Love Me, Won’t You?

Personal Essay by LEXI FOLDENAUER Illustration by BILL ANKER

Controlling Fate

I stare at my phone and deliberate on whether to send the first message. It feels hot in my hands as I weigh the risks of the next move in my head. It’s winter quarter of last year and I’m unsure why I am messaging him, but I have an overwhelming urge it is the right thing to do. I made up my mind months ago that I want to move back to Portland after college graduation. I imagine I would run into him one day on my way to work in downtown Portland and he would ask me to coffee. Or maybe he wouldn’t recognize me at all. I knew my story in Portland was incomplete, and deep down, I knew he was going to be part of it. Years of disappointment with dating left me tired of waiting around for something to happen. How many relationships never got a chance because someone was too afraid to be vulnerable? I knew if I wanted to see him, I had to make the first move.

I pick up my phone again after having tossed it across the bed.

The pink tint of its case matches my face.

I start typing.

“Hey…I know this is random, but you’ve crossed my mind a lot over the years and just thought I’d say hello. Hope you’re well.”

Minutes pass.

It feels like the room is spinning.

I toss my phone again so it’s out of sight.

More minutes pass and my anxiety grows.

I’m about to give up and swear off dating for the rest of my life.

*Ping*

It’s him.

Timing’s a Beast

I met Keala in 2012, while half-heartedly pursuing social work at Portland State University. It was Dollar Beer Night at the Cheerful Tortoise, a dive bar across the street from my apartment. We shared mutual friends, but I hadn’t seen him before. My eyes were fixed on this tall, Hawaiian man with a bristly beard covering his soft, boyish face. He looked handsome in a peacoat. I liked the sound of his deep voice and the way his charismatic storytelling commanded the attention of the room.

I mustered the courage over the course of three beers to approach him. He was lamenting to a friend about the problems with the education system, and how he didn’t want to pursue teaching anymore. I waited for the right moment to interject in the conversation. He glanced over and caught me smiling, and his gaze lingered. Talking to Keala was effortless, and our connection felt magnetic. It was like being with an old friend. The type of moment that leaves an imprint on your memory, and makes it hard to forget someone. He was the right guy, and it was the wrong time.

After only two years in Portland, I was ready to move again. It was the third place I had landed in four short years of living away from my parents’ house. Italy. Alaska. Portland. I craved adventure and risk and attracted chaos. Instead of coping with my insecurities and depression, and identifying the fixable problems in my life, I went looking for the answers in the next place. Each new city, job, lover and friend group gave me a chance to reinvent myself. At least, that was the plan. Of course, life doesn’t work so simply.

The last time I saw Keala, before I moved in spring 2013, I rented a car so we could hike at the Columbia Gorge. I wanted to see the waterfalls, and him, before I left. We had been out on a couple of dates in the year since we met, but mostly hung out in groups, keeping each other at a safe distance. A painful break-up and traumatic experience had left him emotionally unavailable. I had my own issues too. I still felt the need to say goodbye because I knew I would miss him.

I turned up the music and started singing to relieve the awkward tension between us. He looked over and smiled at me. Soon we were harmonizing to “Bohemian Rhapsody.” It reminded me of road trips as a kid. That moment has often snuck into my daydreams on lonelier afternoons. The last thing I remember him saying to me that day was:

“You have your shit together, Lex. I don’t.”

It was clear to me in that moment he didn’t know me that well, but I also hadn’t allowed myself to be seen. In reality, I was moving to Bellingham because of my inability to get my shit together.

Reconnection

Before the end of winter quarter last year I planned a trip to Portland. Keala and I exchanged messages over the course of the month, trying to get reacquainted with each other’s lives after almost five years. Both of us remained guarded, and initially approached the reconnection as friends. My coy invite for coffee soon turned into him booking a reservation at Andina, an upscale Peruvian restaurant in the Pearl District. I took it as a good sign.

I showed up early to the restaurant to help calm the butterflies. I wondered what we would talk about, and if I would still feel a semblance of the connection I did five years ago.

“Just got out of the Uber, headed your way,” his text read. I sipped my drink while scanning the menu, unable to actually read the words but trying to look busy until he approached.

Hearing his voice after all those years was like a warm embrace. There was no awkward tension between us anymore. It felt like seeing an old friend, where everything falls back into place despite time apart. Five years had matured and humbled him. He had grown his hair out, and silver hairs glistened in a slicked-back bun. He still looked handsome in a peacoat. I barely finished my meal as we caught up on all we had missed.

As the night seemed to be closing in, I knew I had to tell him what was on my mind before I left town. I asked him to sit down next to me, craving his closeness.

“I always felt like there was unfinished business between us,” I joked. “I never forgot about you, and have always wondered how things could have turned out between us.”

He looked shocked. His eyes widened and he got quiet.

The next line I actually blurted out:

“Since we met, I have always felt like you are my person.”

I turned bright red and waited for him to say something.

“Wow,” he said.

Oh no, I thought.

My mind went back to all the other times I dared to be vulnerable, only to be let down.

He stared ahead and paused for a few moments, then looked back at me.

“I am so glad you feel that way, Lexi. I hope I can live up to that.”

I move back to Portland in June, just days after graduation. It’s a fresh start in a city I love. This time, I am not running from anything. I am coming home. This time, he will be standing there waiting for me.