Chapter One : From Right to Left

I secretly slipped the David Yurman ring Taylor gifted me for Christmas the year before from my right ring finger, to my left. 

When the self checkout light turned green, letting shoppers know it was now available, I hurried over and quickly scanned the barcode of the Clear Blue box and slipped it into a bag, all in one swift motion. I could feel the warmth radiating from my cheeks and longed for the safety of my front seat.

Good, I don’t think anyone saw me.

 I pulled my sunglasses down  to cover shameful eyes as I made my way out of the store, though there was no need. It was cold and cloudy; a  typical January day in North Carolina. 

I frantically tried to remember where I had parked and honestly, didn’t even remember driving there.

I hadn’t lived in Greenville long, but long enough to know that going out on a Saturday morning in hopes of staying under the radar was not my best idea. It seemed as if everyone in all of the surrounding counties ended up in the same Target parking lot as me that day, though for vastly different reasons. 

College students preparing for a new semester, teenagers returning the rather juvenile t-shirts they received from distant relatives for Christmas. Moms pleading with their children to get in their carseats and buckle up and young couples heading in to carefully curate their wedding registries.

And then there was me.

 Alone, scared, a million thoughts running through my head. Thoughts of the changes that would soon take place if, God forbid, two pink lines appeared on that test; the relief I would feel if this was just a scare. Life could go on as if nothing ever happened. 

Things were finally starting to fall into place for me. A serious relationship, a decent job, structure and routine. Everyday was the same and I liked it that way. No surprises. Just a steady paycheck, weekends off and enough independence to go and do as I pleased. 

 I couldn’t help but ponder the way my life would look if things just stayed the same. I wouldn’t have to explain myself to anyone, or look down in shame when strangers asked if we had been trying. I wouldn’t have to prepare a script in response to those whose first question would be when are you getting married? followed by an obviously forced we’re so excited for you!

I never pictured myself married or even in a long-term relationship. I valued being alone and I was okay with being the girl that was always a bridesmaid, never a bride. I liked moving at my own pace and had big aspirations for myself. The end goal was simple; success.

Every move I made was pushing me towards my next accomplishment, no matter how small. Progress was my drug, affirmation was my high. I didn’t have a pinterest board filled with wedding invitations and color schemes. I didn’t go on dates regularly and my social life was rather lackluster.

I had the attention of men but I wasn’t actively seeking it out. Most, if not all of my friends and peers had been in relationships, some even since our middle school days. I’m from one of those towns where you either leave as soon as you walk across that stage or you marry your high school sweetheart a few months after, followed by children and a custom built home on land you inherited.

I certainly wasn’t on a path toward the latter.

I can’t quote, verbatim, how it came up in conversation, but a good friend convinced me to get on the app. We all know it and most of us grew to hate it; Tinder. 

I set up a profile with the pictures that made me look like a well-rounded woman; one with a dog, one with a kid, one in workout clothes, one with a few friends and one in a dress.

The biography section was filled with sarcasm and cheesy lines like “I prefer spending my Tuesday evenings in the bathtub listening to John Mayer.” 

 The more I swiped left and then right, and then left a few more times; and the more messages I received, the more I craved the attention. 

I had no plans to meet any of the young bachelors I “matched” with— I use that term loosely—  but they threw compliments and words of endearment out freely as if I was a child waiting for candy to be thrown at a parade. I was the kid darting in the street to pick up every last piece. Remember, at this time, affirmation and praise equaled achievement for me- regardless of what provoked it.

This newfound app was releasing me of my biggest insecurities while simultaneously exacerbating them. It quickly became an addiction and I found myself spending more time on it than any other social media. 

After months of mindlessly swiping and going on two, maybe three dates; a grainy photo of a man appeared on my screen. 

I was laying in my bedroom at my parents house; a room I once only occupied every other weekend and was now my permanent residence. 

I moved in with my dad and step-mom two years prior and kept the inner workings of my life under lock and key during my time there. I was the easy kid, the quiet one, the intellectual.

I wasn’t the one that dated and flourished where other 18-year-olds did. 

I went to work, came home, occasionally had dinner with a friend, and the cycle continued. I had a reputation to uphold, a reputation that, in my mind, would be slashed if they had the slightest inkling of my dating app rendezvous.

I cared about how I was viewed in their eyes more than anyone else. 

