Part Two: The chicken wasn't the only problem.

The only thing on my mind as I ran alone through those dark woods was: Get as far from the campsite as possible, get as far from the campsite as possible. I knew things were about to get ugly and quite possibly...loud. It wasn’t until I picked a spot and commenced dying from the inside out that I had time to think about anything else.

I turned off the lantern to lessen the risk of being found by a neighboring camper, or worse, the one I’d left sleeping. Not that anyone in their right mind would approach an area emitting sounds like that willingly. Unless they thought I was being attacked by a razorback.

And of course with that thought, and the sudden blinding darkness that did nothing to muffle my agony, I became terrified that I would be mauled by a wild boar, bitten by a snake, or eaten ass first by a crocodile...bless his heart. I was damn near tears by the time Satan loosened his hold on my bowels.

On my way back to the tent I walked slowly, holding the lantern high and swinging it wildly from side to side. I was consumed with paranoia and every rustle was like a gunshot ringing in my ears.

When I finally reached the campsite my relief was short lived. Fear of wild animal attacks was replaced with irritation, anger, and disgust. I felt horrible and there was no way I was trying anything with him. I crawled into the tent and moved as far away from him as I could without losing any blankets. He was still sleeping the heavy sleep of the inebriated, but I would have no such luxury. I lay awake most of the night, only catching a few minutes of sleep at a time. As I watched the sun creep over the tent walls, my resolve plummeted.

I didn’t tell anyone about my little stroll in the dark, but I watched the others for signs of illness. Apparently I was the only one that had issues with chicken on a stick. I left them to their breakfast and went off to take a shower.

I was miserable all day and didn’t accomplish more than the shower, a few bong hits, and a nap. I lay spread eagled in my tent, wore as little as possible, and prayed that night would hurry up. The heat was oppressive. It felt like being smothered by an invisible pillow and though I don’t remember any conversations that took place that afternoon, I’m sure my only contribution was whining.

That night, wrapped in blankets against the welcome chill, we talked about nothing in particular. Random whispers in the dark until we both fell asleep. As badly as I still wanted to make a connection with him, I’d lost my nerve.

I woke sometime in the night to the sound of heavy breathing. It seemed to be coming from behind the tent and I stared quietly up at the open netted window on the back wall, seeing only black. I immediately thought it was a dog or some other large animal. The breathing was obviously wild and feral. Something had followed the stench of my defeat back to the tent and was going to kill me.

As I silently began to panic I heard whispering. Comforted by the realization that I wouldn’t be eaten alive, I listened intently, trying to determine what was going on. I started to catch a few words here and there. “Fuck...yes...” This was followed by more heavy breathing. “Harder...”

That’s right. The cherry on my camping sundae was listening to my friends fuck each other in the tent next door...all while lying next to the guy I should have been fucking, but wasn’t. I tossed and I turned and I put my pillow over my ears, but it was in my head by then.

I eventually fell asleep, only to be awakened again by pounding rain. I secured the flaps over the windows and moved everything away from the edges of the tent. It was relentless and loud. And while he slept on, I sat Indian style in the middle of the tent and cried.

The next morning we packed up our soggy campsite as best we could. I loaded my things in his car, said goodbye to my friends, and we started the long drive home. He was in a good mood and feeling very chatty as we pulled off. For the first few hours I made conversation, laughed, and sang along with him and the radio. But it was an eight hour drive and soon I was crashing.

I would fall asleep for a few minutes and he would do something to wake me. I knew he didn’t want to drive in silence while I slept, but I honestly couldn’t help it. I told him that I was sorry and that I didn’t get any sleep. He still couldn’t let me be. And even though he smiled and tried to make it funny, I finally snapped. I don’t remember what I said to him exactly, but it was along the lines of “leave me the fuck alone”.

And that was the beginning of the only fight we ever had. He snapped back at me and the gist of it was “you can walk home”. A few more heated back and forth sentences and it was over as quickly as it started.

True to form, he was smiling and turning it into a joke, smoothing things over. Outwardly I let it go, but inside I was still seething. It wasn’t just the fight that was bothering me. It was the whole disastrous weekend. I wanted to cry, but I couldn’t. If I let him see me break down if would all come tumbling out. All of the embarrassment and the planning, everything that didn’t need to be said in a car with four hours left and nowhere to hide.

