hello, my name is...

“I have to think about it.”

I stared at him and kept my mouth shut. I thought, “Maybe he means he has to think about what he wants to say to me right now. He wants to really get it right and so he’s taking time to think about it.”

Silence.

I kept staring at him and kept keeping my mouth shut, though my eyes were slowly narrowing and my lips sucking themselves right back into my mouth to keep myself from talking. I thought, “Okay! He’s still thinking. That’s fine. I am a human who is full of patience and understanding. I am not annoyed or sad, but I am actually glad he’s taking the time to really think about his response to my question.”

Silence, still.

The question I asked wasn’t, “What’s your favorite song in Hamilton?” or “What should we cook for dinner tonight?” or “What are your thoughts about aliens or God or the concept of mass incarceration?” These are the questions you’d need some time to think about. 

The actual question I asked doesn’t matter that much. It may have been, “What is this relationship for you?” or “Are you willing to show up for me?” or “Do you care about me?” I had asked all of those and then a few more vulnerable ones. His answers were all something similar:

“I don’t know.”
“I’m not sure what you want me to say.”
“I have to think about it.”

Regardless of the wording of the question, those are not quite the words you expect to hear from a human with whom you have any sort of romantic relationship. Or any meaningful relationship, for that matter — friendship, coworker, or otherwise.

First: What?! Second: Ouch.

While there is not a one-size-fits-all, step-by-step guide, Merriam-Webster definition of love, or dating, or relationships, I sense that there are at least a few shared truths that we hold as important. We want someone who we like spending time with and who likes spending time with us, too. We want someone to talk and listen to and who will listen to us, too. Someone who makes our lives better than they were without them, whatever our definitions of “better” may be. We want someone we can show up for, and someone who shows up for us. We want someone who is steady in how they feel about us, is clear about much they care for us, and someone who takes in all the complicated parts of us, the good and the bad and the weird, and responds accordingly.

We want to be seen.

I have an embroidered patch on the whiteboard above my desk. It looks like one of those name tags you get at a networking event:

Steph sent me a digital mock-up of this patch last August, during a moment when I was at my wit’s (wits’?) end. Later, in a ridiculous, sleep-deprived, lightning-speed text message thread, we dreamed up a life where one day, when we’re roommates in a nursing home, we’ll wear matching denim jackets with hundreds of matching, embroidered patches. Patches that represent our friendship, our lives, and the cores of who we are. This patch would be our first, capturing so many of those complicated parts of us.

So I bought a real-life version of that patch for Steph and then bought one for myself, too. We said that we should wear these words as a name tag every day so that anyone who encountered us would know who we were, and would be invited to respond accordingly.

Hello, I know who I am in my body and my soul (and I hope you see that knowing, too). Hello, I am not only comfortable with feelings but I’m going to TALK about them (and I hope you’re willing to, too). Hello, I drink a dangerous amount of coffee each morning and yet I am level-headed and can get shit done and am calm in a crisis (and I hope you recognize my contributions, too). Hello, I know my worth (and you should recognize my worth, too).

Hello. This is who I am. See me, or I’ll see you riiiiight out the door.

Because when someone sees you, they don’t need time to think about things like if they want to text back or make time to see you or how they feel.

And the people we invite into our sacred lives -- the family we stay connected to, the friends who become our chosen family, and especially the people we invite into our calendars and beds and hearts -- they need to see us. Every single one of us deserves that from the people we hold near to us.

He and I were talking through a screen when he couldn’t answer my questions. I was at my desk, looked up at my whiteboard, and saw that name tag in my line of vision. Bright red, staring me down, nudging me to come back to myself. And I thought, “He doesn’t see me. He doesn’t know who I am. And it seems that he doesn’t want to try. So why am I?”

I took a deep breath. And I told him that no, actually, he didn’t need to think about it. That in itself was an answer. And I wasn’t willing to wait for someone who didn’t know, on a gut-level reaction, that they wanted me. 

And while I’d like to say it felt immediately empowering to realize and name that, I hung up and cried -- the shoulder-shaking, are-these-tears-or-is-this-snot? kind of crying. Just sobbed into my lap for a good 10 minutes because -- despite what I knew deep in my core about worthiness and despite looking up and whispering to myself, “Hello, my name is Sexy Empowered Emotionally Mature Caffeinated Calm Woman!!!” -- it hurts when someone you’ve opened yourself up to, who you want to see you, is unwilling or unable to do that.

