Ten Times I Said No To Love: Chapter 7

Coordinates

Chapter 7 is completely self-indulgent, joyful, and drenched in love. This week, I ask you to bear with me as I put this into words—my wedding gift to Christopher and myself.

As Saturday gets closer and I prepare to marry my best friend, I’ve been thinking about how people cope with their emotions. Few things bring out raw feelings like major life ceremonies—not so much the event itself, but the weight of old traditions we've made into milestones of a well-lived life. We often bury shame and expectation in these choices, as if formal institutions should feel more certain than an average Wednesday.

Christopher and I decided at the outset to construct firm fences around both our wedding day and the core innocence of our relationship. It's an experiment in trust—what can we create together when no one else has a say in how we connect or what that looks like?

So far, I can report back and say that no matter how much I’ve lived my life on my own terms, no matter how divorced I am from the mainstream, I care about other people’s projections. I have to stay really conscious to discern what is coming from me and what is bleeding through from someone else.

My wedding gift to you all, along with my gratitude for you joining me in my stories every week, is a challenge — beyond expectations and obligations what do you want?

Chapter 7 of my story begins with self-doubt and ends with a map leading me home.

If you’re joining me for the first time, you can read (or listen to) previous sections of my story, Ten Times I Said No To Love here:

|| Chapter One || Chapter Two || Chapter Three || Chapter Four || Chapter Five
|| Chapter Six ||

Let’s get started.

Ten Times I Said No To Love

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7. Coordinates

I long to feel my heart burned open wide
‘til nothing else remains except the fires from which I came.
-Ronan Harris

“I’m obsessed with midcentury modern,” Jennifer says. She’s driving through the landscape outside of Denver and we’re listening to Taylor Swift. The music creates a sort of cognitive dissonance in my mind because there’s still a part of me that believes we’re only allowed to listen to obscure bands with unpronounceable, foreign names. Jennifer has changed the rules.

We’re debating architecture and design theories and I’m watching the prairie disappear into a flat perspective line of distant mountains. Our destination is an hour’s drive from Denver where we landed, overnighted, and Jennifer discovered instantaneous connections with the Atlanta music scene and a guy behind the counter at a dispensary. He called their mutual friend who explained that Jennifer was a legend. But we knew this.

“Do you smoke?” the guy asked me as I listened in third-wheel wonder.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Anxiety.”

“You haven’t found the right . . .” he says, and I cut him off.

“And I won’t,” I said.

As we near our destination, Jennifer and I stop for coffee and the barista gives them to us for free because we have southern accents and Jennifer works her charm.

“These mountains are really different from our mountains,” I say.

“Our mountains are trapped in the past.”

“Our mountains are the oldest range in the world,” I say.

“Well they should be old enough to understand that it’s time to join the modern era,” Jennifer says.

The business suites without an adjoining door are a step up from the hotel we stayed the night before. We agreed before traveling that our friendship was more important than saving money on a shared room. We both value our privacy and while we might lie on each other’s beds for hours laughing and telling stories, good fences make good neighbors. The ability to decompress without anyone near is, we’ve decided, the only way we’re traveling with friends from this point forward.

“Now that we’re here together, I’m going to admit that I’ve never traveled with someone and still liked them at the end of it,” Jennifer says. “Two rooms is promising.”

We go to our deeply valued separate rooms to get settled before heading to an opening reception for the gathering of horse people.

I send Christopher a message: I’m waiting for my private security to take a shower and then we’re headed to the event.

He types back immediately: Outstanding. Go get ‘em, Lady. I’m heading into my first meeting of the day.

Christopher works second shift fixing airplanes. He likes to tell people he’s a just mechanic but never follows up with what he fixes. I think what he does is fascinating so I gush for clarity, saying, airplanes — he fixes airplanes, as if anything that propels travel without feet isn’t weird.

