Love

It was April 15, 2000. I had a few books stacked beside the bed—reading material that reflected the many states of mind I moved through in a week: psychodynamic theory, ego state therapy, even a book written by a woman with dissociative identities using collages and magazine cutouts to represent the parts of herself.

I had been reflecting on all of it—how we carry different selves inside us, how trauma and healing play out over time—when Lynn appeared at the doorway.

She had that mischievous smile I loved.

“I want sex,” she said, straightforward as ever.

My heart lifted. “Me too.”

We undressed quickly, comfortably. Familiar, yet new each time. The kind of comfort and chemistry that only deep love can produce. When she moved toward the bed, her gaze locked with mine, I felt the same awe I always did. Like seeing her again for the first time.

She climbed on top of me, our lips finding each other fast, hungry. Her body pressed close, arms wrapped tightly around me, the space between us seeming to vanish.

“I feel like I can’t get close enough,” she breathed, her mouth pressing into mine like she was trying to merge with me—hungry, urgent, needing more than just touch.

“I know,” I said, pulling her even closer.

She shifted, her breath catching as our bodies moved together. Then, gently but firmly, she paused.

“You’re too close, sweetie,” she said with a soft sigh, her meaning unspoken but understood.

We had talked about it before—her health, the impossibility of pregnancy due to her condition. It was the one boundary we couldn’t cross, no matter how much we wanted to become one in every way.

But still, we held each other. Moved together. Loved each other as fully as two people can.

The intensity built. She clung to me, her body not arching but wrapping itself around mine—like she was trying to become part of me. Our mouths met again and again, hungry, urgent, like we could dissolve into each other if we just held tight enough.

And then—suddenly—I let go.

She felt it. Paused. Still. A quiet smile crossing her face.

There was silence, the kind that only happens when two people have given something wordless to each other.

She whispered, “We should shower.”

I caught my breath. “But you…”

She looked at me, her eyes soft. “I'm happy,” she said. “It’s okay.” 

I was confused a bit and wanted more for her.

This was about connection. About wanting and being wanted. About love so deep that it didn’t need to be measured. It amazed me that this kind of passion was still happening nearly every day - like we were newlyweds. Yet, we were years into the life as husband and wife. It didn’t feel routine. It felt alive. Urgent. Sacred.

Afterward, she went to start the shower while I stayed in bed, a wave of serenity washing over me.

We were in love—because she was in love with me. Because I was in love with her. Because we had become, in so many ways, one.

“I love you,” she said as we stepped into the water together.

“I love you so much,” I replied, heart full.

Then I laughed softly.

“What?” she asked.

“I was just thinking of that song by The Moody Blues—the way the singer repeats those lines like he’s overcome, like he just can’t hold it in.”

I spoke the words that the singer in the song sang:

'Cause I love you,
yes, I love you,
oh, how I love you,
oh, how I love you…'

“That’s how I feel,” I told her. “I want to tell the whole world that I love Lynn.”

She smiled, the way she always did when she knew I meant every word.

And I did. I would have shouted it from rooftops. Not just after making love, but anytime. Every day.

That night, as I lay beside her, I started thinking about her dreams. About how much I wanted her happiness. She had talked about getting her Master of Fine Arts one day. Maybe I could help with that. Maybe I could buy her a kiln so she could fire her pottery at home. Maybe, with this practice I was building, I could give her more than just love. I could give her the things that filled her dreams.

I was in love. Not just based on the passion we shared but the peace and serenity that matched our connection together.

By the summer of our second year together, I can remember standing on a porch during one of Lynn’s pottery events. I didn’t know anyone else there. I felt a little out of place—but not alone. It was summer.

We walked in hand-in-hand.

Later, feeling a bit awkward I found a seat at a picnic table. Lynn right near me. I reached for her arm and whispered, “Sit on my lap,” guiding her gently as she sat my lap and turned to face a friend talking. There was a pause in her conversation as her acquaintance drifted away. My eyes were suddenly captivated by the shape of her leg revealed by her very short shorts - probably not even trying to be seductive… and her foot with a open sandle dangling there.

My thoughts were playful and seductive. My hand ran up her leg and kept moving, as if no one was watching. She just turned to grin at me. Not telling me to stop, just knowing we were in public and we understood that.

Her body against mine was familiar by now, and this was one of those moments when desire mingled seamlessly with peace. She turned to me and asked sweetly, “Are you doing okay, sweetie?”

My hand had stopped but still was on her leg. My answer was “Oh, yeah, I’m good.” She understood and smiled knowingly.

This wasn’t the only moment of sexual playfulness nor was I the one acting. Even while I was driving… well that’s a private matter… or was it? The memory. I was driving and whether or not a person higher up in a truck might see didn’t seem to change Lynn’s actions or desires to pleasure me… and not needing to ask permission. It would be like asking for consent to tickle a person - the non-predictable nature of the action makes it work.

Later, we visited my parents for Christmas. It seemed natual to do. I was clearly not comfortable with this despite choosing to visit. Part of me wanted to show them the beautiful and loving lady that I had, as if they cared. Another part of me wanted to show what love looked like.

It was about being close as a natural thing, not like newly we were newly weds but we were just close to one another. Being in their home made me nervous. I saw Lynn speaking to my mother and got up close… I wrapped my arms around Lynn. It said “I’m with her and not you.” It also said to Lynn, “I need you.”

Intimacy as Discovery, Not Performance

I had studied Masters and Johnson. I had worked with clients who described their sex lives in clinical detail. I knew the theories about compatibility, erogenous zones, dysfunction, technique. But nothing in those textbooks prepared me for what it meant to discover someone’s body through love—not judgment, not comparison.

Lynn and I weren’t performing for each other. We were exploring. We weren’t trying to “get it right.” We were figuring out what felt good—what was comfortable, what was sacred. There was no pressure to be experienced or skilled. There was only curiosity, trust, tenderness.

I never expected oral sex, and she didn’t either. Perhaps that was because of my queasiness about mucus, a recurring challenge due to her illness. I once admitted to her that I struggled with things like sputum samples. She understood. She never made me feel ashamed of that discomfort. And in return, we both created a space where no part of each other was taboo—even if there were boundaries.

We explored everything else. Joyfully. Lovingly. Respectfully.

And as time went on, we knew what we liked, what to ask for, and how to listen to each other’s bodies without shame.

The Sacredness of Sex

For me, sex with Lynn was never casual. It was sacramental. I was still a Christian at the time, and I believed deeply in the idea of two becoming one. Our bodies were our offerings. Our souls met in that intimacy—not in spite of her illness, but in full knowledge of it.

And yes, I was a romantic. But this wasn’t just romance. This was a spiritual union. And when we were wrapped together, as one body; I felt more connected to the divine than I ever had inside a church.

It’s true—some people confuse physical pleasure with love. But we weren’t confused. We were making love. And we did so not as an obligation, or a performance, but as a celebration of everything we were to each other.

If I’m honest, I was learning to be free in my body by loving hers. I wasn’t trying to impress her. I was just trying to love her as fully as I could. And she gave me the safety to do that.

That was the miracle.

Not the sex. Not the affection. But the safety. The shared knowing.

I had never known that before.

And I have never known it since.

By 1996, I was thirty. And while Lynn and I lived with the rhythm and comfort of a shared life, I hadn’t lived with her illness since birth. I wasn’t raised in its shadow. She was. I was still learning. Still catching up. And in many ways, still trying to forget what we were up against.