Even if it breaks our hearts and makes us cry or scream, we must walk away from those who do not see us, and those who aren’t willing to try. Even if we’re tempted to, instead, change ourselves because maybe that version will be seen -- to dye our hair or to not ask the question or to pretend we like the things they like that we actually do not like  -- we have to leave. We have to cancel the happy hour or skip the holiday gathering, have the breakup conversation or another hard one, put distance between them and us, or -- in this case -- hang up for the last time. 

I got out of my chair and went to get a Kleenex to sop up the tear-snot. I looked in the mirror and, despite the blotchy face and hazy eyes and achy heart, saw myself. That hurt, yes, but I looked in my own eyes and knew it would hurt even more to have kept going on like nothing was wrong. To keep going without being seen.

And then what? What do we do in the wake of not being seen?

We find those who do see us. We must hold on tightly to those who really, truly see our whole selves, who are willing to sit in the muck of life with us as we navigate our own, forever-changing versions of “Hello, my name is…” The ones we call in the aftermath of a conversation like this, who can grieve with us in the pain and celebrate with us for trusting our knowing, our worth.

They are the moms and sisters and best friends and maybe even the lovers, the mentors and bosses and sometimes even the unexpected ones (the baristas or the writers or the long-lost-loves who show up again, years later). They are the ones who want to bear witness to all the complicated, wonderful, raw parts of us. They tell us that they do, and they show up.

And they don’t have to think about it. Not for one second.

this is a story.

This is a story of the closest thing I’ve had to love-at-first-sight paired with the biggest heartbreak I’ve yet to know. The feelings are years old now; I wrote most of this in late 2016, when the breakup was raw but my memory was clear. I added a few things in early 2017, after time had passed and I saw Hamilton and my feelings morphed from anguish to acceptance. This story is years old, though I’ve returned to it a few times each year, wondering if this was the time to finally hit “Publish.”

And now is the time. Not because of any anniversary or revelation or resurfacing feelings, but because these words do no good sitting with the other 21 drafts I have in my “Writing” folder. Though these feelings and this story are old, they were mine. Are mine, still. And putting them into the world is a reminder — to me and to you — that there is no shame in loving hard, hurting deeply, and the work it takes to pick yourself up from that. I reread this story and see — I can feel — who I was that summer, that season of love and heartbreak, that October night when I wrote most of this.

Maybe you will find a piece of yourself in these words, too.

//

I walked into my apartment after work and it felt void of him. The lights were off and it was already dark outside; I worked well past five-’o-clock to avoid this exact moment. The floor was clean; I power cleaned last night, when I’m stressed or sad or need something I can control. It was as if, through last night’s fervid vacuuming and dusting, I could will any trace of him from this place.

He was the first guest in my home. He came to visit two weeks after I moved in, ten days after I started a new job.

“Is that going to be okay?” he asked, cautious and careful of providing space, allowing time to settle and be alone. 

“Of course,” I replied. “I want you here. I want you to be a part of this.”

He was the first to see my color-coordinated books on their shelves. He crouched over to read all of their spines before taking off his jacket, turning back to me to ask when I had gotten this one, how I had liked that one. He raised an eyebrow when he saw I owned “My Struggle” by Karl Ove Knausgaard, found the spine of “Becoming Wise,” the book we had both been reading when we met. His one carry-on bag for the weekend, which I’d learn was typical of his minimalism-except-books lifestyle, was the first thing to sit in my mustard chair, spilling open with the four books he brought for the plane.

He was the first to sleep in my bed; it had been delivered just hours before he arrived, which was not the plan. It should have arrived a week or so before, but a mix-up with the IKEA order and the IKEA delivery company brought it to my apartment during my lunch hour on the day of his arrival. I scrambled to put on sheets and a comforter, pretending like I had not been sleeping on a makeshift bed on the floor for two weeks. He crawled into this new bed even before I did, while I was washing my face at the sink and feeling self-conscious about my choice of sleeping attire, and my whole life he was witnessing.

We hadn’t seen each other since the beginning of June, and even then we hadn’t spent more than 80-some hours together. We had been far from our homes, across the country for a conference unrelated to our day jobs. We were pulled together in a sterile, fluorescent-lit classroom by an icebreaker, a meet-and-greet game where everyone in the room stands up, the facilitator asks a question, and you travel to either side of the room based on your answer. This side for Coca Cola, the other side for Pepsi. This side for waking up early, the other for staying up late.

