He was here. I'm okay. I think.

He texted me.

M: r u home?

me: yes.

M:can I drop by?

add nearly a 10 minute pause, but since he still has a few of my things, I thought perhaps, he was looking to drop them by. Something I'd prefer that Fox didn't see.

me: sure.

FYI? I hardly ever use the expression: sure. It's so nebulous, neither a resounding yes, I'd love to see you, or no, now's not a good time - somewhere in the middle that requires me to apply the appropriate motivation. I suck at that. I'm much better with either yes, or no. However, in this situation? I finally get what sure means: sure, you may come by (first, let's correct your grammer) but be prepared, I'm not entirely sure how I'll feel. About seeing you. Or you in general. Or you in the abstract. Or really, what might come out of my mouth.

M: 5 min

me: fuck. The house is trashed, (not Clean House kind of trashed, but I wasn't expecting company, clearly). I did what any self respecting woman would do - opened up the bedroom door (which he is SO NOT EVER SEEING AGAIN) shoving everything inside. I'd already swapped my Big Girl clothes for sweats, and some After 5's, my hair, all squashed from the hat I wore when walking Pucker Up; I waited to care, about how I looked, no make up, something - and found nothing. Just my usual cocktail of fear, nerves, anticipation, and totally suppressed longing to see him. In the flesh. In my house. Up close.

He hadn't known I'd cut my hair.

Or how little I've gotten.

He arrived. I drank him in, the scent of him, that unique scent of just him, not soap, or cologne; how he looked in that camel coat, the scarf I gave him absent, as it went with the black coat. I had that thought about maybe he chooses not to wear it at all - only he's in brown shoes. He's always so well dressed. I wasn't prepared for him touching me. He hugged me. Tucked my freezing hands under his jackets, and held on - like he should've done when I needed him most - only yesterday? I don't think I realized just how much I still needed to know. The good stuff.

M: I've not forgotten you. I still care. I still struggle with myself; you know me better than anyone. I can't be what you need me to be. But, I'm your friend. I want to be your friend. You cut you're hair; it suits you. I love it.

me: I don't trust you. Not to disappear, like you did, when I needed you, you asked me to trust you, you'd be there, never give up on me - and you did! I love my hair too.

He won't let go. Kind of wondered if I was yelling in his ear, but apparently, the roaring only went on in my head....he won't let anyone hurt me. Um, hello? No one could hurt me more than you did.

M: I didn't know how it would be; I....didn't.....know.

me: that's how the whole thing was for me. I didn't know.

M: I miss you. (my nod, apparently, not convincing - or too convincing) I miss you, and I'm so sorry that I'm a part of this whole thing. But. I want to be your friend, hug you when you need it.

me: then you prove it. You call. You text. Ask me to the movies, or walk the dogs; tell me about your life, not just to get on with mine. That's what friends do, you know.

Walked him to the door, (damn manners die hard) caught in another hug, that I didn't want, and didn't want to break - yes, I hurt less, knowing he misses me, that he's got this struggle still, between his head and his heart - not a lot less though. But, he remembered me. I was worth remembering.

I can feel his heart beating, fast, finally looked him in the eyes. Neither one of us breathed.

Jesus. I miss him.

Only this time, when the door closed, his scent lingering on the damp, chill air, I didn't fall apart.

It's a step, right?