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That he had complete control over. And so did I.
I decided to never give a man that kind of power again.
I swore off anything serious, knowing the longer a man is in my life, the more chance he has of letting me down or leaving me behind.
Instead, I focus on work, on spending time outside, on going out with friends or hanging with my mom.
I date, sure. That beginning part is always so magical. The sexual tension, the flirtation, the dreaminess and curiosity. I might not have rules about sex, but I do have a few rules about dating.
I have to be able to count the total number of dates on one hand (i.e. no more than 5 dinners or movies or hikes or picnics or whatever things he comes up with). The conversation topics have to stay light and flirtatious, and definitely no talk of the future unless it’s individually.
Maybe I’m too rigid about it, but why should I allow anything outside of those rules when the only time a guy really treats you right is in the beginning? Flowers, romance. Opening doors and sexy kisses. Staring at you across the dinner table at a restaurant, their attention solely on your face as you talk.
Those things fade. Men don’t know how to be selfless over the long haul. Eventually, they want their life back, their freedom.
They don’t want to be faced with having to care about a woman’s feelings, her wants, her needs, especially when those things directly contradict their own.
Ken did it to my mom, Evan did it to me, and countless other men have backed out on women, just proving my point.
I’d rather keep it casual and loose and fun and then have us each happily move on to the next person. No harm, no foul. No hurt feelings or expectations unmet.
Which is why Boyd scares me a little bit.
This twelve-day fling—or whatever it is—certainly feels a lot less flingish than I intended for it to be. We’ve already broken one of my rules, each of us talking about things that are much deeper than I normally go.
I’m well on my way to breaking the other two as well, imagining the fun things we can do together while I’m in town, which would constitute way more than five dates, and thinking about ways we can make it work for real back in Boston, which is absolutely a focus on the future.
I’d continue doing massage and he’d work for his company, and the two of us would enjoy our evenings and weekends together exploring the city or going on road trips. Maybe I could travel with him for work, and maybe he’ll join my yoga studio.
Snuggling farther into my pillow, I give in to the fantasy for just a few minutes, of a life with a man like Boyd.
No.
Not a man like Boyd.
Actual Boyd.
Boyd Mitchell, the endlessly sweet, family-focused, friend-helping, secret softy and yoga convert who makes me laugh and smile and sizzle in my boots in equal measure.
He makes me feel…different. New things I didn’t realize I was capable of. Emotions that are much bigger than I even felt with Evan back at the beginning.
It’s a beautiful image, the two of us, and I wish with everything inside of my soul that I could give in to it and believe it’s something we could make real.
I guess that’s the trouble with wanting something you know you can’t have.
Because even if we could make it real, I know how things would eventually go. The relationship would sour, grow cold. We’d grow apart, me and my verbose curiosities never truly meshing with his introverted gruffness.
He’d be the stoic man who moved on, and I’d be left behind to pick up the pieces.
* * *
When it finally rolls around to brunch time, I leave my rental car parked outside of Ken’s, opting to walk the road around the bend to the Mitchell house.
When I get there and see dozens of cars filling the drive, I know I made the right choice. I wouldn’t have been able to find somewhere to park anyway.
I knock on the large, dark blue door with the white trim, admiring the summery wreath hanging in the center. I hear people and movement on the other side, but the door stays closed.
Maybe I should just…go in?