The third or fourth question was, “Are you planning to go to seminary?”; this side for yes, that side for no.

Our answers led us to the middle of the room. We found ourselves in a circle with two other faces I will never remember because I only saw him. 

“I’m not sure,” I said. 

“Me neither,” he said. “Maybe.” 

I talked about why, he talked about why, and I tried to remember the last time I made such prolonged eye contact with someone. The next question was asked. I don’t remember it, but I know we moved to opposite sides of the room. 

But we were pulled together again and again. We were signed up for the same breakout sessions. We ended up in the same small group for discussion. We sat near each other during presentations and meals and – finally, on the last night of the conference – at a bar with the rest of our newly-made friends.

We walked there together, slightly behind everyone else, talking and asking questions and digging deeper into who the other was. He wrote; I did, too, but not with as much discipline as him. I went to school in the Midwest; so had he. We cared about books and coffee and our families, had a complicated relationship with the church and God, and searched for (and usually found) meaning everywhere and in everything.

We arrived at the bar. A drag queen was singing “Don’t Stop Believin’” and we took shots of whiskey. We danced to Whitney Houston and drank gins. We danced to every song in a circle with our larger group until, finally, we found each other face-to-face. The music was still blaring, the drag queens singing another song, but it went silent for me as we left the bar so we could talk without the strobe lights. We found a bench and talked for almost four hours. We kissed a bit, too, but mostly talked and talked and talked until it was five-’o-clock in the morning and breakfast was at 7:30. I snuck back to my hotel room, my conference roommate peacefully asleep, and willed myself to obey the drag queen’s lyrics as I tried to fall asleep: Hold on to that feeling...

We sat next to each other at the final session the next morning. I remember nothing of what was said, but I remember when our knees moved from three inches to one inch away from each others’. He bought me a coffee before we left for the airport and asked if he could write to me, if we could stay in touch through letters. We did. He sent me letters and poems and his favorite book. I wrote back.

He came to visit.

He quickly became a home for me, for my heart and soul after weary days. I loved him so quickly, so deeply, so fully. That’s how love happens sometimes. It sneaks up on you and hits you over the head with the best kind of frying pan — but one that spits out cartoon hearts and unicorns and, instead of giving you a bump on the head, fills it with the reality of your love for this other being and their love for you. His was the conversation I looked forward to each night. Our trips to see each other were the highlight of each month. It was the kind of love that felt like home, that made me want to stay in each present moment because it was so, so good, but that also made me want to fast forward to see where it would lead us.

But sometimes, a different kind of frying pan sneaks up on you -- heartbreak. We did not last past fall, after secrets surfaced and I learned new truths and had to come to terms with a different reality of our time together. We broke up over the phone; he offered to fly to me, to work on this in person, but I went dancing with friends instead. I had a plane ticket to visit him booked for later that month, purchased the day before but already past the 24-hour refund deadline. I went anyway, saw Hamilton, visited friends, and didn’t reach out to see him.

I will see him in my kitchen, standing at my counter and making a pour over for me; standing at my bookshelf, quietly brushing over each title; reading in my bed, lying on “his” side. He was here, had been here, and will always be a part of this time of my life, this home. But, slowly by slowly, I’ve been removing the traces of him: the photo of us taken at the bar pulled off the wall; the postcard he sent from a trip removed from the nightstand; the last of the coffee he brought for me gone. Those memories and traces have been pulled into a folder and tucked away in a corner of a closet.

And tonight, with the lights off and the quiet and few traces left of him, I could catch a glimpse of how this could be okay. How I will be okay, how my home will be my home, even without him. After I turned the lights on, and the reality reemerged – he is not here – I whispered:

But I still am.

solo friday nights.

I’m sitting at my favorite tea shop, alone, on a Friday night. This is a regular occurrence. Not the tea shop part, but the alone part. Sometimes it’s a coffee shop, sometimes it’s my bedroom (more specifically, my bed), but I’ve been flying solo on Fridays recently. The quiet of a Friday night, even though I’m usually only awake for five hours post-work and pre-sleep, seems to balance out the loud 40+ hours of Monday morning through Friday afternoon. 