The last thing I wanted was for them to think I should be doing better, doing more, doing things differently. 

I’ve been a people pleaser my entire life, but this was one of my more extreme and ongoing cases. I kept things private so there would be no room for speculation or chatter behind my back. 

Disappointed parents were my personal purgatory, though I failed to avoid it many times. 

All things that crossed my mind when deciding who I would swipe right on. Would he live up to their standards? I thought as I scrolled through profiles.

This man’s photos were that of a typical twenty-something from Eastern North Carolina; friends, fish and formal- fraternity formal, that is. He was on the shorter side, but visibly strong. He was blonde- I wasn’t into blondes. But something about him made me perk up a little. 

After just seconds of consideration, I swiped right- or maybe it was left, whichever direction says yes please, I’ll have one of those.

The fateful banner popped up immediately upon swiping:

You’ve matched with Bryan! Send him a message now.

It was rare for me to send the first message, and tonight was no different. I swiped through a few more contenders and closed out of the app. It wasn’t uncommon for messages to start rolling in at this time of night; it’s when everyone is lonely and looking for someone to fill their void. I received notification of a new message from, you guessed it, Bryan. 

Hey Morgan, I’m Taylor. How are you doing this evening?

Taylor or Bryan…I’m confused.

Well, my name is Bryan Taylor, but I go by Taylor.

It’s little things like this that typically would’ve sent me on my way waving a red flag, but instead, I decided to entertain him a bit longer.  

He was twenty-five. Seven years older than me. Perfect. Something about his opening line was intriguing and very different from the usual heyyy or corny pickup line I received most days. 

I’m pretty good at reading people, but there was something about him I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Part of me thought he was kind, an old soul, endearing. The other part was convinced this was a skillful ploy he’d mastered.

Taylor and I continued to talk until he finally asked for my number. I obliged, but told him we could pick up where we left off the following day as it was getting late.

 The next morning came and I waited and waited for a text. Hours went by, hastily checking my phone every half hour.

I spent most of my morning filling coworkers in on our exchange from the night before, so I wasn’t the only one on the edge of my seat.

Lunchtime came and went. 

Still no word from Bryan/Taylor.

So, I decided to be bold for once. What did I have to lose? Another Tinder match that would ultimately go nowhere? I headed to the app and sent him a message.

Kinda thought I would’ve heard from you by now…

Sorry! Busy morning!

In my mind, that was it. It would be over before it ever started. I could forget it and continue my aimless swiping. That’s generally how this went for me, and I did my best not to take it personally.

Just as I had rid my mind of him, a text message appeared from an unsaved number my iPhone auto generated as Maybe:Taylor. 

We chatted throughout the day and I gave him the runaround. It was my signature move. Play hard to get and you don’t get attached. Don’t get attached, don’t get hurt. But more importantly, don’t get attached and you don’t have to tell your parents about him.

He was eager to meetup- I was not. Actually, I was terrified. He was wise and interesting. I was not. He was charismatic and seemingly stoic. I was not. I could put on a convincing charade over text, but I knew once we met in person, my cover would be blown.

 I wasn’t witty and clever on the spot. The thought of looking a man in the eye and saying something flirty sent my stomach into knots. He was older and more experienced. I was unsure of myself and had only ounces of self-esteem to survive on. 

As I thought about it, doubt and insecurity crept in. Why me, anyway? What is he thinking? Does he really find me attractive? He must be lonely. And why doesn’t he have a wife yet?

The more we talked, I quickly came to realize why I was an easy target. He was a realtor. In other words, a salesman. He was selling himself to me and I had my checkbook out ready to pay any price- until I wasn’t. 

I made up my mind not to play his games anymore. A firm, yet flimsy decision. I desperately tried to convince myself he was just looking for a quick fling and I was far from interested. 

I made a pact with my conscience to no longer entertain this man. But I just couldn’t seem to stop reeling through our conversations and reading our text threads over and over.

We talked about his hobbies and mine, work, what he was cooking for dinner, books we were reading. He was heading a few towns over to purchase a mountain bike the day after we matched and sent photos of snow covered ditch banks. He went on and on about his admiration for nature and the beauty of God’s creations.

Something about him was different. I had never talked to a man that had such a scale of things to discuss. I never really knew what he would say or ask next. So, I just kept answering his questions and asking a few of my own, until a week had passed in the blink of an eye.