Occasionally, she would use an inhaler, but that didn’t seem to happen very frequently.

I drove her—or we drove together—to her clinic appointments in Chapel Hill. From Wilmington, that was a drive of over two hours. It happened, for the most part, only once a year.

They would check her oxygen saturation, take X-rays to see the scarring and the buildup of mucus in her chest.

Lynn was good about letting me sit in on every meeting, even in the examination room with the nurse and the doctor. Most of the time, we felt lucky. She was incredibly healthy for someone with such a serious disease.

Sometimes, I left the room when they needed to collect a mucus sample. Lynn understood. I had a weak stomach.

But even so, I asked a thousand questions. 'What’s that dark spot on the X-ray? Is that mucus or scarring?'

'Here’s some excess mucus that needs to be cleared,' the doctor might say, 'and here’s some scarring.'

'How do we clear it?' I’d ask. 'Have you learned how to do the tapping?' they'd respond.

'Yes, the physical therapist taught us,' I’d answer. But I was still full of worry.

The doctor would explain devices we could use. But Lynn would say, 'It doesn’t clear it out for me. I can tell it’s still there.' Then she’d turn to me and remind me, gently but firmly, 'I told you I needed help with it the other day.'

And I’d feel the guilt wash over me. “Oh God, Lynn, I’m sorry. I’m scared when you’re not well. It makes me feel helpless, and I hate that. But I’m trying. I really am.” I would then add, “Wait, that’s not good enough. I can NOT just be trying. I have to do whatever is possible.”

Then I’d add, with tears in my eyes, “I just want a normal life. You make me happy. I don’t want to lose you.”

“I know, sweetie,” she’d say. “I’ve had more time to process this.”

I wanted to be strong but the tears wouldn’t stop. “I love you, Lynn. I love you so much.”

I then looked at the doctor that conveyed a look of displaced anger, as if he was a cause of this or wasn’t doing enough… as if he ought to answer for why this was happening.

Then I sked the doctor, “So, how often should I do the tapping?“

'Fifteen to thirty minutes each evening,' came the reply.

And then the scarring—the thing I dreaded most. It was permanent. It made her lungs less elastic. It meant that even if they found a cure, some damage couldn’t be undone.

I could talk to clients at a psychiatric hospital about grief, loss and mental illness. Mostly I was helping people deal with non-physical problems. But this wasn’t that. This was a physical problem. This was personal. This was my life. This was Lynn.

The secret I didn’t want to face was that CF could take her from me. I pushed that thought away most days. But not in those clinic rooms. In those rooms, I had to look it in the eye.

The darkness in her lungs—visible in patches on the X-rays—felt like the darkness creeping into our lives.

Then came late 1996. Lynn had to be hospitalized. Her lung function was declining, and the doctors wanted to admit her for IV antibiotics.

They were trying a new combination of drugs—ones believed to be more effective in CF patients. People were living longer now, they said. But that didn’t make it less terrifying.

We waited in the hospital lobby, trying to be calm. I wasn’t. I couldn’t sit still. My stomach turned with anxiety.

When they called us in, I sat on the edge of her bed, holding her hand as they placed the IV. 'What’s that?' I asked the nurse.

'Just saline,' she said. 'The medications will come later.'

We sat quietly for a few moments. 'Do you want to play cards? Or read?' I asked.

She asked for a new book by Anne McCaffrey, her favorite fantasy author.

'I want to stay with you,' I said.

'I’m glad you’re here,' she replied.

'I’ll bring a book too,' I added. 'We’ll just be together.'

She smiled. 'That sounds good.'

She suggested I meet her friend Carolyn, who also had CF. 'You’ll like her,' she said. Carolyn was up here in Chapel Hill at this point.

'We’ll see her when you’re discharged,' I promised.

Later that evening, while Lynn was in the shower, a nurse knocked on the door and asked for her. They needed to change her dressing around the IV.

She’s in the shower,” I said. The nurse paused. I got up and said, “I’ll let her know.” This was a door that I alone would or could open.

No awkwardness. No explanations. No embarrassment. Concealing the view from anyone but myself,with the nurse waiting, I got up, opened the door to the bathroom and conveyed the message that the nurse needed to do something.

There was no veil of privacy between us anymore. We had already lived through enough—the bodily, the vulnerable, the raw. Her illness had already taken us into places most couples don’t talk about. This was simply part of it. A moment like any other.

And yet, it was meaningful. It signified a level of trust, of sacred familiarity. She wasn’t hiding. I wasn’t hiding. And no one - least of all the staff - treated our intimacy as strange or inappropriate. We weren’t legally married. But no one asked. They didn’t need to. Everyone in that room, on that unit, understood what love looked like; what a couple looked like.

That night, I stayed. Visiting hours had ended, but no one made me leave. I climbed into the bed beside her, gently moved the IV, and wrapped my arm around her.

A nurse opened the door to check in. She saw us, said nothing, and closed it again. There was a place for family members to stay but we were not disturbed.

Eventually, Lynn came home. And just like that, life returned to normal—or what passed for normal. And I held tighter to the fantasy that we had all the time in the world.

There’s a kind of silence that doesn’t come from others—it comes from inside. It’s the silence born of shame, planted early, before you have the words to resist it. It tells you your body is something to hide. That pleasure is dangerous. That certain fluids—mucus, discharge, even tears—are “unclean.”

That silence shaped me long before I ever met Lynn.

It started in childhood. I had a single memory of something like anal continence when I was young perhaps in 2nd grade, and instead of comfort or understanding, what I felt was dread. Not just of the accidents themselves, but of discovery. Then later I discovered Freud’s pleasure principle and discovered what happened. It could not possible be discovered. But why? Because for a moment I embraced pleasure as a young child?

I lived in fear that my mother might find evidence of my body’s betrayal—and reject me for it. There were no open conversations. No space to ask questions or seek reassurance. Just shame. Shame for being seen.

Shame for being human.

So I learned to hide. To compartmentalize. To disconnect.

Then, as an adult, I met Lynn. And Lynn lived in her body with honesty. She didn’t apologize for it. She wasn’t provocative—she was present. When she undressed, it wasn’t for show. It was for trust. For closeness.

Her body was not a performance. It was an invitation: See me. Hold me. Love me. It was also something she knew I wanted.

But I was still unlearning.

Cystic Fibrosis is a disease of the lungs, but its calling card is mucus—thick, persistent, impossible to ignore. It wasn’t abstract. It was physical. It showed up on tissues, in coughing fits, in the way her breath caught just a second too late. It interrupted kisses. It was a signifier of something I wanted to deny.

And I HATED it… wanted to destroy it. It wasn’t just frustration—it became a fantasy of justice. A yearning for something I could see and fight.

More than once, I dreamed that CF was a demon. Not a metaphor. A literal monster. Like something out of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I pictured it stalking through hospital halls, feeding off the weak, coming for my beloved. In that daydream, it came for stalked Lynn and I wanted to kill it. Not for a second did I consider whether this monster could hurt me. I was eager and ready to kill it.

Because this thing—the mucus, the coughing, the breathlessness—it wasn’t just a symptom. It was a violation. A thing that didn’t belong in the sacred space that was Lynn’s body. And I couldn’t do anything in reality. I was powerless.

