Page 22 of Choosing the right Man

“Coming home is always medicine for the soul,” he assures me.

He’s absolutely correct. I know it won’t matter how old I get. Whenever I’m with my dad I feel like a little girl again, needing his protection. I truly am blessed that I can still come to him.

“Don’t ever leave me, Dad,” I say, suddenly feeling panic at the thought of not having him in my life.

He chuckles, then speaks softly. “There will come a time I’ll have to take a journey into whatever is next in life,” he warns. More tears slip down my cheeks. “But I promise you that I won’t ever leave you. I promise I’ll always be here, and even if you can’t see me, you can always talk to me.” I’m too choked up to say anything for a very long time.

“I’m going to stay for a while today.” I can’t pull myself away, don’t want to leave the safety and magic that surrounds my father.

“You can stay as long as you like. There’s no one else I’d rather be with and nowhere else I want to be,” he tells me. I love that he means this. I don’t realize until this moment that our years are already slipping away...

My trip to see my father has eased much of the grief within me. Of course it has. Coming home is the easiest thing to do. Mydad makes the world a better place even if I sometimes forget this when I don’t see him for a while.

On the way back to Portland, I try calling Paul a couple of times, but he doesn’t answer. I assure myself it’s because he’s busy. But how hard is it to answer a phone? How busy can a person be?

I arrive home just before seven. This gives me plenty of time to spend an evening with Paul. I walk in the door, disappointed when I find the house empty.

I wander the rooms of a home I’d once loved so much. There’s now an emptiness in me, though, that I can’t explain. I look at the house through new eyes. None of it feels like mine. I don’t feel joy as I stop in front of a shelf that holds random knickknacks. The only thing in the home that gives me any joy, it seems, is my coveted artwork that hangs on the walls.

I pick up a glass figurine and study it. Why do I have this stuff? There’s so much clutter, so many things that don’t matter. I turn, seeing the decorations, the furniture, the colors, the... mayhem. What have I chosen in this place? What makes any of it feel like mine? Nothing but the art matters.

It’s frightening to realize I can easily walk away from everything without a care. I’m not connected to it — to any of it. Maybe my dad was right all along. Maybe the material things we hold so dear truly don’t matter.

I’ve worked since I was young, and I’ve always appreciated having a job. Earning a paycheck gives me a sense of freedom I didn’t have as a child.

I like being in a committed relationship. I’ve built a life with Paul, and when we moved to Portland together, I thought that meant forever. What I’ve come to realize over the years is when we say I love you to a partner and vow to stay together forever, we mean those words. We give our heart to that person — butsometimes life gets in the way. Sometimes people get in the way. Sometimes love fades.

I’m not sure if or when Paul stopped loving me. Maybe we stopped loving each other. I’m unsure if it’s a mutual thing, or if we’ve simply grew apart. I honestly don’t think our relationship is fixable at this point.

I slowly walk into our bedroom and run my hand along the bed we’ve shared for many years. I have no idea where he is. I could try calling him again, but he hasn’t answered all day. I shake my head. I don’t know that I want to know what it means. I do know I can’t stand around and dwell on it. This never fixes anything. I need to get busy before I start my shift at work on Tuesday.

First and foremost, I need to get laundry done. I unload my bag and carry the basket into the laundry room. I find Paul’s shirt at the bottom of the basket. An unfamiliar scent makes me pause. I hold his shirt over the washer, unable to drop it in. I stand with it clutched in my fingers for a long moment. Then I hold it out, examining it. I bring it to my face and inhale.

I can smell his sweet, spicy scent. But I can also smell perfume. It isn’t mine. I walk with it into the bathroom I share with my boyfriend and smell each bottle of perfume I have lined up on a shelf, then smell his shirt. It definitely isn’t my perfume. Does this mean anything? Do I want it to so I can forgive myself for what happened?

I feel numb right now. Just as I wanted the decision taken out of my hands when Mason was pulling me close to him, maybe that’s what I want here as well. Maybe I want Paul to be the cheater so I can be free. I don’t seem to know anything anymore.

I turn back toward the laundry room, toss his shirt into the washer, then move about the rest of the house and do what needs to be done. I’m not sure what’s going to happen with my relationship. I know something’s coming. It might change therest of my life. Maybe in the end, a change is what we both need. Maybe we’ve been standing still for too time, and it takes a storm to push us out of our comfort zones.

Neither of us are evil people. We’re simply human with complicated feelings and emotions. We make mistakes. Does this mean either of us should be damned? No. What does it mean then? That, I honestly don’t know.

Sunday comes and goes with nothing from Paul. I start to worry more.

When Monday hits, some holiday I never think about until it means a day off, I try to keep myself busy. I clean the house from top to bottom, run through the neighborhood, take a long bath. I’m settling in for another lonely night when I hear the front door open.

I walk to the entry to see a very tired Paul stepping inside. He gives me a half smile as he tosses his bag on the floor.

“How was your weekend?” he asks.

“How was my weekend?” I ask with incredulity.

His smile fades as he stares at me in confusion. “Are you upset with me about something?” This seems like a foreign concept to him.

“You disappear all weekend, then ask me if I’m upset with you?”

“I had a work conference that’s been planned for months. You knew about this,” he tells me. He moves to the fridge and grabs a beer, looking irritated at needing to have this discussion with me.

“You didn’t tell me about a work conference,” I tell him.

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