We finally made plans to meet on a Saturday night. He wanted to make dinner for me at his place; red flag number two. I talked this over with coworkers, who knew more about my personal life than anyone. We decided I would share my location with them and I should just go for it. 

They were always encouraging me to branch out and date, something I didn’t put much effort into.

Saturday evening rolled around and my good time girls were calling my name. I had a special group of friends that enjoyed forcing fun upon me every couple of weeks and I never regretted our nights together, so I was quick to cancel the date I didn’t want to go on in the first place. 

I told Taylor my friends pleaded with me to join them for a night out on the town, though it didn’t take much pleading at all.

He was disappointed, but supported my decision and didn’t make me feel guilty. I wasn’t used to this. 

Men sometimes like to use a woman’s independence and decision making against them, making them feel small and meek. 

When I wasn’t met with protest, it was the confirmation I was looking for. He was a good person. 

So, we rescheduled the date to Sunday.

Sunday came quickly and with a vengeance as I nursed a violent hangover, which was exacerbated by the stomach turning thought of a first date happening in just a few hours. I ultimately drafted yet another cancellation text. 

Taylor talked to me throughout the day and asked when I would be heading his way. 

I fed into the conversation for a bit and eventually copied and pasted the premeditated speech from my notes app. I did this with pretty much everyone; cancel, reschedule, cancel, reschedule, until they finally give up.

He joked that I was avoiding him, and if I didn’t want to meet him, just be honest. Really, this was his way of saying please stop wasting my time.

I took inventory of my feelings, and decided I didn’t want to let him slip away. I promised him the following day after work, I would head to his place and we could finally spend the evening together. We lived an hour away from one another other, so I knew I could use that as an excuse to cut our night short.

Monday arrived, and between counting pills and answering the question when will my blood pressure medication be ready? no less than a million times, I begged coworkers for one tiny reason to cancel again— they did just the opposite.

I clocked out at 5 p.m. and everyone threw their final Hail Marys as we walked to our vehicles.

Tell us how it goes!

Keep us updated!

You look amazing!

Don’t forget to send us your location!

As I started to drive, I thought of how the night would play out, what he would think of me. I wondered what his home would look like, what he would be wearing, what he would think of what I was wearing, though I warned him of the black scrubs and Dansko clogs I’d be sporting.

Overthinking was a common practice of mine and the root of my anxiety. Once I slipped into a cycle of overthinking, it was close to impossible to snap out of. 

The further I drove, the more my mind raced. My teeth chattered out of nervousness and anxious thumbs tapped my steering wheel.

15 miles. 

5 miles. 

2 miles. 

Your destination is on the right.

Since he was a realtor, I guess my mind defaulted to him being a homeowner himself. I imagined a quaint brick abode, a well-groomed yard and a dim porch light.

But, once I arrived at an apartment complex; brick buildings, decent landscaping and dim porch lights outside each door,  I almost convinced myself to leave. Not because he lived in an apartment, but because the act of walking up the stairs, passing other people, finding his building and finally knocking on the door was much too overwhelming.

 I can’t do this, I thought. If I leave now and block his number, I can forget this ever happened. 

I texted my group of fellow employees for encouragement and they quickly supplied just enough for me to open my car door and walk across the parking lot.

I kept my head down and focused on the cracks in the concrete. It was a small parking lot that housed five or six cars and a dumpster that had seen better days.

Although located in the heart of East Carolina University’s campus, it was Christmas break. No music was playing from the frat house down the street, no one was in their front yards having a beer around a makeshift fire pit. It was quiet and much less intimidating.

I continued my walk and approached his building. 806, apartment number 6 I repeated over and over to myself as I tiptoed up the stairs. It was dark out now, and thankfully none of the neighboring tenants were outside. As I approached the balcony of the second floor, I inspected each door for its number. 

Eight, seven, then five and finally six. 

I could hear music coming from his apartment as I stood there. I noticed paint chipping from a door that had clearly been given several landlord specials. I checked my phone one last time, slipped it into my bag, and timidly knocked with a clammy fist. 

No answer. 

I softly knocked once more and waited a few seconds. 

It felt as if I’d stood there for hours waiting on someone that was never coming. I felt silly and began to panic. I should just go. What a waste of time.

 Just as I had made the decision to head back down the stairs and leave as if I’d never been there, I heard singing coming from apartment six. Loud singing, sing as if no one is listening, singing. It dawned on me that he was unable to hear my faint knocks. 