But the shame - the programming - still whispered. It got mixed into a combination of secret discoveries of pleasure and signs of a disease that interfered with the normal life that we were building.

Lynn never kept me at a distance from her illness. When we met with the respiratory therapy team or sat through hospital consults, no one asked if I had the right to be there. They didn’t question whether I was her husband. They didn’t blink when I was invited into the examination rooms or into conversations that would typically remain private. They knew. Everyone knew.

I wasn’t just a visitor. I was her partner. And I needed to understand everything—how Cystic Fibrosis worked, what it did to her lungs, what we could do to fight it. I needed to know the terrain of the body we were both trying to protect.

I wasn’t just the person giving her a ride from Wilmington to Chapel Hill. I suppose Lynn conveyed something profound in calling me her fiancé.

The respiratory team showed me how to help. How to tap her chest and sides to loosen the mucus. There was no awkwardness. No question of whether it was appropriate for me to touch her there—across her chest, her ribs, even over her breasts. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t foreign. It was sacred. It was care. It was love.

It was our life that I tried to normalize - we were just two poets, two creative types who fell in love.

And what’s more: Lynn never flinched. Never acted like there was anything I shouldn’t see. Her body was never a battleground between intimacy and decency. It was our terrain—hers, yes, but shared in trust. I knew how to soothe it. How to support it. And how to mourn it, quietly, when she needed more than I could offer.

There was no shame there. No performance. No false modesty. Just the raw, necessary truth of what it meant to love someone whose body was fighting a battle it never chose.

Her body—beautiful, fragile, strong—was the first place I ever felt truly wanted.

And it was also the battleground.

I never saw her as broken. But I sometimes feared I was. That the silence I’d learned in childhood had cost me something sacred. That my uncertainty, my hesitation, my effort to unlearn shame was something she had to bear with me.

Years later, with someone else—Codi Renee—I found myself embracing physical pleasure more freely. I offered the kind of tenderness and desire that, in truth, was always meant for Lynn—the one I had truly been in love with.

But in my confusion, I mistook that willingness—my openness, my eagerness to give—for something deeper. I thought it meant I loved Codi Renee. I wanted to believe it. She even insisted it must be true because I said so.

But it wasn’t love. It was never love.

It was physical attraction wrapped in the illusion of connection. Desire masquerading as devotion. I see that now. And it feels tragic—not because I gave myself too freely to someone else, but because Lynn, the one who had loved me fully, the one who had taught me how to open, didn’t get to receive the fullness of what she awakened in me.

She deserved that depth. That freedom. That joy.

What I gave Codi Renee was shaped by what Lynn helped me discover. But the motivation with Codi Renee wasn’t love—it was the desperate hope of being good enough for someone who kept me at a distance. The desire to be chosen. To prove I could be desirable.

Lynn never made me prove anything. With her, I was already enough.

This isn’t a chapter of regret. It’s a chapter of recognition.

I recognize now that Lynn didn’t just teach me how to love—she taught me how to stay. To sit with what’s hard. To touch what’s vulnerable. To stop pretending that we need to be “clean” (whatever that means) and whole to be worthy of love.

CF never gave me the fight I wanted. No monster in the hallway. No thing to destroy. But Lynn gave me the chance to fight in smaller, truer ways. To stand beside her. To learn that sacredness isn’t found in perfection—but in discovery of each other with no expectations.

In every tear, in every kiss, in every quiet act of care—we were writing a new language. A new covenant.

One that said:

You are not disgusting. You are not broken. You are not alone.

You are loved.

The life I had with Lynn felt like the culmination of a lifelong dream. I had a career that was beginning to take shape, but more than that—I had a partner. A family. Even though we couldn’t have children, we were a family. That truth carried weight and meaning.

From the outside, some might have seen our relationship through a distorted lens. But it was the ability to argue, to disagree—and to talk about anything—that made our connection so strong. I don’t remember my parents ever disagreeing about anything, which now seems bizarre to me. It was like they were afraid to have different opinions. That kind of silence doesn’t feel like peace; it feels like avoidance.

My friend Jean, years later, once remarked on how much Lynn and I argued. But he only ever saw the tension—not the tenderness that followed. He never saw the repair, the softness that always came after.

In fact, in one moment that I mentioned earlier, he missed the part where, after a disagreement, I’d handed Lynn a signed copy of his book and said, “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” Her face softened, and that amused, radiant smile returned—because she couldn’t stay mad.

That was us. That’s what he missed.

We never let distance fester. If Lynn was upset or hurt, I couldn’t stand it—I had to make things right. Once, in a moment of frustration, she asked, “Then why are you with me?” and I blurted out, “I don’t know.” But I caught myself instantly. “I’m so sorry,” I said, my voice clear and without any uncertainty. There were some things I knew for certain and my love for Lynn was one such absolute truth. “I’m with you because I’m in love with you.” Spoken with the solemnity that was both profoundly passionate and yet simultaneously matter of fact - a truth so undeniable as it was almost a contradiction that passion could co-exist with simplistic truth.

Some of our arguments came from the tangled roots of my religious upbringing—beliefs I’d inherited but never questioned. Absolutes I mistook for truth. But Lynn was patient. We didn’t avoid hard conversations. We challenged each other, disagreed out loud, and always found our way back. Our arguments weren’t threats to our love; they were part of how we strengthened it.

Our Home

Our home was a space that reflected who we were. We adopted two cats—Tip and Boo—and Diane even installed a swinging door so they could reach the garage where their litter box was kept. We each had a car, though we parked them outside because we used the garage as a workspace. It had a treadmill, free weights, and even a punching bag that became my occasional outlet, inspired by Gestalt therapy.

We worked together to make the house our own. Diane helped us build bookshelves using stained ladders and a stud finder to anchor them into the wall. We set up a computer station and eventually had cable internet—cutting edge at the time. One room was turned into a cozy guest space for Lynn’s cousins, with a larger television. In the bedroom, we kept a smaller TV near Lynn’s nebulizer and medication equipment, often falling asleep to Star Trek.

We took turns cooking, cleaning, and organizing. Lynn, ever practical, often directed how things should be cleaned, and I was happy to follow. We both handled litter box duties when possible, though I now regret letting Lynn do it at all—it wasn’t healthy for her to be near the dust. At times, I denied the seriousness of her condition. That was something I had to grow through.

I obviously had to mow the lawn and while I didn’t see the same urgency to do this as Lynn did, I respected her desire that it be done - by me.

Serenity and Intimacy

Growing up starved for nurturance, I often craved closeness in ways I couldn’t explain. With Lynn, I found peace in the smallest gestures—resting my head in her lap, letting her caress my forehead, feeling my body finally exhale into someone else’s care.

We hadn’t had sex before we moved in together, but that changed as our life together deepened. I remember asking Lynn, somewhat shyly, to pick out something sexy for Valentine’s Day. She did, and it meant everything. Not just because it aroused me—though it did—but because it showed how deeply she saw me. It wasn’t performative. It was for us.

That’s the thing about our intimacy—it was always new, always unfolding. There was a mystery to it. We weren’t just reenacting some cultural script. We were exploring. Learning. Responding. Lynn didn’t wait for me to initiate every time. And when we didn’t know what the other wanted, we asked, or listened to each other’s bodies.

Our connection was unusually in sync. We rarely faced the awkward imbalance of one person being “in the mood” while the other wasn’t. We just responded—open, mutual, unguarded. Even a glance, a smile, could spark something between us. And it always felt right.