We were fine for the rest of the trip, but by the time we pulled up in my driveway I desperately needed to be away from him. But of course it didn’t work out that way. He helped me bring in my things, settled down on the couch, and started discussing what we’d have for dinner with the rest of my family. I stayed in the shower for an hour and got it together. When he finally left that night I hugged him goodbye at the door and promised to call him soon.

But I didn’t.

Weeks went by and I played busy. I was just so tired of the emotional roller coaster. And, yes, I could have ended it. I could have said everything I wanted or needed to say and no matter what his answer would have been, at least it would’ve been over and I would KNOW. But, of course, I didn’t. Fear has a way of silencing the outspoken, casting doubt on the certain, and locking the free in a prison of their own making.

I spent our short time apart trying to fuck him out of my system by way of my old standby. The Fireman didn’t know about him, likely wouldn’t have cared if he did, and if I was a bit more aggressive and a bit more available, so much the better.

When I thought I was ok, that I could block it all off again, I called him to hang out and things when back to normal for awhile. We resumed our dinners and our movies and working on his house. I was coping.

But one night, after spending the majority of the day together, we rented a movie and took it back to his place. The TV wasn’t hooked up yet so we set the laptop up on the coffee table in the living room and sat on the couch to watch. I was skeptical about his choice, but it turned out to be tolerable. It was a spy drama called The Tailor of Panama and there was just enough sexuality in it to make me bite my lip a little nervously. I’d never been good at watching sexually charged scenes in front of certain people and he was at the top of that list.

About halfway through the movie he stretched out on the couch and put his head in my lap. He grinned up at me, I grinned back, and we returned our attention to the screen. I started absentmindedly running my fingers through his hair, which was longer than usual and falling over his forehead. I continued playing with his hair and massaging his scalp until the end credits rolled and he looked up at me again. My fingers, still wound in his hair, were motionless as we stared at each other.

We’d had these moments before - Moments when we looked each other straight in the eyes and didn’t move or say a word and there was this feeling. It’s like putting opposite ends of a magnet together and they want to meet straight on, but they just can’t. They circle each other, the pressure building each time they try to move closer, until one of them snaps round and they’re in their original positions again.

He broke it first, sitting up and chattering away about something or other. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to. He walked me to my car and hugged me goodbye. As I drove away I played the scenario over and over again in my head. About ten minutes later, before I could stop myself, I picked up my phone and called him. When he answered I quickly said, “What are we?”

“What do you mean”, he replied.

“I mean...what are we? Are we just friends?”

I’d pushed out the words in a rush and they hung between us, suspended, each second like the pop pop pop of a fraying cord about to snap. They weren’t the words I’d meant to say, but they were out and there was no turning back.

Finally he said, “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes you do!” I threw it back immediately.

He paused again before stuttering out, “I mean...I like you...I...I think you’re really pretty. (pause) We’re really different.”

I had no idea what to say to that. At the time it sounded like a rejection, simply because it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. Thinking about it now I still don’t know what it was he was trying to say and I should have pushed him for a clearer answer rather than simply pausing and saying, “Ok.”

And after a few moments of silence he said, “I’ll talk to you later, ok?”

After I hung up I couldn’t stand the silence or the tangle of thoughts in my head. I popped in a random CD and out came Howie Day’s song Collide. And I cried...wailed...while it played on repeat all the way home.

Then I got angry and did something I never do – confide in my mother. She listened and petted me and though she’d always loved him and thought the sun shone out of his ass, she said, “I always knew he was gay.”

Unfortunately, weeks later I still had no idea what to think. We never talked about that conversation again. I went back to visiting the fireman several times a week. When in doubt, have sex and forget about it. There’s nothing quite like a vicious cycle.

At the beginning of the end, we went out drinking downtown with a group of friends. We were having a good time and definitely drinking more than we should. It made everything seem normal for awhile. We stood together with our arms around each other’s waists, we danced and we laughed.

There was some drama (in a college bar...imagine that) and several of us decided to leave. He and I walked arm and arm, trailed by Rachel, some lesbian girl I worked with, and my cousin.

We paused to regroup in the parking lot. One minute I was leaning up against a car in the parking lot, waiting on everyone to quit bickering and laughing long enough to get situated. And the next he was pressed up against me and we were kissing. Really, wrapped up in each other, passionately kissing. I forgot about everyone around us the moment his lips touched mine.

It ended as abruptly as it started. He turned and left, heading for his car. And in my drunken memory, I can’t recall if we said goodbye. In my drunken memory, all I have is that one shining moment that I’ve forced through sheer will to remain intact. The kiss I waited eleven years for.

