When there isn't a future

I met someone special. I write about love a lot. But this time it could be different. This is really just a journal entry, I needed to get this out.

You held my hand as you walked me to work. I hid you behind a wall so I could kiss you without my coworkers seeing. I knew it was goodbye, maybe forever, and I was trying not to dwell on how much I liked you. I remember you catching my eye four days ago, walking to the showers with a towel wrapped around your waist. You had a tattoo on your side that I couldn't quite make out. I wanted to know what it said. 

Now, after waking up next to you naked in bed this morning, I have to let you go. One more kiss and you walk quickly away, while I clock in and start my shift. The hours tick by, customers come and go, and I'm chained to my hostess podium imagining all the things I should have confided in you. 

A couple days before you picked me up from work because you wanted to "take me out" for dinner or a drink. I realized I told you the wrong address to go to, and because you were a damn foreigner your phone didn't work without wifi. Five minutes before you were supposed to meet me I realized my mistake, and begged my coworker to cover me while I ran out to the address I'd accidentally sent you to. I reached there in record time, panting, frantically looking around for an awkward, scruffy, British guy. After another five minutes go by I'm convinced you're lost in an American city and you'll wind up on the evening news, when I see you wave and run across the street towards me. I was mad at myself, but relieved that it had worked itself out. You insisted on holding my hand while we walked home, but with you I didn't mind like I usually do with guys. Most of the time, I'm uncomfortable, imagining my hands are too sweaty or skin is too rough. We walked and talked as shyly as two middle schoolers on their first date, learning that you have an older sister you're not close to, and that you have a terrier back home. We passed by a fountain at a fancy high rise and you jokingly dared me to take off my shoes and wade in. You didn't think I would but I could see your face light up when I did. 

Maybe that's why I fell for you. There are very few people out there that I can be comfortable with. I'm used to being closed off. Most of the time I play a game of pretend--I'm strong, impenetrable, cold. But with you....I could be goofy. The huge dork I am with close friends and when I'm alone. The girl who used to pretend she was a gypsy runaway and watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer. You were so simple.

This is what I'm struggling to understand. I'm seeing two other guys right now on a steady basis. We're not exclusive, but both are perfectly respectable. Perfect candidates for a relationship. And besides them I have two steady friends with benefits and countless booty calls to look forward to once school starts. Any of them could be something more if I chose to pursue that path. But I don't care. I'm fond of these people. I enjoy spending time with them. It's not enough. Four days with you and I'm imagining future trips, visits, at least letters going back and forth. There are two explanations for this.

The first is the less positive. After watching my parents fight and strain one another for years, I can't believe that never ending love exists. They did everything right. Met in college, got married, waited the right amount of time before having kids, and somehow everything went wrong. For years I grew up believing that there is no future with love. You can feel it and you can have it for a while, but it's not permanent and it was foolish to believe otherwise. So now I only fall for people where there is no viable future. I protect myself by refusing to be invested in anything that could lead somewhere. This summer alone I only really liked three guys, all of whom I couldn't be with. The first was the recovering drug addict I met while I was home for two weeks. The second an immature man child who after flunking out of college was going home for good at the end of the summer. And lastly my scruffy British boy. But you're different. Which leads me to explanation number two. 

That walk home after work the day you left was brutal. I started down the familiar streets listening to my usual playlist. I went over everything in my head convincing myself I was crazy. We had fun. It was over now. Why was I still thinking about you. By the time I got home to the hostel I was close to tears. My roommate and friends were upstairs drinking, so I crept to my room for a minute to compose myself. I walked over to the bed and I saw a paper bag with my name on it sitting there. You mentioned you left something for me. I sat down and pulled it into my lap. I opened the top and pulled out a book. I broke down sobbing. The book. Two nights ago we got takeout dinner from a popular hippie restaurant nearby. The restaurant had a bookstore attached to it and we browsed the selection while we waited. I noticed a picture book I loved as a kid, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel, and I briefly mentioned it to you. You remembered, went back and bought it for me. You wrote on the inside to always stay a dork. I couldn't forget you because even though I'd known you for four days, you knew me. You knew me, and that was why you liked me. 

That book made it real for me. And it was even better when you told me you felt the same. I'm scared, and I don't know how to do this, but I want to. For the first time in a long time, I really want to. Please be worth it.