I’d grown up with the idea that men had to lead, that sex was a duty or an obligation. But Lynn and I had none of that. We moved together in rhythm, equal, attuned. We honored each other’s cues, joys, hesitations. And that felt like a kind of healing, too.

She sometimes slept nude, a quiet gesture of closeness and trust. Sometimes I’d hold her breast gently as we fell asleep, feeling peace and desire mix in a quiet kind of bliss. Even then, I’d check to see if she was in the mood and respect her response that might be something like “I need to sleep now, sweetie.”

She wasn’t fragile. But I needed to know I was giving her pleasure, not pain. That mattered more than anything else.

This, I think, is what love should look like. Passion and tenderness. Respect and desire. A home built not just with furniture, but with trust. And each night, a little miracle in the ordinary: we turned toward each other, and found the same warmth waiting there.

When Diane offered to buy us a house, everything changed. Not just practically—emotionally, spiritually. The moment she said it, without hesitation, it felt like the world had finally caught up to what we already knew: Lynn and I were a family.

Diane saw who we were to each other, and she honored it. With love. With trust. With a profound and silent blessing.

Diane purchased a home in Wilmington, and we would pay her rent—$200 a month, split between us. She helped us furnish it, decorate it, make it ours. She bought the bed, helped us arrange the bedroom, and never once suggested we live as anything less than husband and wife.

This wasn’t something Lynn and I had to tiptoe around. Diane understood. She didn’t need us to explain. Her presence in our home wasn’t a threat to our privacy—it was a quiet affirmation. There were no awkward conversations, no veiled comments. When we stood with her in the bedroom we’d share, picking out furniture or planning the layout of the space, there was a sacred simplicity in it: this is your home, and you belong to each other.

And with that, the final traces of my old religious fears—the ones that had once whispered about sin and shame—finally fell silent.

We weren’t sneaking around or playing house. We were fully living it. As engaged partners. As soulmates. As husband and wife in every way that mattered.

Our intimacy deepened. Slowly. Tenderly. Respectfully. Prior to this, even when Lynn stayed the night, we’d stopped short of what most would call “sex.” But now, in this home we shared, there were no barriers. No more holding back. When Lynn undressed in front of me, it was not bold—it was natural. It was an offering of trust and closeness. A language of love without words.

She wanted to be close. And so did I.

There’s a sacredness to that kind of vulnerability. The kind where nothing is hidden—where desire is not a demand, but a shared yearning. Lynn didn’t wait for me to initiate intimacy. She didn’t assume that role.

Our relationship didn’t work that way. We discovered each other. We listened to each other’s bodies. We made space for uncertainty and gave it time to become comfort.

And always, we talked.

It wasn’t just about passion. It was about care. I asked often if I was hurting her—not out of fear, but out of love. Her answers were clear, direct, and sometimes breathless: “Don’t stop.”

That was Lynn. Direct. Unapologetic. Full of life.

We also navigated practical realities—like the fact that she couldn’t get pregnant. Cystic Fibrosis made that too dangerous. But Diane didn’t need reassurance from me; she trusted Lynn. When I once asked Lynn what her mom thought about our sex life, she just smiled and said, “She just wants to make sure I don’t get pregnant.”

That was enough. It spoke volumes.

Our home became a place of laughter, of routines, of warmth. We adopted two cats—Tip and Boo. Diane installed a small swinging door so they could get to the garage. We had a treadmill and free weights in the garage, which became my mini gym. In the back room, we set up a shared workspace with a computer and bookshelves we built and stained ourselves.

The bedroom had a small TV where we’d fall asleep watching Star Trek. Lynn had a nebulizer and her medication equipment nearby. We made each other meals. Took turns cooking and cleaning. We didn’t have chore charts or rigid rules—we just communicated, shared, and adapted.

There was nothing performative about our life together. It was ordinary in the most extraordinary ways.

Sometimes I would lay my head in her lap, and she’d caress my forehead. We wouldn’t say much. We didn’t need to.

It was serenity and passion coexisting. She could arouse me with a glance or soothe me into sleep with a touch.

Our intimacy never became routine. It always felt like discovery. Like poetry we were writing together, one shared breath at a time.

Even now, it’s hard to describe what that felt like. We were never out of sync. Never indifferent. If one of us smiled and the other saw it, we responded. Always. No deflection. No distance.

That, to me, is the rarest kind of love.

We didn’t need a wedding to make it real. And no institution, no system, no doctrine could define what we knew to be true:

We belonged to each other.

Memories and Dreams of Abuse

For all the serenity and safety Lynn gave me, there were still echoes from the past that hadn’t fully faded.

Memories of the abuse I experienced growing up were never far from my mind—sometimes not far enough. Even in that haven we’d created, my body remembered what it had endured. The nightmares still came.

I had been assaulted—verbally, physically, emotionally. And long after I left that home, long after I was safe, my nervous system hadn’t quite caught up. I was still having nightmares, often vivid, always jarring. They found their way into my sleep like intruders.

In those dreams, I was fighting back. I would lash out at my abuser—usually my mother who was the most abusive. Only in dreams would I strike out at my mother. In that strange space between waking and sleep, it felt like my fists were flying. Like I was punching the bed.

What terrified me was the thought that I might hit Lynn. That, in my sleep, I might hurt her. The fear chilled me to the core. I didn’t fully understand it, but I carried it.

I remember one night, shaken, telling her what I’d dreamed—how I was flailing, shouting, punching in the dark. Her response was immediate and calm. “You didn’t hit me,” she said. “You didn’t even move that much. You shouted, and I woke up. That’s all.”

She wasn’t afraid. Not of me. Not of the shadows in my mind.

And that reassurance—that unwavering calm—was everything. She grounded me. She reminded me that I was no longer in that place, that my body could unlearn what it had been taught by fear. She held me and comforted me. I was like a child, not literally in a fetal position but in my mind I collapsed into that position.

These nightmares stayed with me when I was 30. But Lynn stayed with me, too. Not just beside me in bed, but beside me in the deeper sense—in the places where shame and trauma used to live. She didn’t try to fix me. She didn’t flinch. She just stayed.

And in that stillness, in that love, I healed a little more each time.

This section of the book is about the life Lynn and I built together in Wilmington, North Carolina—not in some idealized, picture-perfect sense, but in the daily, soulful way that love takes root. We were a family. That’s what mattered most.

Lynn was a poet and a potter. I was on my way to becoming a psychotherapist. We met through poetry—through words that tried to make sense of the world—and found ourselves surrounded by a creative, passionate community. The artists she knew through pottery, the poets I met at the Coastline readings—they became our extended circle. But she was my home.

We dreamed out loud together. Lynn wanted to pursue a Master of Fine Arts in poetry. I was preparing for graduate school in the mental health field. We supported each other, not just practically, but with awe and belief in each other's potential.

And we got engaged—not to prove something, but to honor what already was. We were building a life together. Like any two people in love, we wanted a future shaped by shared joy, comfort, creativity, and care.  

During our first two years together, Lynn and I didn’t have “dates” in the traditional sense. There were no grand romantic gestures planned weeks in advance. We didn’t say, “let’s go on a date.” After the early weeks—when I sometimes wondered whether Lynn actually wanted to spend time with me—we simply fell into a rhythm. We did everything together. Naturally. Easily.

