Stephen called. Well, actually, texted. But it’s three hours earlier in Portland. He probably calculated the time in New York and figured it was five, so I’d still be at work. And I can’t talk on the phone at work. Stephen knows that.

But I did call him from the work phone only five minutes earlier and hung up immediately, knowing that he’d call back and get the automated messaging service, which states the name of the bookstore where I work, so he’d know it was me who called, and then think about me and want to call me directly. Well, actually, text.

Even though I told him only three days ago on Gchat that I didn’t want to talk to him until I saw him at Christmas, when he’d visit his mother in Montauk and maybe want to see me in the city a few times. I said that sometimes he distracts me in a bad way and that I had been thinking about just telling him I didn’t want to talk to him anymore, but it’s really not him, he didn’t do anything wrong, it’s my fault, really. I just love him so much.

I know that it hurt him to think of being without me, which explains why he never responded to my messages. See, that’s what happened when we first made love (with Stephen I always call it “love” not “sex”). He didn’t call me afterward for seven and a half days, even though I left messages on his cell and work voicemail, and called all his friends, and sent a letter to his mother. Finally, he called me to ask what I thought I was doing. Why, loving you, silly goose! That’s what I said.

—

Two days after our Gchat (in other words, yesterday), I sent him a postcard apologizing for my outburst, restating my desire not to talk for three weeks, and my desire to see him in person in New York, assuring him that I’d understand if he didn’t want to see me. I wouldn’t be mad. After all, he’ll be in Montauk. That’s almost two hours away from the City. I mean, I’d do it for him, but I can’t expect that kind of effort from Stephen, not after how I’ve hurt him. He needs time to heal, that’s why I sent a postcard instead of calling him.

The postcard had two skeletons on it, dressed in wedding attire.

—

So today, when he called me, well actually texted, I felt tingly pushing the buttons, like it was the first text he’d ever sent me, which I’ll never forget because it’s saved in my phone.

Then I saw what he said: “Hi.”

Well, actually, “hi.”

Well, actually, “hi” (without the period).

I waited an hour so he wouldn’t think I was too eager. In that time, I restocked the Children’s section and the nearby Parenting section, both of which I hate because no one wants to clean them, as a sort of punishment, which I deserve for how I’ve hurt him. Then I listened to a talk in the café about death photography. This woman wrote a book called No One Else Can Have You, featuring portraits either about or depicting death, shot long before, just before, during, or immediately after. The Teens shelf looked sparse, and I tried to remember to stock it,  but got wrapped up in reading Lauren Conrad’s first novel, then got a free coffee, which I desperately needed, and went back to the front counter to see if Stephen called me. He hadn’t, which made me angry. I texted him back (“Hi.”), making sure to include the period. He’d know what that meant.

I don’t play games with Stephen.

I imagined what he looked like when he saw it on his iPhone, his blue eyes lit up by the screen against the dark, where he’d be sitting alone in his dorm room. (At least, he better be alone.) His thin jaw, stubbled cheeks, uneven beard, his long, uncut bangs, high forehead, which begs me to brush them aside, to bring his luminous face into the light, to bless me with his visage, like a flower soaking in sun.

He’d tap the screen and scroll down to his messages, heart beating wildly. (His fingers are so graceful from playing his guitar. So thin. So smooth. I love his delicate fingers.) He’d see what I said (“Hi.”) and know exactly its meaning, then break into tears and call me, to profess his love like Apollo to Daphne, begging me to love him, wounding me with his arrow, his golden arrow of love. Of course, I’d accept, but not before telling him how waiting for him killed me, how I almost died from loneliness. I felt so close to death at times.

He’d be wearing a sweater because it’s cold in Portland. I remembered him saying so on Facebook this morning when I logged into his account (because he accidentally unfriended me), something I wouldn’t do except I accidentally found his password while searching his backpack, while he was in the bathroom, after the first time we made love, well, actually, the only time. It wasn’t in a status update. It was a comment about either his profile picture or another of the webcam photos he posted this morning, all of which I downloaded to my computer in a special file I call “Inspiration” that I started, when we met, with a series of candid photos I shot with my camera phone.

