5.

March 26, 1994

It's two in the morning and I am alone. I didn't have to be; and when I left this shithole tonight I was about 90% sure I wouldn't be, but the closer we got the more I had the feeling that Charlie's never been with anyone before. I know what she wants and she's not alone in that, but damn. I can't do that to her yet. I know where I want this to go, but until I'm sure that's where she wants us to end up—fuck. I hope to hell I didn't hurt her feelings when I said I had to leave before I did something she'd regret later. She looked like she was hurt and I did a piss ass job of explaining why I was leaving, but it was either leave when I did or do something she might wish she hadn't six months from now.

He did a horrible job of explaining why he wouldn't stay. It also wasn't even an explanation so much as it was a sputtering about what I would regret and how he didn't think it was appropriate for him to just assume anything. I remember that night not just because he walked out when I really didn't want him to, but because I had honestly thought that the words I love you were right on the tip of his tongue and he was leaving to avoid spitting them out.

I was more confused than hurt, but to be fair I didn't have the nerve to say anything that would make him stay, and I had no idea that he'd guessed I had very limited—nonexistent, really—experience with men. He was shaking up nearly every assumption I had about men in general; he was gentle and considerate, he wasn't pushing for more than I wanted—just the opposite—but instead of appreciating it I was taking it personally. He was a man for god's sake, so why wasn't he trying to get me into bed?