Christopher and I didn’t immediately stay in contact after high school. I launched into college. He opened a skate shop in Charleston, SC and had dreams of becoming an architect. He joined the Navy to fund his vision at Savannah College of Art and Design through the GI Bill, but even that wasn’t enough money to see him through to graduation. He’s told me about how the ocean was sometimes a pane of perfect glass reflecting the sky when he looked out from the flight deck of the USS Kearsarge when he was deployed at sea.

I like to imagine the structures he’d design if his genius, artist’s mind was let loose on the world without barriers. He doesn’t have that thing that most of us have, the part of us that’s worried about speaking our minds. He’s never been intimidated by anything.

I kind of like meetings, I type.

It takes a moment for him to respond, but my skin prickles as I read his words: I updated my information at work earlier and put you down as my emergency contact.

This gives me pause. This is weirder than planes being able to fly in the air. We’d discussed it, and it makes sense to name a friend in that role when there isn’t a close family member nearby to step in, but it still feels like a commitment that crosses boundaries and we haven’t started anything. I don’t want anyone taking up a permanent spot in my life.

I’m in a relationship with myself.

I like the idea of Christopher. I like imagining us doing things, and I like that no one knows I think about him. Even Jennifer has no clue about the depth of my musings. Her life motto is non-attachment. I hear her warnings in my head as I respond to him: I hope no one ever needs to use an emergency contact for you, but I’m honored to be trusted with the task.

He types back: Would it be permissible to wander the property tomorrow and make plans for the projects?

Earlier that week, Christopher asked if he could spend a week off work helping me with big tasks around the farm. I thanked him but hadn’t taken it seriously. People offer help all the time, men in particular. It’s as if they want to live out their Yellowstone fantasies, but the things I need to be completed aren’t dramatic and calendars seldom line up.

Not while I’m gone, I reply, but secretly it feels good to know there’s someone who can step in and help while I’m away — like an emergency contact.

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There are so many people in a small space at this reception. Jennifer takes care of herself, introducing and talking. We check in with glances across the room.

I know of these people, but I’ve never met them in person before tonight. Many are very much in the public eye. Watching them, I question my end goals. Is this what I want? I know it’s supposed to be what I want, but it’s difficult to sort through my understanding of what I’ve been programmed to desire and the wisdom my instincts are asking me to receive.

I’m hiding in the bathroom, I type. It’s time for me to step into my power and take my own path.

Does this mean you’re beginning to know who you are? What’s The Intimidator doing?

She’s working the room and taking her guardian angel duties seriously. Thank you for listening to me.

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At the first opportunity, within proper limits, Jennifer and I bolt back to the hotel. Jennifer works the front desk to acquire more facial towelettes for her ever-growing collection of travel amenities.

I go to my room and open a bottle of wine. Sitting at the desk and staring out through a window, the cool darkness, away from noise and motion, reflects me back to myself. I wonder if everyone else feels as uncomfortable in their skin as I do most of the time. I wonder if it’s possible to get out of my own way.

I pick up my phone and text Christopher: I’m back at the hotel. Jenn and I made a run for it.

I decided to call it an early night myself, he writes. I’m sitting outside work. About to drive home.

I’ll sit with you. Is today your birthday?

Nope.

Why won’t you just tell me?

Telling you would ruin the surprise.

I’m a Scorpio. I was born to figure shit out.

But isn’t it more entertaining to figure things out together? I just really like surprises.

I type: I need my sources to disclose.

Gotta be patient with this one, unfortunately. But I always deliver on mine and I promise you will never be disappointed.

I assumed that, or else I wouldn’t bother asking you questions.

Well, isn’t asking kind of like not being assured?

I think the right question is a key that’s looking for the right lock — l like safe cracking.

Me too.

I figured you would.

Like minds and all.

I don’t want to know things for nefarious reasons. And when I get answers, they get vaulted in my encryption.

Nothing nefarious here.

You’re a kind person, I write, and I mean it.

Jennifer lets herself into my room and sprawls on the couch.

“I’m messaging Christopher.”

“Of course you are,” she says, employing her gift of knowing things without having to ask questions.

The Intimidator is back in the room, I type.

Only one person in my entire life has ever intimidated me.

I’m curious but his statement doesn’t really catch my attention at first: Who was that?