Something about this put me at ease. It made me feel comfortable to know that he was enjoying himself while awaiting my arrival. It relaxed me enough, maybe a little too much, for me to throw out knocking all together and turn the patinated brass doorknob. I cracked the door just enough to peer inside. 

A face of utter shock turned to meet mine. 

And after a few seconds of standing halfway in the door, an expression of complete surprise quickly turned to one of relief as he gladly welcomed me inside. I immediately took note of the smell; Christmas trees. 

My love of Christmas made its way into our conversations several times the week prior.  It was mid December, and while there wasn’t enough room for a tree in his quaint home for one, he made sure to light a Yankee Candle resembling the smell of a small town Christmas tree farm. I like to think this was a nod to me; a way to let me know he was paying attention.

It was obvious the wicks had been lit many times, the wax nearing the bottom of the jar. Thoughts of him lighting it for other girls crept in and I did my best to suppress them.

The kicker was the scent had been discontinued. Taylor expressed his disappointment, but my wheels were already turning with ways to remedy it.

He directed me to have a seat on the couch. The upholstery was unmistakably original; reminiscent of something your grandmother would’ve swooned over in the early nineties. A description I soon came to learn was spot on. 

Taylor sat in a neighboring chair; also notably antique and worn. It was made of wicker and squeaked as he shifted. This setup gave us a chance to speak eye-to-eye and I appreciated that. But it also made me nervous. I could feel myself wanting to look away, but forced my gaze to stay upon him as best I could.

He was sipping an IPA and offered me a bottle of water. This took me by surprise and I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

Was he being a gentleman? Was he scared to supply alcohol to an 18-year-old?

I couldn’t recall if I’d mentioned that my dad was a police officer, and my mind began to drift. I reeled through past conversations and within seconds my brain was somewhere else. 

I quickly snapped back to reality and nodded my head in acknowledgment, as if I hadn’t missed a beat. 

We made small talk for a while and he maintained his distance. I took inventory of the knick knacks and decor surrounding us. Trophy deer mounted on the wall; nothing new to me. Hunting was a common practice where we lived and it was rare to walk into one’s home without finding a piece of taxidermy on display. 

He had a bookshelf filled with a variety of literature; self-help, devotionals, finance,  How to BBQ. Atop the bookshelf was a collection of random items; a piece of old driftwood, a dusty oil lamp, postcard sized paintings, a few duck calls and several vintage trinkets. 

All things I found to be rather unusual of a man in his mid-twenties. I was anticipating video games, maybe sports memorabilia, but was pleased to find the opposite.

It was evident he was different. But at the same time, a lot like my father. The phrase you usually end up with someone just like your dad lingered over my shoulder as our conversation progressed. 

We talked about our pasts and what we wanted our futures to look like. I talked about the career in pharmacy I was after and he discussed real estate and future investment plans. 

We talked about the outdoors; mountain biking, fishing, hunting. I was lucky enough to hear the stories behind each deer mounted on the wall. 

And though I was listening, I paid closer attention to his mannerisms and choice of vocabulary. His way of speaking was almost poetic. He didn’t have a southern accent; he sounded soft and wise, educated and profound. 

Before I knew it, it was 10 p.m. and I had roughly twenty unread text messages from nosey friends and coworkers, all anxious to know if I was having a great time. 

Some began to wonder if I would be the next subject of a Dateline NBC episode, others assumed things must be going well and were eager to hear from me. 

We decided to call it a night. No kiss, just a hug goodbye. He watched from the balcony as I made the short walk across the parking lot to my car. 

This time, I didn’t look down at the cracks in the concrete. Instead, I looked confidently ahead and smiled like a fool. 

Once I made it, I sat there in silence, taking in the last few hours with this stranger who didn’t feel like a stranger at all. As I pulled out of the parking lot, my phone rang. 

I looked down, expecting it to be a close friend calling to ask all the burning questions. 

It was Taylor.

I figured I could keep you company on your drive home.

We talked and laughed for the next hour and before I knew it, I was pulling into my parent’s driveway. I made it inside, headed to my room and we said our goodnights.

Without thinking twice, I hopped onto eBay. After an extensive search, I found and ordered one of the only remaining, discontinued, Christmas tree scented Yankee Candles.