The next clear memory I have is after he left. I stood in that parking lot, wide eyed, fingers pressed to my lips. My cousin was staring at me with a huge grin on her face and the lesbian coworker was slouched over on a low wall, looking exited but confused. And I said, “He kissed me.”

“I saw it”, my cousin yelled jumping up and down. She was one of the few people that knew about every detail, every moment of our complicated history and exactly how I felt about him.

Tears filled my eyes and threatened to pour down my cheeks as I whispered it over and over to myself. “He kissed me...”

For the next several days I rehashed that scene in my mind, making my cousin recount her version. Then I waited for him to call.

He didn’t. After three days I caved and called him. We talked for a few minutes and I waited for him to bring it up, but again, he didn’t. So I prodded him. I talked about that night and how crazy it was. I knew he remembered. He’d had a lot less to drink.

Nothing. He didn’t acknowledge it. And when that happened, I drew back. I thought about just coming out with it. My emotions raged from anger to hurt and back again. In the end I decided that all signs pointed to one thing: He didn’t want me. I might have beat around the bush, but I attempted to talk to him about it. He shut me down.

And too, if I came out and said the words, talked about what that moment was like for me, there was a possibility he could take it away. I wanted to keep it safe and whole and mine. It was all I had.

We stopped calling each other. We didn’t see each other. Months and months and months went by. I resigned myself to that time apart. I knew it was necessary if I was going to stop obsessing. I saw people, I did things, and I replayed the kiss in my head less and less.

One day I called him and left a message, but he never called me back. I kept trying.

A year went by and still nothing. No response to messages online or emails. Nothing. I looked for him everywhere, terrified I’d see him and heartbroken when I didn’t. Then one day, out of the blue, my godmom asked me a question.

“Why is he mad at you?”

She was good friends with his mother and the word on the street was, no, he didn’t want to talk to me. The first thought I had was, “Oh god...what did I do?”

And that was my constant thought for a very long time. I had no definitive answer. I racked my brain for months trying to figure out what it was I could have done to make him never want to speak to me again. I beat myself up for a long time about one thing or another. “Maybe it was this...maybe it was that.”

But I finally had to stop.

I’ve forgiven myself for any mistakes I might have made. That may sound silly, but it helped. I realized that I did everything in my power to make amends; even though I had no idea what I would be making amends for. And I’ve taken from our relationship some important lessons:

Never let fear stop you from telling someone you love them. Getting rejected is better than a constant internal battle – it can truly make you crazy.

Don’t accept anything less than what you deserve. If you want it all, you should have it all. If they can’t give it to you, move on.

You can’t will love to go away and you can’t will someone to return it. But you can heal.

And, of course, never ever eat chicken on a stick if you plan on seducing someone.

Part One: Does he love her? We’re not sure yet, but there’s definitely something wrong with that chicken.

I finally stopped looking for him in crowded places – malls, bars, restaurants, parties. It feels good to relax, to not see his face on a random passerby and suffer those few moments of terror and anticipation, inevitably followed by disappointment. And I finally stopped rehearsing what I’d say or what I’d do should we ever end up in the same place at the same time. Letting him go wasn’t the hard part. Forgiving myself for transgressions he never once named was the most difficult.


I was nuts about him from the moment we met. He was the most beautiful geek I’d ever seen – black hair, blue eyes, and a smile so bright it hurts my eyes just to remember it. He was quiet, well mannered, driven – the perfect Christian boy and every mother’s dream. Somehow, despite our vast differences, we became friends...and that initial attraction I felt was pushed to the back burner. I knew he would never return my feelings, so I took what I could get.

Throughout my high school years he was the one constant theme. We went to the movies and bowling, we hung out at “the parking lot” with all the other kids, and he spent more time at my house in the summer than most of my girlfriends did. He was there, playing with my sister while I got ready for a military ball or cross legged beside me on my bedroom floor, mucking out desk drawers.

But things changed during my senior year. He was serious about a girl. Not just any girl, but a girl like him – beautiful, insanely smart, soft spoken, and religious. She lived an hour and a half away and he would drive his motorcycle there on weekends. While he was gone I spiraled out of control. I don’t blame his absence for my bad behavior, but I know I was a better person when I was with him.

