Chapter 2 | Entry Thirteen

"Hope is a strange thing, it makes you believe that this time will be different, even when the script feels familiar."

We met at the country club.

He suggested it, said he's a member, that the patio overlooking the golf course is beautiful at sunset. And he was right. The light was golden and soft, spilling across the perfectly manicured greens, and the air smelled like fresh-cut grass and expensive cologne.

He was already there when I arrived, sitting at a table near the edge of the patio, watching the golfers finish their rounds. He stood when he saw me, smiled that warm smile.

We ordered drinks. He got bourbon, neat. I got a glass of white wine because it felt right for the setting, the moment.

And then we talked.

Really talked.

He told me about how he often visits his family’s ranch in Colorado, how he cares for the animals, tending the fences, and making sure his parents are cared for as they age. He talked about time. About presence. About what it means to actually be alive instead of just moving through life.

"He told me that most people are ghosts," he said, leaning forward, his eyes bright with the memory. "That we're so busy thinking about what's next or what we missed that we're never actually here."

I felt something open in my chest.

Because this…this…was the kind of conversation I've been starving for.

He talked about spirituality without pretension. About moments that cracked him open. About the way he sometimes feels like he's living two lives, the one everyone sees, and the one he's still trying to figure out how to inhabit fully.

And I met him there.

I told him about the night I realized I'd been performing my whole life. About the loneliness of being desired but not known. About how I'm learning to stay whole even when it's uncomfortable.

He listened. Really listened.

The sun set. The lights on the patio came on. We ordered another round.

And I felt hope.

Real hope.

Because he wasn't just charming or sweet or easy to be around. He was deep. He could go to the places I need someone to go.

When we left, he walked me to my car, kissed me on the cheek, and said, "I'm really glad we did this."

Me too, I thought. Me too.

But then the texts started.

Short. Surface. Almost... empty.

Hey, how's your day?

Thinking about you.

What are you up to?

Nothing wrong with them, exactly. But nothing there, either.

I'd respond with something real, something about what I was working on, or a thought I'd been sitting with, and he'd reply with an emoji or a one-liner that didn't engage with anything I'd said.

When I called him a few days later, hoping to recapture that depth we'd found on the patio, he seemed distracted. Forgetful. He didn't remember the story I'd told him about my childhood, the one that mattered. He asked me the same question twice in ten minutes.

And I felt it, that sinking feeling.

The realization that maybe he can touch depth, but he can't stay there.

That maybe the country club patio, the sunset, the bourbon, maybe that was the context he needed to access the part of himself that's capable of real connection. But outside of that, in the mundane, daily rhythm of getting to know someone, he goes shallow.

Or maybe he just doesn't know how to maintain it.

Or maybe he doesn't want to.

I don't know yet.

But I know this feeling.

The confusion of seeing someone be capable of something beautiful, and then watching them choose not to sustain it.

The exhaustion of hoping that the depth you glimpsed is the truth, and the surface is just a phase.

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he just needs time to learn how to bring that version of himself into the everyday. Maybe I'm being impatient.

But I've been here before.

And I'm tired of making excuses for men who can be deep when it's convenient but can't stay present when it's not.

—Still hoping I'm wrong