fakediary

After everything, we were in desperate need of another shower.

I was beginning to think that, at this rate, we would spend half our trip either in bed or in the bathroom.

David joined me beneath the warm water. He poured some body wash into his hands, worked it into a lather, and began gently washing my back. His hands moved slowly over my shoulders, massaging the muscles that had grown stiff from the long flight.

I hadn’t realized how tense I still was until his fingers began working through the knots.

I closed my eyes and let out a contented sigh.

He seemed rather pleased with himself.

After a while, he wrapped his arms around me from behind, drawing me against him beneath the running water. I rested my hands over his and leaned back into his embrace.

It was nice.

Perhaps a little too nice.

He turned me around and kissed me, slowly at first, then with a familiarity that made me forget what I had been doing. His lips brushed my cheek and lingered at my neck.

I tilted my head instinctively, enjoying the affection before a small, sensible part of my brain finally intervened.

At this rate, we were never going to leave the bathroom.

And we had dinner reservations.

I had spent weeks researching restaurants in New York. I was not about to let all that work go to waste because David had suddenly developed an extraordinary interest in showering.

I reluctantly pulled away and reached for the shampoo.

“We need to get ready,” I reminded him.

He smiled, entirely unapologetic.

“I know.”

His expression suggested that knowing and caring were two very different things.

It took a considerable amount of willpower, but I managed to finish washing my hair, rinse off, and escape the shower without further delays.

A small personal victory.

By the time we were both dressed, the room looked considerably more civilized than it had an hour earlier.

I had chosen a navy-blue summer dress for our first evening out. It was simple and feminine, the sort of dress that didn’t demand much attention but made me feel pretty when I wore it.

I stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the fabric around my waist and checking my hair.

When I turned around, David was looking at me.

“Wow.”

I smiled.

“What?”

“Wow.”

I laughed.

“You already said that.”

He shook his head slightly, still looking at me.

“Wow.”

Apparently, his extensive vocabulary had temporarily abandoned him.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop smiling.

There was something almost embarrassingly delightful about being admired so openly. He made no effort to disguise it, either. He simply stood there looking at me as though I had done something remarkable by putting on a dress.

I wasn’t quite sure what to do with that kind of attention.

“Go get dressed,” I told him, laughing.

Eventually, he did.

He changed into a dress shirt, neatly pressed slacks, and dress shoes. I watched him straighten his collar and check his appearance in the mirror.

He looked handsome.

Not that he hadn’t looked handsome before, but there was something particularly attractive about seeing him dressed for an evening out.

We looked at each other for a moment.

Then I smiled.

Our first real date.

After all those months of conversations, imagined futures, and thousands of miles between us, we were finally doing something as wonderfully ordinary as going out to dinner together.

I had made a reservation at a seafood restaurant several weeks before the trip.

Both David and I loved seafood, so I had wanted to find somewhere special. I had spent an unreasonable amount of time researching restaurants across New York, comparing menus, reading reviews, looking through photographs, and debating whether one place was worth the extra cab ride over another.

In the end, I had chosen a restaurant only a few blocks from our hotel.

A fortunate decision, considering how thoroughly exhausted we already were.

We stepped out into the evening air.

New York was alive around us. The sidewalks were crowded with people heading to restaurants, bars, theaters, or wherever else their Friday nights might take them. Cars rolled past in endless streams, their headlights reflecting off storefront windows.

I had always loved the energy of the city.

But walking through it with David felt different.

He reached for my hand almost as soon as we left the hotel.

It was becoming a habit of his, I noticed.

A rather nice one.

As we walked, he gently guided me toward the inside of the sidewalk, placing himself on the side closest to the traffic.

I barely registered it at first.

Then, at the next crossing, he did it again.

He wasn’t making a performance of being protective. There was no announcement, no exaggerated gesture. He simply shifted our positions naturally, keeping himself between me and the passing cars.

Such a small thing.

And yet, I noticed.

I noticed the way he held my hand, the way he adjusted his pace to match mine, and how he occasionally glanced down to make sure I was comfortable.

He made me feel like a woman.

It was a strange thought, and perhaps not the most fashionable way to describe it, but that was exactly how I felt.

Feminine. Cherished. Looked after.

Not because I needed someone to protect me from the terrifying dangers of a New York sidewalk.

I had managed to navigate this city perfectly well on my own before.

But because someone was choosing to pay attention to me.

And I hadn’t experienced that in a very long time.

The truth was, I had been out of the dating world for years.

My first marriage had ended in less than a year. It was one of those experiences that left me with far more questions than answers, and by the time it was over, I had very little desire to begin another relationship.

I wanted distance.

From the marriage, from the expectations that had surrounded it, and perhaps from the version of myself who had believed things would turn out differently.

So I left.

I moved to Japan to pursue my studies, throwing myself into a new language, a new environment, and eventually, a new career.

It was easier to concentrate on things that had measurable outcomes.

Examinations could be passed. Qualifications could be earned. Skills could be improved. Hard work, more often than not, produced something tangible.

Relationships were considerably less predictable.

And after my marriage, unpredictability was the last thing I wanted.

I kept myself busy.

There was always another assignment to finish, another examination to prepare for, another goal to work toward. I told myself that I was focusing on my future, which was true.

But I was also healing.

Slowly, privately, and in the only way I knew how.

By keeping myself moving.

I hadn’t gone to Japan looking for love. In fact, I had been quite content not looking for it at all.

And then David happened.

A man living in Chile, of all places.

Someone I had met while discussing psychology with strangers on the internet.

If anyone had told me a few years earlier that I would one day be walking through Manhattan, holding hands with a Chilean man who had flown across the world to meet me, I would have found the whole idea preposterous.

Yet there I was.

Wearing a navy-blue dress, heading to a seafood restaurant, with a man who kept looking at me as though he couldn’t quite believe his luck.

And the funny thing was, I couldn’t quite believe mine either.

I glanced at our joined hands.

David was talking about something he’d noticed across the street, but for a moment, I wasn’t really listening.

I was thinking about how unfamiliar it felt to be cared for in such ordinary ways.

I had spent years learning to be self-sufficient. I made my own decisions, carried my own bags, solved my own problems, and rarely expected anyone to do things for me.

Independence had become so deeply ingrained in me that I hardly noticed it anymore.

It wasn’t something I consciously practiced.

It was simply how I lived.

And now there was this man who seemed perfectly happy to take my hand, walk on the traffic side of the sidewalk, and look at me as though I were someone worth fussing over.

I didn’t know how to receive it gracefully.

Part of me wanted to laugh at myself for being so affected by such simple gestures.

Another part of me wanted to hold on to the feeling for as long as possible.

Perhaps I had forgotten what it was like to be courted.

Or perhaps I had never really experienced it quite like this.

Either way, I was going to need some time to get used to it.

David gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

I looked up at him.

He smiled.

I smiled back.

And we continued walking toward the restaurant, blending into the crowds of New Yorkers going about their evening.

For once, I wasn’t thinking about where my life was supposed to be heading, what I needed to accomplish next, or how to protect myself from another disappointment.

I was simply a woman walking hand in hand with a man she liked, on her way to dinner.

It was such an ordinary thing.

I hadn’t realized how much I had missed it.