Without needing to define it.

She wasn’t working full-time then—I’ll explain more about that later—and I was putting in at least forty hours a week. We came to know each other's rhythms. Each day, we’d check in with a simple, “What do you want to do today?”

On Sundays, we went to poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center. Sometimes we’d stop by on other days just to see Dusty, the emcee. We wandered through events downtown, walking beside the Cape Fear River, enjoying the simple comfort of being near each other.

Our social circles were nearly the same. I had gone to the poetry readings initially just to meet people—and that’s how I met Lynn. Many of our friends came from that world, including one of my closest—Thomas Childs. Like Lynn, he had a degree in English.

There were other poetry events we’d attend—like the big reading in Carolina Beach I mentioned earlier. And while I was still technically a paraprofessional, I was starting to form connections with people in the mental health and developmental disabilities field. Those connections would eventually open doors for me professionally, even if they weren’t friendships in the truest sense.

Lynn made acquaintances through her pottery—her creative outlet and her joy. She crafted colorful jewelry, plates, bowls, cups, and hanging planters. Pottery exhibits and seasonal events gave her chances to connect with others, though few of those relationships became close friendships.

Looking back, there’s one moment from those early months that stands out. A moment that revealed just how much I was still carrying—the fear, the insecurity, the quiet ache that had followed me from childhood.

It was April 1993, just shy of our one-year mark, at the Azalea Festival. Lynn was working the Art Center’s pottery booth, and I had come by hoping to spend time with her. But she was occupied—rightfully so—and I was left to wander the festival alone.

I remember walking past food trucks, craft stands, couples laughing and sharing ice cream. The day was warm, the park alive with spring. And yet, I felt strangely adrift. I hadn’t yet experienced what I now understand to be earned secure attachment—the kind that forms when a healthy, loving relationship helps heal the wounds of early neglect or abuse.

Lynn wasn’t rejecting me. She wasn’t ignoring me. She was just busy, doing something she loved. But the old story I carried—the one that said you’re always the extra person, the outsider—echoed loud in my mind. I wasn’t used to being claimed, to feeling fully wanted, and in that moment, surrounded by joyful couples and families, I felt like I was back in the shadows again.

That loneliness didn’t last, but it left an imprint. It reminded me that while I was healing, some pieces of my past still had a hold on me.

Later that year, around Halloween, we took a haunted tour of Wilmington. Just the two of us. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but I loved the mystery of it—the way the historic town seemed to breathe in shadows and flickering lanterns. We walked side by side, her hand in mine. There was a quiet magic in it. That night, I didn’t feel like an outsider. I felt like I belonged.

We had our favorite restaurants. For casual nights, we’d go to P.T.’s for burgers and seasoned fries. For something special—like Valentine's Day—it was always our favorite sushi place. Our rituals became part of the rhythm of our relationship.

Each December, we went to a Christmas party hosted by someone from Lynn’s pottery class. I didn’t know the people there, and the first time I wasn’t sure how she’d introduce me. But by the second year, there was no doubt—I was her boyfriend. And that label, that place in her life, felt more than good. It felt earned.

That night, I remember wrapping my arms around her waist as she chatted with someone, feeling both proud and slightly out of place. She placed her hand over mine—grounding me, letting me know I wasn’t alone.

“Are you okay, sweetie?” she asked.

“I’m fine,” I said. And I was. Because she was with me.

Even then, even months into our relationship, I was still discovering what it meant to be loved without question, without having to prove anything. To be claimed—not just in private, but in public. To feel seen.

That Azalea Festival moment in April had shown me how far I still had to go. But moments like this—her hand over mine, her smile, the easy way she introduced me—showed me how far I’d already come.

There’s more to share, of course. But that early experience—the loneliness I carried into the sunshine of a crowded festival, and the quiet safety I would later feel beside her—reminds me how healing happens not all at once, but in gentle, repeated gestures.

In being chosen again and again, until you finally start to believe it.

Seeing Lynn’s Dreams – And Letting Go of Old Expectations

As I reflect on how deeply Lynn became the center of my world, it feels only right to turn toward hers—her aspirations, her values, her quiet defiance of the narratives so many of us are handed.

She never lacked ambition. But her ambition didn’t follow conventional rules. It wasn’t about money or titles or status. And I admired her all the more for that.

Many of our friends in the poetry scene had degrees in English. A few had studied other subjects, but most had pursued literature not because it guaranteed a high-paying job, but because they loved language. In America, where we’re taught to equate education with income, an English degree is often dismissed as impractical. Lynn didn’t care about that.

By the time I fell in love with her, I had grown deeply weary of that kind of judgment. If someone had questioned her path—or her poetry—I would have spoken up. Maybe in the past, I wouldn’t have. But things were different now.

Her confidence was infectious. She had a favorite phrase she used when something crossed a line: “That’s unacceptable.” I wish I could recall a specific moment she said it—maybe it was in response to something I said offhand. But what mattered was the clarity in her voice. She didn’t let things slide. And slowly, I began to do the same. I stopped absorbing criticism as if it were deserved. I stopped apologizing for who I was.

To be clear, neither of us was putting the other down. We had left that kind of treatment behind. I had known what it felt like to be belittled, to be criticized without compassion. But now, I was starting to embody the same firmness with my parents that I had first seen modeled in Lynn.

Before Lynn, I hadn’t always known how to speak up—even when someone hurt someone I loved. I remember holding back when it came to Celta. I hadn’t yet learned how to defend someone without fear. And while I was still living at home, I wasn’t in a position to reject insults or challenge my parents. But with Lynn, I found my voice. And I made it known—any insult toward her, her choices, or her creativity would be met with unwavering resolve.

We weren’t building a life like the one I grew up around. I had been raised to believe the man should lead, provide, and decide. That would never have worked with Lynn. And the truth is, I didn’t want it to.

There were also practical realities shaping her decisions. Lynn had Cystic Fibrosis, which meant ongoing treatments, daily medications, medical equipment, and the ever-present need for reliable health insurance. She qualified for a state insurance program designed for people with CF, but it came with strict income limits. Even if she had chosen a more "practical" degree or job, she couldn’t earn above a certain amount without losing the coverage that kept her alive. She worked part-time, not because she lacked motivation, but because she couldn’t afford to gamble with her health.

And yet, she dreamed. She talked about going back to school for a Master of Fine Arts in poetry, like our friend Jean Jones. Jean wasn’t using his degree to teach or publish in elite journals—but that wasn’t the point. He pursued his art because he loved it. That kind of integrity spoke to both of us.

Lynn didn’t write poetry to impress anyone. She wrote and shared because of the passion for poetry and the written word that she shared with me. When she stepped up to the mic at poetry readings, she wasn’t performing. She was sharing something personal, something sacred, in her own time, in her own way.

We honored each other’s dreams. We created space for one another’s creativity. For me, the dream of love and marriage had always burned quietly, sometimes with desperation. For her, the relationship blossomed more unexpectedly—but just as powerfully.

That’s not to say everything was perfect. We argued, of course. Sometimes about ideas, sometimes about nothing. The small things that didn’t matter. The big things that did. When I said something that hurt her—when I got careless with my words—I knew it. And I apologized. Quickly. Sincerely. I never wanted space to grow between us.

The truth is, I don’t remember what most of our arguments were about. And maybe that’s the point. What we had wasn’t fragile. We disagreed, but we came back together. We listened. We learned. We made amends.