Tonight’s been a wild one so far: I combined my leftover dinner from Wednesday and my leftover salad from today’s lunch to make a pseudo-dinner at 4:45 pm. I thought about Instagramming, but didn’t know how to write about my happiness for the following things in one eloquent caption: children’s spelling bees, Jess returning to the Gilmore Girls revival, and finally learning to drink my coffee black. I laid in bed and read for an hour or so before I thought, “Let’s take this party elsewhere."

So I threw on a sweater/scarf/red lipstick/glasses/flip-flops combination (which is, by far, the perfect Friday night outfit) and walked to my neighborhood’s tea shop. I ordered herbal tea, found a spot in the corner, sent some work emails, and wrote some prayers for my church for our Lenten liturgy. I know, I know, it’s been wild! The barista has only asked me to quiet down three times so far.

But, as I cracked open my laptop and journal, I got distracted. Because there’s a man and a woman sitting across from me, and I’m pretty sure they’re on their first date.

They’re doing all the first date-y things, the very things I do when I go on first dates. They’re sitting across from each other, not side-by-side. They’re both sitting up straight, straighter than I do even on my best, most posture-aware days. They’re leaning in ever-so-slightly, alternating between making intense and almost-zero eye contact. Their heads nod and their laughter seems to be free-flowing.

I can’t be 100% sure of their status, of course. They were here before I arrived, so I didn’t get to see if one arrived before the other and waited by the door, eyes glued to his or her phone, simultaneously hoping that the other would walk through the door any minute or call to cancel. And I have headphones in, so I haven’t heard murmurings of “…our first date…” or “…so what do you do for a living?...” in their conversation. But, based on my observations from seven feet away, this is a first date.

Fast forward an hour or so, and they just hugged goodbye and walked out together, but since I’m facing the inside of the tea shop and not the window, I’ll never know if they went to the same car, or parted ways at the door after an awkward side-hug, or made out in a dark alleyway before heading home together. Maybe, from their table and their eyes, their date was a dead-end and they won’t see each other after tonight. Maybe it was a one-and-done kind of thing, and even though they laughed and smiled and had a nice-enough time, there wasn’t a spark. Nothing to keep them there any longer than what’s polite for a first date, and certainly nothing to – at least immediately – text their friends about.

But maybe – just maybe – their date will lead to another, and another, and they’ll eventually realize that they want to keep doing these dates for the rest of their lives. Maybe they’ll want to have a little party, and invite all their family and friends, to mark the importance of choosing to do these dates together, for the rest of their lives. They’ll dance and cry and laugh in a courthouse or in a church or in a barn, and they’ll recall that time they sat in Townshend’s Tea for two hours, smiling and laughing, and try to remember what they talked about, or what kind of tea they shared, and what made them say yes to Date #2.

And – you have to know where I’m going with this – they’ll live happily ever after.

//

I started writing this and wanted to turn it into something about how you never know when you’ll be in the background of people’s big moments – witnessing a couple’s first date, sitting next to someone on the bus who just got news that she’s an aunt, smiling at someone at the grocery store whose kid just got a full-ride to college. I wanted to write something about how those moments are happening all the time and even though we might not know it, we’re a part of them and that’s so wild and beautiful and full-circle. That would have fit so well for a post on this lovey-dovey, mushy-gushy holiday.

But the reason I’m actually writing about this is less about their couple-ness, their maybe-first date, their made-up love story, and more about my single-ness. I wanted to write about this because of where this all started: a solo Friday night. I wanted to write about this because of where it will be on Sunday: a solo Valentine’s Day.

This will be my fourth Valentine’s Day where I haven’t had a special someone, in the way society defines that phrase. (Which, by the way, is bullshit. I can think of at least 23 special someones in my life.) I’ve had a few go-arounds at being single on this day, so it doesn’t catch me off-guard or feel that lonely anymore. This year, I’ll spend most of my day channeling Tom and Donna from Parks & Recreation and treating myself to writing, dinner, and a massage. I’ve learned how to respond to the “Are you seeing anyone?” or the “So, anyone special in your life these days?” questions. And I’ve learned how to exist – both on Valentine’s Days and on Friday nights – in solitude. Slowly and patiently and sometimes painstakingly, I’ve learned to enjoy it. Sometimes.

