Caleb was not a stranger who had drifted into my life by accident. He had been the man who held my hand outside a courthouse in Dayton when my father’s second divorce became final and I admitted, shaking with humiliation, that I was terrified marriage was just a long con people played until they were tired of pretending. Caleb had squeezed my fingers and said, “Then we’ll build something honest. On purpose.”
On purpose.
That was our phrase.
We met in graduate school at Ohio State, both of us too old for campus bars and too young to know how little intelligence protects you from your own blind spots. I was studying healthcare administration. He was getting his MBA. He liked my color-coded notes and my habit of arriving early. I liked that he seemed steady without being boring, warm without being reckless. He was the kind of man who listened with his whole face when he wanted to charm you. He remembered small details. The name of my favorite coffee shop. The fact that I hated carnations. The song that played in my mother’s kitchen the night my parents finally told us they were separating.