From Shyness to Celebration: The Joy of Being Seen

Before Lynn, I had never really thought about giving gifts as an expression of love. But during our first year together—especially after the evening she asked if we were more than friends, and I responded with “I love you”—everything changed.

From that moment on, saying “I love you” became as natural as breathing. We said it often—sometimes multiple times a day.

Lynn might’ve joked that I was more impulsive in the romance department. I was usually the first to say it. She leaned more toward endearments—sweetie, honey—while I simply called her “Lynn,” which, in retrospect, feels like something I should’ve done differently. Still, I never held back how I felt.

We were affectionate in public, too—something I’d never imagined being comfortable with. But Lynn brought that out in me. She’d take my hand, sit on my lap, rest her head on my shoulder. Her touches were playful and intuitive, never showy or awkward. She knew what felt good to me, and I felt safe returning the gesture.

By Valentine’s Day, I wanted to give her something special. I walked into a grocery store to buy roses—the first time I had ever done that. It might seem like a small thing, but for me, it was monumental. I didn’t just want to pick out flowers. I wanted to be seen picking them out. I was the kind of person who used to shy away from attention, who kept emotions tucked away like secrets. But that day, I wanted the world to know.

I approached an employee and said—loud enough for others to hear—“Hi, I need roses for my girlfriend.” I wanted them to know. I wanted to say it out loud.

“For the card,” I added, “maybe something that says ‘I love you.’ I’ll sign it, ‘To Lynn. Love, Bruce.’”

And when she said I could pay at the register, I thought, Perfect. More people would see me walking through the store, roses in hand. More strangers would witness that I had someone. That I was loved, and that I loved someone fiercely in return.

That day, I felt like I was ten feet tall.

Later, I went to a jewelry store, not sure what to buy, but sure of one thing: I wanted to say it out loud again.

“I need a gift for someone I love—my girlfriend.” That declaration, made to a total stranger behind the counter, was thrilling.

She asked if Lynn preferred silver or gold. “Silver,” I answered. I didn’t hesitate. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just wanted to find something she’d like.

Another clerk joined in to help, and we finally found a piece that felt just right. My face must’ve given everything away. I wasn’t hiding anything anymore.

Before Lynn, I would’ve kept that kind of thing quiet. I would’ve bought a gift silently, tucked it away in a bag, and slipped it to someone in private. But now, I wanted the world to know. My love had changed me. I didn’t want to be invisible anymore.

Being a couple wasn’t just a milestone. It wasn’t just a stage of life I stumbled into. It felt sacred. Miraculous. Surprising.

What we had wasn’t routine. It didn’t look like the marriages I’d seen growing up. It didn’t follow the patterns I’d always heard it should follow.

Have you ever heard Carly Simon’s song “That’s the Way I’ve Always Heard It Should Be”? It’s peaceful, even haunting, with lines like:

“My friends from college they’re all married now
They have their houses and their lawns
…Tearful nights, angry dawns
…They drink, they laugh
Close the wound, hide the scar.”

That wasn’t us.

We didn’t come together because it was expected, or because we were supposed to. We came together because we fit. Because we felt something that was spiritual in nature and necessary.

A touch. A look. A shared glance across the room. These weren’t just gestures. They were declarations. Our kisses weren’t hurried or hidden—they were slow, intentional, often preceded by a smile or a glance. Public, but gentle. Expressive. Poetic.

We were two poets writing our love in the way we touched, the way we walked, the way we looked at each other.

Even now, it still takes my breath away.

And when we fought—and yes, we did—it never meant we loved each other any less.

I don’t remember the substance of most of our arguments. Maybe that’s because they didn’t leave lasting wounds. Or maybe it’s because what came afterward—the repair—meant more than the disagreement itself.

If I had said something that hurt Lynn or pushed too hard in a debate, I felt it immediately. And I didn’t let the silence linger. I’d walk over, look her in the eyes, and say, “I really love you. And I’m really sorry.”

She would smile, sometimes reluctantly, sometimes with a laugh she tried to suppress. She didn’t want to stay mad - but she also wanted me to see her frustration. And I did.

We ALWAYS worked through our issues and problems. That was our rhythmif there was a fight(argument): connection, rupture, repair. Again and again.

Let me take you to one moment that still lingers in my mind.

We’d had a disagreement—something sharp enough to leave a chill between us, though not sharp enough to change our plans. That night, we were headed to a book signing downtown for our friend Jean Jones, who was releasing a chapbook at a cozy coffee shop.

Lynn and I sat upstairs, stiffly, saying nothing. My brother and his girlfriend were with us, but the tension between Lynn and me filled the space. It wasn’t loud. It was just... there.

After a while, I quietly stood up and said, “I’m going downstairs. I’ll be back.”

Downstairs, I approached Jean. “Let me get two copies,” I said. “Can you sign one for Lynn?”

Then I went to the counter and ordered an iced tea—exactly the way Lynn liked it, with lemon - and carried it upstairs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Anger and not speaking was something to be fixed.

She noticed me carrying the glass of tea and the two signed chapbooks, and I caught the first flicker of a smile.

Standing beside her, I handed her one. “This one’s for you. Jean signed it.”

Her expression changed instantly. She couldn’t contain her happiness—or the amusement.

She glanced over at our guests, then back at me, eyes gleaming. “How can I stay mad at you when you do stuff like this?” she said, practically laughing. Then she took the tea, still smiling.

Still standing, I offered what I needed her to hear. “Just because we’re fighting doesn’t mean I don’t love you.” The fact of my love was simple and straightforward.

That was always the truth I needed her to know. And she did.

That night, my brother left not long after—maybe because he was bored, maybe because he sensed that Lynn and I needed time alone. (Though to be fair, I’m not sure how tuned in he really was.)

But we were back. The wall had crumbled. And in the quiet that followed, we reclaimed the comfort we always returned to.

Fights didn’t scare me—not with Lynn. Because I knew, deep down, that nothing we said in frustration could ever outweigh what we had.

The love wasn’t in question. It never was.

What Drew Us Closer

One of the things I’ve mentioned—earlier in this chapter and throughout this book—is how Lynn had dreams of her own. She talked about maybe getting a Master of Fine Arts degree one day, like our friend Jean Jones. She also dreamed of having her own kiln so she could fire pottery at home. She was endlessly creative, and she loved working with her hands—sculpting, shaping, turning earth into art.

I shared my own ambitions with her not just to inform—but to feel validated. Lynn was practical and grounded in a way I admired deeply. When I talked about graduate school, or trying to find the right path in the mental health field, she didn’t just listen—she helped me think it through. She asked thoughtful questions. Let me bounce ideas off her. She challenged me when I needed it. Encouraged me when I doubted myself.

I told her about the federal loans I’d learned were available to graduate students, and how I was planning to finance school. I wasn’t just thinking aloud—I was hoping to see a spark of belief in her eyes. And I did. She didn’t just approve—she believed in what I wanted for myself.

After years of second-guessing my value, it was healing to have someone hold my dreams with the same care I gave hers. She didn’t care whether my plans would make me wealthy or impressive—only that they would make me fulfilled.

That kind of support… I had known it before, briefly—but not like this. Not with this kind of steady presence. Not with someone who stayed.

A Love That Deepened Naturally

As we moved toward our second year together, the topic of marriage and engagement came up. It wasn’t about changing anything—it was about offering more of ourselves. About asking: What else can I give you? What else could we share?