I don’t believe anyone is qualified to make blanket statements about how they always love being single – or, conversely, always love being in a relationship. We’re human. We have emotions and shifting needs. Somedays I can think of nothing better than to lay in my bed, by myself, as I watch Jim and Pam fall in love on The Office. The next day, the same scenario makes me want to curl into a ball, realizing that I’m far, far away from a Jim and Pam-esque love story of my own. There are days when being single just sucks, just as there are days when being in a relationship just sucks. That is life: we flip-flop from being 100% happy and 100% discontent with where we’re at. Sometimes that flip-flop happens within days or minutes or at the same time.

So seeing those two on such a fun date — sitting across from one another, laughing in that nervous “Gosh, I think you’re cute!” or “Please don’t think my laugh is weird!” way — reminded me of that. I was happy for their happiness, as much as I can be happy for total strangers. But I was also a little sad. And a little frustrated in the general direction of the universe and its response to my brief attempts at Bumble and Tinder. (So many men holding fish! So many selfies at gyms! And umm, no, I don’t want to enter into a “mutually beneficial agreement” with you. Ew.) It made me question my wild, solo Friday night routine and wish that instead, I was sitting across from a someone, trying not to get the hiccups as I giggle or hoping that I don’t have anything in my teeth when I smile across the table.

This day of the year, and the days leading up to it, and the aftermath of it, can be so. damn. hard. for people who feel alone and isolated. Maybe you just moved across the country and are still figuring out how to cope with that solitude. Maybe you just moved out of your parents’ house. Maybe you just ended a relationship, romantic or otherwise, and aren’t even sure what your new solitude looks like yet; it’s too soon and too hard to go there. Or maybe you’re just single, without someone to buy you flowers or take you out to dinner. Or maybe you’re reading this at a coffee shop or a restaurant or a tea shop, and there are couples, romantic or otherwise, all around you. And for some reason, having a solo Friday night doesn’t seem as appealing anymore.

And that’s okay. You are allowed to feel joy. You’re allowed to feel like a bad-ass, independent human one day, and to feel sadness and a little lonely the next. We’re human. We have emotions and shifting needs. The same scenarios evoke different emotions on different days, and both are valid and both are your truth. But know this – and please remember this. It’s the thesis of this rambling outpouring of words:

You are not alone on your solo Valentine’s Day.
You are not alone on your solo Friday nights.
You are not alone on any other nights of the week.

If you’re in a coffee shop, look around; there are other humans sitting alone, aren’t there? If you’re at home, remember that you’re one of seven billion humans on this planet; there have to be at least one billion of those people sitting alone too, right? Maybe you’re physically alone, or your relationship status is “single” on social media, or you’re the last of your pals or coworkers to be in a relationship. Our lives are filled with moments of solitude – of solo holidays, of solo nights, of solo anything – but, in a way, all of us who are doing the whole solo thing are doing it together.

Maybe, this Valentine’s Day, I’ll come back to this tea shop, and there will be another couple across from me, sharing a pot of vanilla rooibos or a bubble tea. I’ll be alone, and I don’t know what my reaction to them will be. Maybe I’ll re-download Bumble or maybe I’ll text my mom or maybe I’ll just keep writing. But as I press “Publish” on these words, I’ll know that they’re zooming into the universe on a day when maybe – just maybe – we all need a reminder that we’re not all that alone after all.

i need help.

I wanted this post to be published this past weekend and I wanted it to be about something else entirely. I don’t know exactly what it would have been about; maybe about what it’s been like to be single for the last two-and-a-half years or about why we feel that spark with this someone and not that someone or how every day should be Valentine’s Day with yourself. I didn’t have it written or planned because I had arranged my week so I could plan and write it then.

But sometimes the arrangements we make in our new, mostly blank paper planners aren’t what actually happens in life. Last Tuesday night, I came down with The Plague. (Think of every symptom of the flu there is and multiply it by five and I’ve had it for the last seven days.) I’ve spent my last days in hibernation. Without much energy or focus or the ability to be fully present with anything, I’ve done a lot of napping, binge watching ‘Friends,’ and cuddling the cute pup I’m sitting for all week. I haven’t been eating, reading, working, or — as I wanted to — writing a blog post related to Valentine’s Day. I had to miss tea dates with friends, important Leaven meetings, and a huge event at work that I was supposed to supervise. The Plague put my life on hold.

