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He assumed he knew all there was to know about me.
He said he loved me, but he didn't. He couldn't.
He barely knew me.
He thought I loved the ocean for all the usual reasons—the surf, the sand, the chance to frolic in a bikini.
And, yes, I love the surf, I love the sand, I look great in a bikini.
But that's only part of the appeal.
The Kate Chopin of it all—
He never got that.
Maybe men just can't. Maybe men can't understand what it means to be a woman in the world, even one without a husband or children.
The expectations are still there.
They're still heavy.
And the promise of freedom—
It's enticing.
I'm sure there are things I didn't understand about him, things I don't understand about being a man.
But I never pretended.
I hid.
That's different.
And now, I'm here, trying to dive back into my body, worried I won't do it right.
Because I might fall for this guy.
Because I might screw him up.
Because, maybe, I want to screw him up.
And, maybe, just maybe, I'm a bad role model, again. Maybe the people I love are the same as me—
Weighed down by my expectations for them.
Hiding behind them.
Hiding the places they hurt.
I want to be brave, to lead by example.
But I'm not even brave enough to ask. To look. To see.
And that's the thing—
My ex was right.
I want everything this guy has to offer. For my body, anyway. If I risk my heart, I risk it.
