prologue

During the nine weeks that I knew Z, we sent each other one hundred texts a day. 

Once, she sent a text that said You are sooooooo amazing, and once she sent a text that said I can’t believe how lucky I am to have met you, and once she sent a text that saying I am nowhere near your neighborhood . . ., and once she sent a text asking if I’d walk the Camino de Santiago with her one day, and I said yes, then looked up the Camino de Santiago. I cannot wait to walk the Camino de Santiago with you, I wrote, and she gave that message a heart. 

Excitement = fun + fear, I remind my children, but sometimes the portions get wonky. 

Once, Z and I laughed so hard I stopped the car in the middle of the street to keep from crashing. Once in bed we laughed so hard that I smeared snot all over her beautiful belly. Once she said she loved how I cry when I laugh, and it was the first time in my life I didn’t wipe away those laughing tears in mild embarrassment. Once, we lay naked together and I told her things about myself I didn’t like, things I’d done that I wasn’t proud of. There was something between us that was safe and thrilling and very precious, a mix I’d never felt before.

To end it, she sent a late-night text: I’ve been thinking a lot and I’ve decided you’re not right for me. I asked to speak by phone or in person, assuming that we could come to some sad but humane parting of ways. She didn’t respond. My best friend Amanda tells me this isn’t ghosting, technically. Whatever it was, it made me feel inhuman. An inconvenience, a nuisance. Left alone on a scorched island, haunted by memories of all that lush splendor. 

In middle age, it’s sacrilege to wish for a failing memory. I will not do it.