I Fell in Love with a Stranger for 9 Hours

I wasn’t Cinderella and he wasn’t Prince Charming. He wouldn’t chase after me. If he did, the shoe wouldn’t fit. Yet he was special and I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why.

The entire affair played like a Taylor Swift song in my head. Or maybe an episode of GIRLS. It left me high for days — high enough to change me.

I had hit rock bottom. My failed marriage robbed me of any definition of love I thought I understood; my ex-husband came out as gay and I scrutinized and overanalyzed every feeling I had experienced within those 5 years. I loved him, or at least I had loved him at some point. But the aftermath of the divorce left me questioning whether I had ever been in love.

Dating in that first year following my divorce was a tornado of weird emotions. Marriage trained me to strive for a future with someone else. It ingrained in me that my plan was intertwined with someone else’s. Marriage assured me that I was needed and wanted.

Then divorce threw all those lessons in a trash can and set the whole thing on fire.

I didn’t try too seriously to date. I read He’s Just Not That Into You enough times to know a dead end when I saw it. In the months immediately following my divorce, I kind-of-sort-of-dated someone. Call it a rebound or fling, but mostly it was an effort to avoid grieving my divorce. We saw each other for six months, at which point I asked for more. He didn’t hesitate; he said no.

Then came a string of first dates. One guy even told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me but I reminded him too much of his ex-girlfriend. Littered between dates were a few slipups with friends (or friends’ friends) that ended in awkwardness.

But one Thursday I took a chance on a stranger. I walked up to one of my favorite dive bars, faking confidence in my crimson lipstick. He caught up with me and we walked in at the same time. I was drawn to him. Something about him glowed and I couldn’t help but stare.

“I’m Kate,” I said. I was enchanted to meet him.

His friendly smile countered his piercing eyes. He was tall but not towering and my favorite boots gave me a few inches’ boost of my own.

We clicked immediately and then chatted for an easy three and a half hours. He was in town on business for a few days so I knew not to expect anything more than those few hours with him. When we parted ways he said he wanted to see me again the next day. I didn’t believe him and it caught me off guard. Of course I wanted to see him again. How could I not?

That next day I spent a handful of blissful hours with him. They were perfect. He was perfect. He made me feel perfect.

My walls were up sky-high but he was open and intense. He glowed when I met him, when I walked up to that bar and batted my eyelashes his way. But lying next to him then, it was clear he was broken in his own way. His world had shattered once, and he was still recovering.

His honesty shocked me and with every story he shared I got a clearer glimpse of his complex character. If he could live anywhere, he said, he would live exactly where he lives now — in his historical little town — but maybe in a different apartment. He seemed content, settled and confident. I was hooked.

If I could live anywhere, I told him, I would live in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. I was anything but content, settled or confident. My identity was a shell of what it used to be. It was fickle and antsy.

But he whittled me down and made me comfortable enough to share bits and pieces of myself. We talked about family and over-tipping waitresses even when our eggs are undercooked. I’m allergic to cats, I told him, and he said it gets better after living with a few. He scoffed when I confessed I bought the new Taylor Swift album and listened to it on repeat for days, and then he went on a tangent about how much he loves the band Cake.

The history of his hometown was chiseled into his memory like it was a part of him; I could see the streets and buildings he described. My logging town pales in comparison. I think a scene from Twilight was almost filmed at my high school, I told him, and scattered above my hometown’s busy streets are squirrel bridges to ensure safe crossing of our beloved critters. It became obvious that unlike him, not even my hometown was an anchor of my identity.

He was engaged once and barely blinked when I told him I had also been engaged, then married and divorced. I wasn’t judged. I was adored. Then my time with him was up. I needed to meet a friend but didn’t want to leave.

“I have to leave tomorrow and I like you,” he said quietly. He said something about staying in touch to “give us the best shot.” I think he said he would miss me, or maybe I’m making that up.

My big eyes are terrible at keeping secrets and their unconvinced gaze gave me way. I may even have rolled my eyes. I didn’t believe him and I told him so. He countered my indifference and doubt with shock and surprise.

“Really? That sucks,” he said. “Why not?”

He was serious and he took my disbelief personally, but the truth was I didn’t believe I was capable of being missed. Hearing I’m not wanted had become my new norm and hearing anything otherwise felt disingenuous. I chose to believe he meant it, even if only for those few moments. If only I could press a pause button, I thought, I could take it all in. I wanted to soak up every last drop of the sudden rush of trust flowing through my veins.

I wanted to engrain this moment in my mind — not to define me, not to prove I was wanted or needed, and not to validate any doubts I’d had since my divorce. If I could remember this moment, I could recall it whenever I believed I was too broken to feel. If wrote this feeling in my diary of heartaches and rejections, I could remember that someone wanted me to stay. I wanted to stay.

But staying wouldn’t pause those moments. Nothing would. With every quiet breath the trust I invested in his blue eyes dissolved and disappeared. There was a pit in my stomach. It was a combination of hope he was being truthful and a feeling he was full of malarkey. In those moments it felt real, but it wasn’t.

I loved his blue eyes, his detailed stories, his dark blond hair and the patch of grey hair on the back of his head. I loved his subtly chipped tooth, the dozens of sunspots on his shoulders, his boyish smirk and the curious tone in his voice.

He lives six hours away. I couldn’t possibly be worth it. I couldn’t have made a lasting impression that would compel him to see me again or ever think about it. The clock had struck 6 p.m. I wasn’t Cinderella and he wasn’t Prince Charming. He wouldn’t chase after me. If he did, the shoe wouldn’t fit.

Yet he was special and I couldn’t put my finger on exactly why. He was gorgeous, but genuine, and warm to his core. I was in love with those nine hours spent with a stranger and how he made me feel. It was just enough to remind me what it felt like to bask in a few minutes of raw happiness.

The noise of the busy train station dulled when he kissed me goodbye and I stole another glimpse into something I didn’t understand. Hope sprouted from tiny roots and quickly grew into confidence that my unfiltered, stripped self was enough. In those moments I was enough for this stranger and I didn’t have to hide. However insignificant and inconsequential our encounter became on the grand scheme of life, it was the first among countless extraordinary experiences I deserved.

He made me feel perfect. I didn’t share too much, I didn’t kiss too hard, I wasn’t 15 pounds too heavy, I wasn’t too inexperienced. I was interesting and enticing and desirable. I was perfect.

The set up was perfect for happily ever after. Maybe he would chase me and maybe the shoe would fit. On the train ride home my imagination ran wild with possibilities of visiting him and touring his hometown he loved so much. Our story ended there, but he changed me.