I get to see you today. I hope your Father’s Day gifts make you smile. C got you a fishing pole, M chose to get you two new pairs of boots, E wanted to get you a plant so I picked one that has these dark, textured leaves, and T got you a t-shirt but it won’t be here until Saturday so you’ll have to wait to get it.

I’m making cheesecake in the morning. Hopefully, you don’t come so early that it’s not cool enough to eat when you get here.

I did a little more work in my guided journal yesterday. Some of the questions are hard to answer because I can’t think of one. Others are hard to answer because remembering is confusing, painful, or messy. I wonder how inaccurate my memory is. I’ve heard that people’s memory is like an IRL narrator.

I just finished watching the last episode of Bridgerton (season 3) and I’m not sure how to feel. It’s the first season I didn’t cry. I guess I just felt like a lot of the acting and script were forced or unrealistic. I get that it’s a fantasy, but this was the worst season. I really didn’t like the main character and how there was almost no punishment for all the harm she caused that she minimized. And she really did entrap this man by sleeping with him and hiding a significant fact about herself. Because if they hadn’t done the deed, they probably wouldn’t have married.

I appreciate the body positivity. I just didn’t like the character or the plot line.

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You got here a little later than planned because traffic has been awful in the city. You got your Father’s Day gifts and cards. After that, we grabbed dinner at Burger King. While we ate, I gave you the card I wrote earlier this week. I can’t remember everything I wrote but I know it was about how you’d grown into a man that would make your father proud. The letter moved you to tears and you tucked it into your visor when we got back to the car.

We drove to Eagle Creek where we hiked through the woods by a lake. We found a little bench on a cliff and sat for an hour, mostly in silence. I told you what happened with Melissa and talked a little about my developmental trauma. You listened and offered words of comfort.

I felt at ease in our silence. It was as if we didn’t need to say anything but still found contentment in each other’s company. I wanted so badly to kiss you in the verdant woods.

On the way back to the car, we both got a bit sweaty. Your arms were glistening in the sunlight. I bit my lip thinking about the way your back curves and dips. The way your hips sway when you walk. My libido has somewhat subsided in the past week but I’m still touching myself and thinking about you every night.

While you drove me home, I couldn’t take my eyes off you. Your soft lips peeking out from your beard, the straightness of your nose, the way your eyes go from earth to amber when the sun shines on them. You caught me staring and a soft smile stretched your lips. You told me “I’m glad you think I’m pretty. You’re pretty gorgeous yourself.” I bit my lip and looked away for a moment. You reached for my hand.

When you were getting ready to leave, you kissed me goodbye. Our kisses were chaste because I’d asked you not to kiss me with tongue anymore because it lights a fire inside me that takes days to quell. Even now, just the thought of the way you kissed me last week makes my toes wiggle. My insides ache for you to fill this emptiness.

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One of the things I have come to realize is that having hope is a way of expressing self-love. I shouldn’t forget to wake up every morning unafraid to hope.