Scott and I have been texting occassionally. Not too much, nothing too personal. But definitely more than my girlfriends and I text. A more regular thing. I am not sure I am comfortable with it. But not sure I want to make a big, hairy deal out of anything either. Who am I to read to much into a friendly text?
The day that it snows, he sends me a text. It arrives about the time that he is leaving work. I, on the other hand, am in the tenth souvenir shop of the day. Evidently, Pat has it in his head that the only appropriate souvenir from a town known for its Civil War battle is a gun. Not a real one, not an operating one, not a toy one. One that looks real, feels real, is not made of plastic, doesn't fire little spongey darts, but is not necessarily illegal for him to carry. There isn't a single good feeling to be had about this. Why couldn't he have picked silent films as a hobby? So much quieter and less annoying.
Ping. The text. Not Craig. Scott.
He's telling me to be careful driving. The snow is turning to slush and it is thick and slick and is making a menace of the roadways. He wants me to be careful driving home.
I would be if I were, but we are seeing the Burg on foot. But just the same, I tell him thank you, and let him know we are in Gettysburg, far away from the bridge and bad drivers that normally plague my rush hour commute; we are walking the streets of my college town.
And his feet are immediately on memory lane.
He recalls our trip here on Mothers Day last year. It was to celebrate my birthday. His parents and sister had gone here, he'd seen it a million times before. But never from my perspective. It had been a completely different experience for him.
He tells me he remembers how much fun we'd had. Thanks me for sharing it with him. I am not sure what to say. I was willing to share everything in my life with him at the time. My oh my, what a difference a few short months makes. Now I'm guarded. Have to think about things. Have to question his motivations.
I never questioned anything from him before. Maybe I should have.
Am I overreacting? Shouldn't we be able to discuss fond memories? Are they all off limits? I am sure my parents, once they got through the bashing years, and the "you can meet your mother at the end of the driveway" years, and the jealousy years, and the "It would have been simpler to have killed him" years, were able to let a memory cross their minds and have a good laugh or a good cry and not actually have their synapses fly off to the dark sides of their brains where things like homicidal thoughts and uncontrolled rage are born. I am certain of it.
So should I be thinking what I'm thinking? Which is, he's trying to get the home fires burning by throwing a few lovely memories on what he hopes are a few smouldering embers? Or should I just relax and chalk this off to the steps that are taken when the door slams shut on one relationship but a window allows a little feeling in again?
I honestly don't know. The most humiliating part of dating at this age is the not knowing. Not knowing the rules, or if there are any. Not knowing the political landscape. Not knowing who to trust, who to fear, who to bank on, who to run from.
But right now, I have a souvenir to buy as a matter of OCD obsessiveness. I ignore the text and head out onto the snowy sidewalk, my children at my side and a nagging thought in my head.
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