The idea of getting engaged wasn’t about proving something. It was about honoring what we already had. A way to deepen the relationship in a symbolic and meaningful way. It came from passion.

We already belonged to each other. The engagement would simply give that belonging a shape—something tangible we could hold.

By July of 1993, Lynn and I had been together for nearly a year. At the time, I wasn’t thinking about labels or formalities—I was simply happy. It’s only now, as I look back, that I realize something remarkable: we had never actually said it out loud.

We hadn’t defined anything. We hadn’t needed to.

We saw each other almost every day. We kissed with affection and intensity. Our closeness, our connection, our status as a couple was obvious to everyone around us. My friends, the people at open mic nights, even Dusty the emcee, all spoke about us like we were a couple. And I never questioned that.

I hadn’t wondered whether we were exclusive—it simply was. In fact, I hadn’t even thought about asking. If anything, I assumed Lynn knew. Her willingness to share such intimate moments—physically, emotionally - told me she would never have offered that kind of closeness if she thought I might be seeing someone else.

But on a warm Sunday evening—July 11, 1993—something shifted. Not in our feelings, but in how we named them.

We were outside on the grass in the fading twilight, just far enough from the sliding glass doors to have privacy. We moved together without hesitation, our bodies speaking a language we had learned slowly, instinctively. Our arms wrapped around each other. Our mouths met—open, warm, and eager. Passion flowed between us as naturally as breath. Our hands slid beneath shirts, not searching, but answering what had already been spoken between us.

We were just close enough to hear the muffled sounds of the TV and my roommates talking inside. The air was warm, and the connection between us was both strong and comfortable as the darkness grew and we decided to sit on the chairs that were outside. My hand on her leg. Her smile as she looked at me was such a joy to experience.

Then she asked a question that needed to be clarified, “Are we more than friends? Do you want to be boyfriend and girlfriend?”

There was no nervousness in her voice. No hesitation. Just clarity—like she already knew the answer, but asking made it real.

I hadn’t expected the question—not because I was unsure of us, but because I already saw her as mine, and myself as hers. Her question was a formality, but it was one that thrilled me.

“Yes, definitely,” I said. I started to add, “I kind of thought what we were doing just now made that obvious,” but caught myself—I didn’t want to take her words for granted. This mattered.

I felt a slight twinge of nervousness—just the faintest flicker of doubt about what she might say.

“Is that what you want too?”

“Yes,” she said.

I stared at her, moved by the clarity in her voice, the simplicity of her answer.

“Wow,” I said softly.

Then again, with a breath of wonder and a glance up at the sky, “Wow.”

And in that pause—where joy met relief, where hope finally felt safe—something inside me broke open. The words rose before I could catch them, bursting out like they had been waiting all along.

“I love you,” I said, the words escaping with a rush of joy, certainty, and awe.

Her smile deepened, and her eyes lit up. “I love you, too.”

The words were simple. But they settled into me like something sacred.

But what still amazes me is this: Lynn was the one who brought it up!

When we walked inside, hand in hand, I couldn’t wait to share the moment. Not just because of what it meant for Lynn and me—but because someone else would be happy for me. That was new.

“My roommates are going to love this,” I said. “They’re going to be so happy for us.”

I didn’t say the rest out loud: Unlike my parents, who never seemed to notice-or care-if I was happy at all.

Donna looked up from the couch as we stepped into the room. “Hi.”

“I have something to share,” I said. “Lynn is my girlfriend. We’re boyfriend and girlfriend now.”

Donna smiled knowingly. “Yes… and?”

There was a pause. A playful one. As if they were both waiting for the punchline.

Terri raised an eyebrow and laughed. “Wait—this is the first time you’ve said that?”

“Yeah… we just now made it official,” I replied, sheepishly.

They both beamed at us—genuinely, warmly. And in that moment, I felt something I’d rarely known before: joy, reflected back to me. Two people, happy for me—with no conditions, no expectations, just happiness. I didn’t have to explain it. I didn’t have to earn it. They just… were.

I mentioned, almost as a confession, how I hadn’t been sure in the beginning—those first few weeks—whether Lynn felt the same way I did.

Lynn laughed and said, “Luckily, Bruce was persistent.”

I grinned, because it was true. And somehow, that made this moment even sweeter. Not because I had to chase her, but because she had allowed herself to be caught. Because what we had now—this connection—was real, and mutual, and rooted in something we both chose.

From that moment forward, I wasn’t shy around Lynn anymore—not about who we were, or what we meant to each other. The connection had already been there. But now it had a name.

We were an us.

Looking back now, I can see what made this moment so powerful had nothing to do with the words we exchanged and everything to do with what they represented: a life I didn’t know I was allowed to want. A love that didn’t ask me to prove myself. People who didn’t need me to hide or explain or earn their joy on my behalf.

Lynn didn’t just say yes to being my girlfriend—she gave me a place where I could belong. And for someone who had spent a lifetime waiting to be wanted… that “yes” changed everything.

And just as she embraced who I was, I began to see more of who she was—not just the woman who loved me, but an artist, a creator, someone with her own world of expression waiting to be shared.

I didn’t want a love story that was only about me. I wanted to love her fully—for everything she was. And in the chapters that followed, I would begin to do just that.

The summer flowed into fall and colder months, with colder nights.

I was reminded of an earlier moment when it was still summer like and I thought I was the newbie at least more than I was among this social circle. I realized that Lynn was quiet at the poetry readings or elsewhere. She wasn't looking for recognition or attention in those settings. She wasn't trying to achieve something. I remembered going canoeing with some of the regulars at the poetry readings. I much more than Lynn was. But then I remember this guy named Will referring to Lynn as "the girl in the canoe with Bruce."

Lynn had been coming to these readings longer than I had. She even had a degree in English like most of the other regulars. To me, it had seemed that she would be the one who fits in more naturally with this crowd.

In November, we went to the beach dressed in warm coats... the sun had set and it was dark. We climbed a lifeguard's platform. We were standing. The wind blew across the dark beach making it even colder.

"It's cold," she said as she turned in the direction of the ocean. I was behind her looking in the same direction. I wrapped my arms around her from behind her.

I was confused about my physical arousal. This had not been the first time I noticed this happening. I was still haunted by religious brainwashing but everything that was happening was so right. I'm not just talking about this night. Our feelings, passions, desires spoke making everything seem so inevitable. All my religious beliefs about signs of physical arrousal being wrong could not deter what was happening. Not even in my mind could I hold onto the same ideas about sexual arousal being dirty or wrong.

Don't imagine, dear reader, that during this time period I am leaving out details about what happened. You don't have to wonder if I left out details about whether we went further than kissing or holding each other. I'll get more specific, in a moment, about what was happing during this time period.

I felt a sense of peace in my life. As winter moved into Wilmington, I found work in the human services field working with individuals with developmental disabilities and other similar problems. It's amazing how we can find solutions that match our career trajectory when we are psychologically healthy.

Lynn and I would kiss so passionately at my place when the roommates were out and at her place on Wrightsville Beach. Mostly at her place. My roommate Donna had rented a second room to a nice girl named Terri.

It was awkward when I showed up at her place and her stepfather, Bob, was there because he was not much into making conversation. He spent almost one week every month at the house. He was a pilot for one of the big airlines and so he made good money. I felt like I had to make some conversation with him because technically it was his house along with Diane, Lynn's mother. My parents would have made it known if this was their home.