We grew apart. One year of sporadic phone calls and random run-ins turned into another year in which we completely lost touch. I was moving all over the place, partying it up, and he was in college and from what I heard from mutual sources, still with that girl.

Then FLASH BANG everything changed again. I became a mom and moved back home.

I well remember the day we reconnected, though I can’t remember who called who or how it came to be. It was a beautiful June afternoon and there he was standing at my door, looking exactly the same - Messy black hair, slouchy frame, awful shoes, and a huge grin. No one I knew gave hugs like him. He would squeeze so tightly that you’d beg him to let go. That day I squeezed back just as hard.

We spent the afternoon walking down old back roads, catching up and reminiscing. He was newly single, he said, because she wanted to experience other people. I was angry at her for hurting him, but there was a part of me that was jumping up and down and fist pumping the air. After all that time apart, all it took was one afternoon. One afternoon and I was consumed with thoughts of winning him over.

I still had some feelings of inadequacy. How could I not? An unwed mother back at home with a penchant for trouble, compared to a man on the fast track in the real estate world. The main difference was that I had new confidence in my appearance. And, like so many women that use sex appeal to get what they want, I had developed an ego that needed constant feeding.

We became even closer than we’d been before. We slept in each other’s beds and cooked dinner together. I helped him work on the house he bought and he went to the zoo with me and my daughter. He lay with his head in my lap when we watched movies and read sex articles in magazines out loud to make me laugh. We did everything together, except what I wanted. He never once tried a thing.

Underneath the best friend role I was playing, I was dying to really touch him. I did everything I could think of to tip his hand, to make him do something. For the life of me, I just could not come out and say, “I’m in love with you. I want you. For the love of gawd, can we have sex already!?”

Beneath the messy hair and sweatpants of his seemingly relaxed best friend, the legs (etc) were always shaved and the underwear was always lacy. I was determined that when he decided to pull his head out of his ass, I’d be ready. Every flirtatious word he said, every intimate gesture he made I saved in my head and filed under “He loves me”. Likewise, anything that gave me pause was filed under “He loves me not”. Half of the time I was positive that he wanted me and the other half I was convinced I wasn’t good enough for him and he knew it. But his shyness with the opposite sex was legendary, and I clung to that too. It kept me from tipping the scales in one direction or another.

To an outsider we looked like a couple. People questioned me about our relationship incessantly, especially my own family. The only answer I had for them was, “I don’t know”. And I didn’t.

I didn’t know how we could curl up next to each other on the couch, his hand caressing my calf when he thought I was sleeping. I didn’t know how we could drive two hours to Charleston and spend an entire day browsing the market, laughing over lunch, and strolling along the battery at sunset. I didn’t know how he could look me in the eyes and not realize that I was crazy about him, that the childhood crush and years of friendship had turned into something much, much deeper.

I needed him to be the man and make the move, but it just wasn’t happening. So when my friend invited me to go to an outdoor music festival in Florida with her and her boyfriend, and suggested that I bring him along and seduce him, I agreed. After all, what could be more romantic than a hippie festival in the woods? We could listen to the music, get drunk by the campfire, and keep each other warm in the tent at night.

I was too busy with my fantasies of fireside confessions of love and erotic tent sex to really think about what I was agreeing to do.

Go camping.

I’d never been camping in my life, and for good reason. I didn’t do dirt, I didn’t do bugs, and I most definitely didn’t do using the bathroom in the woods.

He agreed to go, of course. He loved camping and anything outdoorsy. Yet another of our many differences.

He couldn’t make it down the first night because of work and would have to drive down alone the following day. I used my time alone with my friends to pump them for thoughts and suggestions. These particular two had never met him before and I was anxious for their take on the situation.

We arrived in Florida, stoned and in good spirits. Everywhere we looked there were hippies in long skirts and bikini tops and plumes of smoke filling the air at intervals throughout the crowd. We bought our tickets, drove past the crowded campsite areas, and chose a spot my friends were familiar with from the previous year. It was far enough from the main area to seem remote, but still close enough to be involved.

It was blisteringly hot and I was suddenly horrified by the realization that I was going to have to pitch a tent. Work, in any capacity, was not something I relished at that point, while the sweat dripped down my back and makeup began a steady slide down my face.

That first afternoon and evening without him was filled with several more daunting realizations.