But his response does.

You don’t know her.

Does she know that she intimidates you?

Nope.

How do you know her?

From way back in the day.

I tap Jennifer’s foot with my toe. “He’s saying that he’s only been intimidated by one person in his life. I bet it’s you.”

“It’s you, dumbass,” Jennifer says, without looking up.

I shake my head. “It’s got to be someone else.” Because questions aren’t intimidating and someone who operates from an essential place of fear like me can’t be scary.

Do you still see her?

I do, and I still talk to her.

What makes her intimidate you?

Not feeling adequate.

I want so many details.

Ask and ye shall receive, he says.

Where did you meet her?

In high school.

Why did she make you feel inadequate?

The feeling that I could never completely give her everything she deserved. I’ve always admired her but never felt worthy enough.

You said I don’t know her, but you met her back in the day. Did she go to school with us?

She did.

Then how do I not know her?

Good question.

I pour another glass of wine and stare at Jennifer until I pull her attention away from her own phone. “It’s someone else,” I say. “Someone I’ve never met before. I don’t know what question to ask next.”

“I’ve lived to see the day that you’re fresh out of questions? Wow. He’s totally talking about you.”

About intimidation — I’ve never backed down from anything, not drill instructors or stepfathers, but this person scares me.

When you first mentioned intimidated, I was thinking brute force but what you’re saying is a more beautiful definition of it, the kind that makes one dive into self exploration.

“Write to him like he’s talking about you,” Jennifer says.

I type: Define worthy.

Worthy, like being able to provide happiness and making her feel like she comes first no matter what. Well, the second part wouldn’t be that difficult, but my ways of showing it have a tendency to not come across the way they’re intended.

“He texts in complete sentences,” I say to Jennifer. “That’s pretty hot. It could be the back door into my withered heart.”

He’s still typing and I read the words aloud as they arrive:

Jennifer Walker never intimidated me . . .

Jennifer interrupts, “Challenge accepted, I’ll try harder.”

. . . because she’s just a person who is very sure of herself and I respect the hell out of her.

I type: What do you admire about The Intimidator?

She’s the most beautiful person I’ve seen and her eyes pierce my soul, and the first time I saw her smile, I melted. Then she spoke and I heard the way she carried herself and I was sold. Her drive. The way her mind works and her perception makes sense to me.

Jennifer grins. I feel like the details of the room are clearer, like a glass has been cleaned and the specifics of the world have sharper definitions.

“I’m not allowing you to run away from this opportunity,” Jennifer says.

“We don’t know this is me,” I say.

“Oh, come on.” Jennifer sinks back into the couch.

When did you first hear her voice?

The first day of high school in homeroom. She was sitting to the right in the room, two seats from the front. I was on the left, three seats from the front.

I search back in my memory for where I sat and who else was there.

Why have you never told her?

I felt inadequate — and intimidated.

Why don’t I know her?

Honestly, I have no idea.

Do you think about her still?

All the time from the moment I first saw her. She’s probably the reason all my past relationships have never worked out.

Is she with someone now?

Not that I’m aware of.

Do you think she wants to be alone?

I’m not sure, nor if I could ever be the right person for her.

What sort of person do you think she needs?

I really don’t think that person exists.

I put the phone down for a minute and stare at the window.

“Has he told you who you are yet?” Jennifer asks.

“We’re getting there,” I say, and then type: Does your intimidator know about your feelings for her?

I know that she doesn't, but I should let her know.

It would be a shame if she was also thinking about you all the time and the same thing was happening on the opposite side and the wheels were just spinning and no one was happy in a soul-deep sense.

The fear of that not being the case has prevented me from doing that.

I write: I would hope The Intimidator if she’s the exceptional person that you’ve described, would also want to be absolutely certain that you didn’t lose decades of friendship if things didn’t end up being what you’ve both worked up in your heads. I hit send and then add: Just saying.

There’s a pause, and then he sends: Realistically, if it were You, how would you feel about it?

I make a little sound and Jennifer looks up. “Told you,” she says.

