her smile, her laughter, her scent, her warmth, and even her tears gave this place much more life than I could’ve ever given it. My personal dwelling had become haunted ground; no longer a heaven on earth but rather a bastion for my despair. Where love once ruled, my apartment was now decorated in loneliness, destroying me from the inside out.

After sending Anya the Jim Gaffigan DVD and short note, I thought I’d hear back from her but only silence prevailed—a harsh reminder of how Denise disappeared from my life the same way. After all the love we shared together—after opening myself up and being accepted in a way I never dreamed possible, it all appeared to be an illusion—like Barney’s painting. When I realized this day was June twentieth, Jackson and Anya’s anniversary, I felt removed from my body.

After pacing back and forth as my imagination ran amok, I sat down in front of my computer and began striking at the keyboard vigorously to get my feelings out in front of me. Before visiting her profile on this night, I recalled how she didn’t have any Facebook friends—how maybe that was a sign she was leaving Jackson. But when she didn’t come up as a friend suggestion, it seemed Theresa was right—she was done with me. For the last week, seeing her come up as a friend suggestion made me believe she missed me as much as I missed her—giving me new life. If Anya couldn’t help approaching me the night we met, then maybe she wouldn’t be able to help herself from leaving Jackson to save our love? Now, I seemed to be living a life of delusion.

While suffocating in the mud of my thoughts, the rain and wind whipped a wicked cacophony against my window. Minutes later, my apartment went completely dark. Deciding to sleep the power outage off until the dawn, I used the power of memory to light the way to my bedroom. Feeling around for and finding my Blackberry Phone on my dresser, I fell upon my bed with the phone’s light shining on my face. Upon visiting my Facebook account once more, the universe decided to speak to me—Anya had come up as my number one friend suggestion. As the sound of the rain and wind tried to haunt me in the midst of the darkest of nights, I shot a smile back into it.