Dan came with me on this trip. Not physically, but psychologically. I was attached—obsessed. When the void within me yawned wider than I could bear, I called him. Just to hear his voice. To fan the flame that had long since been ignited.
I dated Dan for less than a year during my sophomore year of college. He was tall, with intense, owl-like eyes, a younger, gangly version of Christopher Walken. He lingered at the casino with his brother, his curiosity about me evident—and mine about him just as strong.
“He’s one of the Whitaker boys,” I was told. Local legends. Mysterious, glamorous in their golfing feats. That he had sought me out, that his gaze lingered on me longer than the rest—I noticed. And the churning feeling inside me doubled because of him.
One night, at his brother’s place, we stayed up talking. Just a sheet and a sleeping bag between us. We talked until we had wrung every last drop of energy from ourselves, until exhaustion took over, leaving only the warmth of being known. And from then on, I orbited around him—following close behind on the golf course, at the driving range, taking photos with my DSLR as he fly-fished. And he, around me.
Whatever that initial attachment was—whatever otherworldly force had struck me—I believed, without a doubt, that he was the one. There would be no one else. My thoughts, my feelings, my reality all pointed north to him. And even years later, after the plane had crashed into a million pieces and all that remained was a small scar on the earth, I still returned to the spot with flowers, hoping he’d be there.
But life moves forward, whether or not we’re ready—whether or not the past still calls to us.
The lamps arrive from Lowe’s. They’re smaller than the Costco ones that traveled with us across the country, more fitting for the new nightstands, and less obstructive to the view from the window. It’s been six months since Dave, Evelyn, Archie, and I moved to Georgia. We’re filling out our space in the country—an extra-large playground, a 24×36’ pool, digging up briar roots.
Even with all the security and stability my life affords, even with my psychic bank full of connection and support, dipping my toe into the past—writing about Dan—sends shockwaves through me.
“I’m anxious, but I also feel compelled to hide it. And that’s making it worse,” I tell Dave on our two-minute drive to the library, where North Woods is due, along with two unread Treehouse Mystery books and another I can’t remember the name of.
He gets it. He tells me so. He shares how strange it feels to experience something intense while the world around you just goes about its business.
The fire within me dissipates. I’m connecting with him, and the cooling balm of that connection is all I need.
Going On 40 
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