1.

You may have noticed that Ian is not afraid to lay his feelings on the table for everyone to see and to pick at; he's been like that as long as I've known him, and it occurred to me recently that I've known him for nearly twenty years now. I started working in the same office he was in when I was 18, but didn't actually meet him for another year. I know he doesn't remember exactly when we met (and that's all right) but I do. I remember it largely because I was instantly attracted and then crushed when I found out he was married. Dack introduced us while they were signing back in from an assignment, and I thought there were sparks there, but once my initial interest was snuffed I made it a point to try to not think about him as much more than that really nice guy who treated the office staff like they were equals and not servants.

I've been thinking about how we got together a lot lately. And it occurred to me that in all these years, while he's been very open and makes no apologies for “oozing mush” I haven't been as vocal. I've never written my husband a love letter, even though he deserves that a thousand times over. I also had no idea how to start, or what to say to him other than how much I love him.

He has always kept a journal; we have a closet that has boxes filled with the volumes he's written in over the years. I think he started keeping one when he was Alex's age, and other than a few gaps when he was on assignment and had no way to write, he's kept it going since then. With our anniversary approaching, his journals are what kept popping into my head.

They have never been off limits to me, but I didn't read any of them until 1997, when he had his heart attack. His doctor assured me it was a “small” heart attack and he would be fine, but he was in CCU and that by itself didn't sound promising. I was exhausted; I had a toddler and a newborn whose birth I had barely recovered from, we'd had the biggest blowout our relationship had endured (or even has still, and it was my fault) and his mother had just died.

Late at night, after I had gotten the kids to sleep and I was sitting in bed feeling his absence overwhelmingly, I reached for his journal, because I knew as I read his words I would be able to hear his voice in my head, and I read until Rachel woke up to be changed and fed, and then I kept reading. I saw our relationship through his eyes, how much he loved me before he was even able to say it; being able to see how he felt before he could even tell me made me feel both better and worse, and I was terrified he would die before I could make him understand that he wasn't alone in how deeply he cared.

He has loved me without reservation, and with a passion that even our kids can see (and make fun of) and I've wanted to find a way to let him see that he's not alone in that.

I realized recently that I still haven't done that, not the way I had intended. So I asked him if I could use some of things he'd written about; he was instantly suspicious about it and I don't think he was comfortable with it, but he said yes. I can't write him the love letter I want to, but I can take his words and tell him what I was thinking and feeling at the time.

I've edited out the extremely personal, the things I know he wants kept private, and the things I don't want to share with anyone but him. And while I intended this to be just a longish blog post, it quickly became so long that it was impossible to do that with, so on the advice from a friend, the 12 pages I ended up with will wind up being several different posts. The block quotes are from his journal, and I can't even begin to tell you what it means to me that he trusted me with his most private thoughts, and allowed me to share some of them.

Jan 1, 1994

I co-opted someone else's date last night, but I don't feel as bad about it as I probably should. Just showing up to the damned party was a victory unto itself and by 9:45 I was ready to leave, but didn't think that would go over very well with McKee. So I grabbed a bottle from the bar and headed out for the veranda, and Charlie Simms was out there. She said she was just getting some fresh air, but I saw the dipwad she was there with and was 80% sure she needed as much of a break from his headuphisassness as I needed a break from the noise of the party and the fun everyone else was having.

Let's face it, that office is filled with pretentious assholes and I'm one of them, but she's one of the bright spots in my day. When I get back from the field and hand in my reports, I look for her instead of that ditzy chick with the braces or it's-MIZZZ-Donner-not-MISS. If anyone was going to be out there punching holes in my being alone I was glad it was her. At first I just wanted to be polite, say hello and talk for a minute until she went back in, but once we started talking the time flew by and the next thing I know it's almost midnight and I'll do or say anything to keep her from going back inside to find the dipwad. And fuck if it's infidelity, but my marriage is over and I'm not getting it back and I don't even want it back, but I kissed her and she damn well kissed me back. I mean, she really kissed me. What I don't know is if it means anything to her or if I should even let my head go there. I really don't know. That kiss felt like it was something a long time coming, but I don't know how it could have been, and for all I know she's forgotten about it and is doing the dipwad.

Five minutes after he wandered outside and struck up a conversation, I wanted him to kiss me. He had no way of knowing that I'd had a crush on him for nearly four years, and that the entire time we sat out there in the bitter cold, I was trying to figure out just how to make that happen. I wasn't brave enough or forward enough to just do it on my own, but I wanted him to kiss me in the worst way. After two hours we were sitting very close to each other—he was trying to steal warmth, think, and I was just tying to get closer—but he hadn't even hinted he might be thinking of the same thing; I decided he was still too hurt from separating from his wife, and since it was near midnight it would be a good idea if I headed back inside to see if my date was even still there; that's when he set his hand on my arm and started talking a mile a minute, and suggested that the guy I was with was not the guy I wanted to be with at the start of the new year. Because the person you kiss should be someone you want to be with on the next New Year's Eve; after hearing that and then realizing he actually was going to kiss me, I was thrilled and scared at the same time. He didn't know if it meant anything to me, but I had no idea if he was serious or just a little bit drunk, and I knew if he was just a little bit drunk I would be more crushed than I was when I found out he was married.

It was only one kiss, but it was the longest and deepest kiss I'd ever had, and my feelings were just a little bit hurt when he pulled away and said we should really get back inside. Inside was the date I was ready to abandon, and other people to distract him, and honestly, even a cold as it was I wanted to stay out there and see if he really was that good a kisser or if it was just first-kiss fuzzies.

He lingered at the bar with me for a few more minutes, until “the dipwad” found me again; he was polite as hell as he said goodnight and then left, something he got very good at over the next ten months.