But even though I wasn't able to follow through on my responsibilities (or move far from the couch), things still needed to get done. I needed to put some calories in my body. I needed to take this 6-month-old, energetic dog for a walk every day. I needed 40 college students to be supervised as they sold cotton candy around campus all weekend. The rest of the world—even my world—wasn’t stopping just because I was. I needed things to get done without actually being the one to do them.

I needed to ask for help.

Even writing that sentence makes me cringe. I needed to ask for help. I hate that phrase, and specifically that word—“help”—more than most. I have always equated “needing help” with being incapable, incompetent, or inferior. I have nailed the cycle of agreeing to do something I know I actually shouldn’t agree to do, doing it without asking for help from anyone, and repeating this cycle with high frequency even though at the end of each one I tell myself, “Never again.” But then there’s the part of me that feels weirdly proud when I’ve gone “above and beyond” (although, behind the scenes, I’ve worked on a Sunday night, stayed up until 2:00 am, or sacrificed time to practice a little self-care and Sabbath); I feel like I’ve won a contest that I shouldn’t have signed up to compete in at all. I’ve always prided myself on being able to do it on my own, to take on that extra task, to put in the extra effort—and to do it all without any complaints. By not asking for help, I prove to the world that I am a capable, competent, and superior being. That I am, in fact, SuperHuman. That I can, and will, do it all, thank you very much.

But with my nose running and my head throbbing and my body shaking, I let go of that high-pitched, self-assured voice that lives in my brain and says, “I can, and will, do it all, thank you very much.” I knew that I couldn’t, at least not this week. If I had tried, I would have half-assed everything, including my recovery, which would have probably restarted the cycle of The Plague and left me utterly hopeless in all parts of life for an additional week. Anne Lamott, my spiritual director from afar, writes all about this in her book Help Thanks Wow. She says:

“When we think we can do it all ourselves—fix, save, buy, or date a nice solution—it’s hopeless. We're going to screw things up. We're going to get our tentacles wrapped around things and squirt our squiddy ink all over, so that there is even less visibility, and then we're going to squeeze the very life out of everything.” 

I didn’t want that. Even in my stubbornness of not wanting to ask for help, I still wanted things to be done—and done well. So instead of trying to half-ass my life for the week, I gave up and delegated parts of it. I asked for help.

Can you bring me over a Jimmy John’s sub sandwich, because it’s the only food that sounds appetizing to me right now? I can’t go get it myself, and I need help.

Can you stop over and take the dog for a walk and feed her lunch so I can go to the walk-in clinic? I can’t do it, and need help.

Can you supervise a huge, three-day work event in my absence? I can’t be there, and I need help.

Those were hard texts to send. But after pressing send, after seeing they were delivered, after waiting for those three little dots to stop typing, each text was met with the warmest, kindest, grace-iest response:

Yes.

Yes, I will bring you over a sandwich. And I will get your sandwich order correct without even asking you what it is and I will bring you two drinks to choose from and also a chocolate chip cookie for dessert or for breakfast tomorrow. Yes, I can help you.

Yes, I will take care of the dog. And I will bring you some pretty flowers, some delicious tea, and some kind words to help you heal. And I can come back tomorrow, too. Yes, I can help you.

Yes, I can make sure that tables are set and volunteers are there and money is counted in your absence and I can even let you know how it’s going if you’d like that. Yes, I can help you.

There it was. The words I was the most scared of sharing because I was worried that people wouldn’t want to help, that people would think less of me for needing help—those were the same words that elicited responses and actions and words of love. They were Jimmy John’s subs and vases of pink flowers and successful fundraisers. They were encouragement and support I didn’t know I needed until I asked, and they were encouragement and support I wouldn’t have received unless I asked.

There were plenty of other things that I could have, and probably should have, asked for help with this week. I’m learning the balance of what I can do alone, what I should do alone, and what I don’t have to do alone even though I can. 

So while this isn’t a Valentine’s Day post, it kind of is. Asking for help can be vulnerable and hard and downright scary when we live in a world that says that doing so makes us weak, inferior, and second-rate. But asking for help can lift us up; when we ask those we love, and who love us, to carry some of our weight when we cannot, we enter into a relationship that allows both parties to feel a sort of trusting, quiet love. A long-lasting, sturdy love. A I’ll-scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-mine-too kind of love.

And is there a better kind of love than that?