It was his profile picture, I remember, because someone—Jenni Fouck—said that he looked “cuteee” in his little sweater, with three E’s, and then he said something cute back about it being so cold in Portland and how he needed a way to stay warm, and did she have any suggestions? I flagged the comment as inappropriate, based solely on her misspelling of the word “cute,” which was idiotic, and then immediately unfriended her and refriended myself as a favor. To Stephen, of course, so he wouldn’t feel bad. I know how seriously he takes my happiness.

I should add that Stephen calls Portland “PDX,” which I hate because it comes across as “P-D-X” in my head, and I can’t seem to make myself just think “Portland,” but maybe it just takes practice, which I’m more than happy to do, despite the time it will take. I hear you master a word after reading it 40 times. Just one of the many things I suffer through for Stephen. With great love comes great sacrifice, and I’ve sacrificed so much already. My virginity, for one thing, not that I regret it at all. I’m glad I gave it to Stephen, since we’re going to be together forever.

After an hour of unresponsiveness, I came to the conclusion that Stephen’s response (“hi”) was his way of not making himself too vulnerable after my outburst, which I’m sure he’s been agonizing over ever since—wondering whether to call, to email, write back, text, Facebook… the poor thing, he’s so confused.

Well, tonight the lines are open. He can reach out if he wants to. I can’t force him to talk to me if he’s still hurting, but I can be ready when he is. (After all, I can’t control him, I can only control myself. That’s what my therapist says.) There’s no guarantee I’ll respond to him, though. He needs to see what it feels like to wait, to be without me, to wonder where I am, to just want to talk to me, hear my voice, see his face, feel his hair, his naked chest, his hot breath against my ear… to taste his sweat, to plan our wedding…

—

And that’s why I kept my text brief: two letters. Two simple letters and a period can say everything. I’m not obsessing over it. I want him to know that. I don’t need Stephen. There are plenty of guys who want me. That’s why I’m writing this blog post right now, which I’ve been wanting to write all day so I can get it out in the open and not obsess about it anymore. I mean, so I cannot obsess in the first place, because I’m really not obsessed. I just love him a lot, that’s all. It’s the kind of love that’s scary, which is the best kind of love, they say, but you know, if I keep it inside, I might just go crazy. All this loneliness, this pain, I don’t think I can stand it. I might do something irrational.

So I’m writing it down in my blog, because I don’t fall in love with just anyone, you know. You have to be special to get my attention.

And Stephen is special.

Only he doesn’t know that. I tell him all the time, but he doesn’t believe me. He tells me he’s not perfect, that I only think he is, that I’ve got the wrong idea, that I need to back off, please.

Stephen doesn’t trust women ‘cause he’s been hurt so many times. That’s why he’s so distant. He’s afraid to get close to me, afraid I’m going to hurt him. Isn’t that silly? I’d never hurt him. I only want to love you, Stephen.

I love you to death.

And I understand you. Really, I completely get it. Beneath all that fear is a man in search of love. You know our love is real, that it’s something worth waiting for. So I’m prepared to wait forever.

I’ve never felt so sure about anyone before.

Well, actually, I have, but I never dated my therapist.

—

You have to want to have a relationship with me, though, not just a one-night stand. We’re way past that now. When I fall in love, I give it everything I have, and I expect the same from you. A relationship takes two, that’s what my therapist says. So you need to want to know me deep down inside. I mean, really get inside my head, the way I’ve gotten inside yours.

—

When I met you, Stephen, I knew you were my soulmate. I knew I was going to spend the rest of my life with you. I’m going to give you children. I’ll make you a father.
What’s it been, twenty weeks now? Time flies when you’re in love. Doesn’t it, Stephen?
But there’s something you need to know.

Most people in love try to see each other, Stephen, if you’re reading this, which you probably are. That’s why I’m coming to Portland. I bought a ticket today, one way, leaving tomorrow. Isn’t that wonderful? We can finally be together. We’ll start slow, having dinner.

No rush—love takes time. We’ll go out for a pizza. I’ll pay, you can order.

Or whatever you want, actually. It’s doesn’t have to be pizza, you know. Why don’t you pick a restaurant? Or I’ll cook. Blood sausage?

I can bake really well, too. But what am I saying? You know that.

I understand your resistance, but I don’t care about money. Really. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re together.

We’re together forever now, Stephen. For all time.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Story by Sarah Gerard
Photograph by Walker Esner