At one point, I had to ask Lynn, "should I be more polite to him and think of things to say?" I asked her.

She said "no, he's just like that. If he doesn't talk, you don't have to talk to him."

This is what I mean by Lynn having a strong sense of self-esteem. No one was going to control her or disrespect her! I wish I had maintained that attitude with my own family as preparation for how I should insist that everyone treat me. There was nothing shy about Lynn when it came to her stepfather, what she wanted, how she expected to be treated.

I was attracted to the fact that I was not getting anywhere with Lynn if it were not what she wanted as well. I never did like the idea that the guy had to make the first move. It would have allowed me to wonder if Lynn wanted me, wanted to be close, wanted to spend time together as much as I wanted those things.

It was just awkward from time to time when he was there. If he answered the door, he would just say "come on in" and then shout "Lynn."

I would then hear, "coming" from Lynn.

Bob didn't try to make conversation. He acted as if I wasn't there. So, I didn't say anything either. There was no "thank you for inviting me in." "How are you, today, Bob?" Still, if we were hanging out together in a common room and Bob was there, I didn't like Lynn to walk away because if Bob came walking by it felt awkward because he didn't speak.

I didn't need his approval though. It also was clear that what we did together was none of Bob's business!

As an aside, I mentioned that Lynn had Cystic Fiborsis (CF) earlier. I was able to push aside the actual meaning of this and we had a “normal” relationship. I knew that it caused excess mucus to build up in her body. It made it hard for her to digest food. She had to take pills with every meal. She had a cough. It affected her lungs and her breathing. She couldn’t get air in her lungs as easily as others. While I pushed this to outside our attention so that we could have a normal life, I wasn’t unaware of or unconcerned about her breathing.

Intimate Encounters

Lynn could tell when I was uneasy around Bob, so we often retreated to her room—our safe space. Sometimes we’d talk for hours, lost in conversation. Other times, we’d simply lose ourselves in each other.

Her room became a kind of sanctuary, especially when we were alone in the house. Even when her mother visited, Lynn always had her privacy. But when it was just the two of us, the world disappeared. What remained was quiet, intense, and deeply real.

Desire built slowly and honestly. There was no game-playing between us. When we kissed, it wasn’t something I did to her or she did to me—we were kissing. Every gesture, every pause, every breath was shared. It felt like our bodies were moving with a single voice. It was as if our bodies were communicating in a language I never knew before.

Because of her Cystic Fibrosis, I was always mindful—particularly when I was above her. "Am I too heavy?" I asked more than once, meaning something deeper: Are you okay? Can you breathe okay?

Initially she said “no,” so swiftly to return to the moment and our passion.

Then, she answered not just with words but with her arms, wrapping herself around me and pulling me closer—as if to say, Don’t interrupt this. The intensity of how tightly she held me told me that she wasn’t going to let me interrupt anythng that was happening.

We weren’t undressing at all, but our intimacy became a common aspect of our encounters. I remember my hands beneath her shirt, touching the soft skin of her back, trailing gently up her side. It seemed almost as if every motion was something that just happened. Perhaps her body moved in some way that suggested how she wanted to be caressed. That doesn’t say it all because it would suggest that I wasn’t just as driven by a desire to caress her skin.

It was confusing that what I was experiencing was both exciting, thrilling and yet the experiences were also full of peaceful contentment. I suppose our level of intensity was increasing.

When I reached to caress her breast, I found myself reaching under her bra - again concerned about hurting her. She sensed my awkwardness. She sat up, removed her bra from under her shirt, keeping her shirt on, slid back down onto her back and pulled me back toward her. Her shirt stayed on. In my mind, it seeemed that she knew that I was hessitant to go to far. Lynn wasn’t religious but she knew I was.

And still—my body reacted in a way I hadn’t fully prepared for. The lingering conditioning from my Catholic upbringing crept in as embarrassment. There was no voice in my head saying, “You’ve sinned,” but there was this vague echo of a childhood message: Keep space for the guardian angel. Don’t go too far. Don’t get too excited.

But the sense of how right this was the strongest idea within me.

When I slipped away to clean up in the bathroom, I felt like I was keeping something hidden, something I learned to hide as a child. I had not outgrown that instinctual and non-verbal belief that there was something shameful about what happened. That old shame wasn’t hers . She had never made me feel embarrassed. It was mine, unspoken and buried.

She hadn’t done anything wrong. I hadn’t either. But there I was, unsure how to reconcile what my body knew was beautiful with what my past had labeled “too much.”

Looking back now, I understand. She wasn’t waiting for permission. She was reading my pace and offering me reassurance. If I had gone further, she would have gone with me—not out of pressure, but because she wanted me. Because she loved me.

And yes, I was still a virgin. So was she. But that wasn’t what made those nights significant. What mattered was that we were discovering each other. Holding each other with honesty. Exploring a kind of closeness I had never known - one where the desire for someone to be close to me held new meaning. That expression of desire by Lynn for closeness to me said something so powerful and it spoke to a form of toxic shame that I had carried too long.

I was no longer the outsider, the family scapegoat.

This wasn’t a story of one person leading and the other following. It was something we created together - a language our bodies spoke to one another and yet a connection deeper than touch.

The Christmas holiday loomed ahead, and I was fervently discussing with my roommates the idea of capturing photos of a neighborhood renowned for their extravagant Christmas decorations.

That's when Donna and Terri insisted on taking pictures of Lynn and me together. We decorated a tree, and they urged us to pose in various ways. It was deeply gratifying to realize this mattered profoundly to my roommates. Someone was genuinely thrilled for us. Within me I felt an expansive joy that someone was happy for me. Yet, in that moment, I wasn't consumed by how desperately I had yearned for all of this. I was acutely aware of not taking a single instant for granted, refusing to dismiss or overlook any fragment of time. I was engulfed in a profound sense of awe, something enduring and powerful.

It wasn’t just amazing that I was happy to be with Lynn but that someone else, two other people, my roommates, were hapy for me, happy for my joy.

I also recognized the newfound ease I felt with Lynn.

The most precious gift that Christmas was Lynn's revelation to me. I confessed my earlier uncertainty about her interest at the beginning of our relationship. She laughed, and said, "I'm glad you were so persistent." The truth hit me like a lightning bolt. The fact that initially, she wasn't as invested in us as I was didn’t matter. But the fact that she was grateful for my persistence struck a deep, primal chord within me - one that needed this validation. The realization that I could bring someone such profound happiness in countless ways was overwhelming.

I'm definitely going to embrace this life with Lynn.

Lynn and I were "an item" and that felt so right. I never took things for granted. I would savor every little thing as if my mind was taking snapshots to populate an imaginary photo album within my mind.

Remember Dusty, the emcee for the poetry readings? She worked at the Coastline Convention Center as I mentioned. Because she was so welcoming, I would go there alone sometimes or arrive alone before Lynn joined me. Dusty would ask about Lynn and what was happening with her... how she was doing.

So, among our social circle, people saw us as a couple. This made this entirely blissful dream so real. I wasn’t an outsider any longer. I wasn’t the friend of both members of a couple. I had known love once before but this relationship with Lynn went so much further and deeper. There were no limits to how much this relationship could grow.

Still, there were some formalities to be discussed.