Realistically, I write, I’d hope I lived up to all the hype.

In my mind, she does and beyond.

“Tell him,” Jennifer says.

“Tell him what?”

“The truth.”

I don’t know where to begin, but when I start it comes out like a thesis: Our minds create realities that don’t exist. Like mine, I’ve been eaten up with thoughts of someone for months. In my mind, it seems all real and good, but when I discovered that he was no longer in a relationship with someone, that he was free, I decided that it was not worth ruining a good idea with solid reality. You and I are drawn to broken people and broken situations. We want to fix them. And that’s where we mess our lives up with all the people who don’t want to take responsibility for their own.

He types: I’m tired of it.

I’m tired of it too.

I feel something familiar and old as he responds with: Well, when is it going to be our turn?

THIS, and what does that even mean? Our turn. Because I’m still trying to figure out who I am.

You and me both.

We both stop typing when the other one starts typing.

I’m hanging on to every word so I don’t miss anything.

Regarding The Intimidator. . . I start typing and trail off.

She knows I’m an all-in person with everything I do. Everything has a reason and critical thinking goes into every action I take.

I type: Ethics. Diplomacy. Tact. The lost arts. You said that I didn’t know her.

Several times this year, you’ve said that you don’t know who you are anymore.

We can’t mess this up. I respect you too much for that. I don’t want to lose our friendship.

Nor I, that would devastate me.

I don’t want you to become another story in my life of something I embarked on and failed. Where are you right now?

Sitting on a bench outside of work.

I’m sorry.

I’m still here because I want to be here. No one makes me do anything.

Jennifer and I stare at each other as she gathers her things to fade into her room for the night.

“Say it,” she says.

“If I say it, I’m afraid I’ll be contractually bound to you forever.”

“You already are,” she says.

I enunciate each word, “You were right.”

“Will you say it nicer and with more emphasis, please?”

“You. Were. Right.”

“Good, now don’t mess it up.”

Christopher types: Someone just drove past and told me to have a good weekend. I usually tell him that it’s not likely, but tonight I told him that it just became incredible.

It’s 1:30 in the morning at home. It’s 11:30 in Colorado. I think about the distance between the two places: When I said yes to this trip, it didn’t feel a pull to the event, but more toward the things that would be revealed if I came here.

I’m a chicken. I waited for the safety of distance.

We keep up like this for a long time, and I’m struck by many things on top of the giddy, gushing strike of the rush I’ve craved since I read my first love story — the beginning of something, with its cocktail of neurotransmitters and hope. Beneath this is the weird embarrassment of us being kind and direct and innocently truthful to each other as if we’ll be shamed for being nice. As if expressing love is dangerous.

I wonder what it will be like when we’re in the same time zone. The safety of distance and messaging has advantages and disadvantages. Disclosure has pushed something into motion, but like my answer to his Intimidator question — can it live up to the hype?

It’s going to be so strange to be back with you in person now, I write.

As outspoken as I am, I’m actually really shy, he says.

I guess we’ll figure it out.

He sends a final message for the night: Sleep well my absolutely best friend and dream in the world.

And for one, clear moment, I forget to be afraid.

|| Read Chapter 8 ||

THE BENCH — it’s like The Jennifer Walker, but different.

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Thank you for joining me this week. The wedding is on Saturday and Christopher and I have done everything in our power to make sure it is simple, and easy, and relaxed, and filled with love. This isn’t either one of our first marriages, but I know it will be the best. He makes me a better person and nudges me out of my weird, little mental fences to help me see the broader world.

I’m finishing the edits on this post well in advance of when I’m usually doing the narration at midnight the day before publishing. This story is about me, the farm, my love, but like the last line in Chapter 7, I’m becoming more and more aware that so many of my tasks are guided by an undercurrent of fear. I don’t think I’m alone in this. And by fear I mean the constant urgency to produce, to be, to accomplish — racing against a clock that doesn’t know that it’s ticking.

So I’m slowing down and watching the sky and smelling the forest this week. I invite you to do the same.

Love,
Kim