Most worrisome, the communal showers and bathroom were over a mile away from our campsite. The distance didn’t bother me as much as the word “communal”. I kept picturing a row of showerheads pointed at a row of hairy, natural women that were feeling the “free love”, outdoor concert vibe. And nothing about the description of the facilities suggested there would be any place to plug up my hair dryer or apply my makeup comfortably. My girlfriend insisted that she’d tried to warn me that my idea of camping and their idea of camping were about as similar as the Ritz Carlton and a Motel 6.

Then after the area was cleared, tents pitched, and fire set up, it was discovered that when advising me on what camping gear I’d need, no one mentioned an air mattress. I never, in a million years, would have thought to bring one. So that night while I huddled, freezing, in the center of my tent with only a sleeping bag, pillow, and small blanket, my friends were living it up next door on their queen sized air mattress. Roughing it indeed, the bastards.

Food was another thing I apparently never thought about. I wasn’t too keen on putting a hotdog on a stick some creature might have defecated on at some point. Nor was I excited about the vast array of chips that, with words like vinegar and BBQ, spelled out “toothbrush” rather than “kiss me, you fool”.

Still, reclining in a chair with my feet propped up by the fire and gazing at the stars through trees dripping with Spanish moss, I had a bit of hope left. Being stoned the majority of the time also helped keep my anxiety level lower than it would have been otherwise.

The next day we made a few rounds of the fields, checking out the different bands. The Allman Brothers Band, The Derek Trucks Band, Susan Tedeschi, Sister Hazel, Nickel Creek, Gov’t Mule, and a lot of others were there that year. I was a newly converted fan of that genre of music and seeing it live, in such a beautiful, open area was amazing.

That afternoon, when he showed up, I was definitely feeling the love. I was nowhere near the point of growing out my leg hair or sucking on a communal bong in the back of a van, but I was having a good time. And, as it turned out, there were curtains to separate the shower area and I’d made use of them twice. My friends found my obsessive showering and my horror over lack of makeup hilarious. It was too hot during the day to put it on; it would just slide right off. And the nights were very cool, but putting it on by firelight or flashlight wasn’t a good idea. Not that I tried that...

After introductions were made and lunch was eaten, the real fun began. He joined in the drinking and smoking without batting an eye, which surprised me. He didn’t normally do either.

By the time night fell, we were lounging on towels in a field and listening to a band. His legs were stretched out next to mine and I leaned into him, watching the lights flash onstage. I was relaxed and comfortable and I thought to myself, “tonight”.

As we left the field we passed rows of food vendors and t-shirt booths. There was a sort of Chinese teriyaki stand that everyone wanted to try. We got “chicken on sticks” all around and happily munched them on the way back to camp.

That night we got drunk and played a game where one person would take a long stick and put one end on the ground and the other to their forehead. Then they would spin around and around until they couldn’t spin anymore and attempt to walk without falling into the fire or breaking a limb. Part of the clearing was made of thick sand that seemed to make every move more labored and we tired of that quickly, pulling up our chairs around the fire. Before long the conversation died out and one by one we retired to our tents. My friends went first and he suggested I go ahead of him if I wanted to change.

I made quite the drunken production of stripping of my clothes, knowing the light from the fire on the tent would show my silhouette. I had no way of knowing if he was even looking, but I wasn’t willing to cut corners. When I had my sleep shorts and t-shirt on, I poked my head out and told him he could come in.

He’d brought extra blankets at my request, but it was still rough lying on the ground. We lay close, but not touching and I thought about what I would do. Now that the time was here, I wasn’t sure if I should just reach for him or speak. I thought I had it all figured out this time, but I was rigid with nerves.

How long this internal battle went on, I couldn’t say, but the moment of decision was suddenly upon me. I whispered his name, and then said it a bit louder when he didn’t answer. While I’d been agonizing and debating, he’d fallen asleep.

As I half sat up and stretched my hand toward his face, intent on waking him, a sharp pain tore through my body and I doubled over. My stomach began cramping so badly that each wave of pain stole my breath. I lay down, rolled away, and curled into a ball, willing it to stop with my silent mantra. “No, no, no, no, no.”

But it didn’t. I’d only have a minute or two of relief before the next cramp arrived. By that time I knew what I would have to do, but I was fighting it anyway. I only succeeded a few minutes more before I vaulted up and out of the tent, slipped my feet into the first pair of shoes I saw, grabbed a lantern and a roll of toilet paper, and took off running into the woods.

It’s safe to say that during that painful sprint into the dark Florida wilderness, seduction was the last thing on my mind.

To be continued...