This was a love story—or rather, a near-miss love triangle—that I keep tucked away in a hidden drawer of my memory. It's like a little lacquered box filled with beautiful, bittersweet tales of the love that almost was.
Or was it, that one time?
As always, it began in a flash and ended just as abruptly.
I had arranged to meet a client flying in from Chicago, and I was driving down the main strip of the resort town, fuming at the woman's thickheadedness. I'd told her a hundred times that parking in front of her hotel was strictly prohibited and that she needed to be curbside at the exact time and place we'd agreed upon. Clearly, I was wasting my breath.
I crawled along, scanning the vibrant, noisy throngs of tourists. There was an unusual density of locals out as well; the Labor Day weekend festivities were in full swing.
After making yet another loop and confirming the client was nowhere to be found, I was about to floor it when I noticed a tall, athletic guy watching me. I flashed him a smile, knowing there was no risk in it—in sixty seconds, I'd be gone, and he'd never see me again.
Then the unexpected happened.
Taking advantage of my snail's pace, he suddenly yanked open the passenger door and slid into the seat beside me.
"Good grief," I thought, "he's gorgeous."
He said something to me with a wide, bright grin.
"Sorry, I don't speak any Spanish," I said. "Only English... please."
But alas, he didn't speak a word of anything but his native tongue.
We drove, and I listened to him as if he were music. I didn't even try to pick out a familiar word in his throaty cadence. His voice was deep, resonant, and utterly hypnotic.
"Why bother?" I smiled to myself. "Why do you need to know the lyrics when the melody is this good?"
"In a minute, I'll pull over, and he'll walk out of my life forever," I thought. I wasn't even sad about it. He was too young, too handsome, too much of a stranger.
Suddenly, a loud exclamation broke my reverie.
I pulled over, waiting for him to finish his passionate, unintelligible speech and vanish into the ether. Instead, a group of people approached the car, chatting excitedly. They surrounded us, gesturing their desire to get a better look at me.
"Oh... it's the whole family," I realized.
There was the mother, dressed modestly—it was hard to tell her age at first glance, but something told me she could have been my high school classmate, or close to it. There was the father in a crisp linen shirt, two school-aged boys, a shy five-year-old girl, and a man with a more Western appearance who looked much closer to my own age.
"Well, I've done it now," I thought, wishing I could sink through the floor in my ripped jeans and oversized white button-down.
"I bet the mom can count every single one of my split ends from here."
You can hide your age from men, but never from a woman—especially not the mother of a handsome young man. And how was I supposed to explain myself to them?
Suddenly, the older man spoke in perfect English. He introduced everyone; it was indeed a family—mom, dad, and their kids. And the father's brother... the uncle in the jeans. They had driven in for the long weekend from a coastal town famous for its orchards.
The young athlete was named Kevin, and his uncle—who had recently returned from a long stint in California—had a name I eventually learned but promptly tucked away.
In my memory, he simply remained "Uncle."
***
For the next three days, I visited them at their resort. Uncle paid for my day passes, and we all ate together, strolled through the lush grounds, played board games, and lounged on the beach. Once, we even went swimming; Kevin's parents had taken the younger kids on a sightseeing tour—I suspect Uncle had "suggested" that trip so I could wear a swimsuit without feeling awkward in front of Kevin's mother.
Kevin was a professional swimmer; he moved through the water like a fish—graceful and tireless.
In the evenings, the two of us would walk alone, holding hands and laughing until our sides ached at things we didn't even understand. After a chaste kiss on the forehead, we would part ways for the night.
I'm probably going to hell for that... and for plenty of other things, I'm sure.
But we never moved past those kisses, which didn't bother me in the slightest because my thoughts were already drifting elsewhere. Toward Uncle.
The situation was absurd, a total dead end. And yet, I couldn't help it.
***
the holiday ended, and they left.
Kevin called me several times a day. I'd put him on speakerphone and listen, understanding almost nothing yet understanding everything at once, feeling a faint tug of melancholy.
Uncle called too. Sometimes I couldn't understand him either, but for some reason, that actually stung.
I'd get frustrated by his heavy accent or the way he'd mangle certain English idioms; I was used to the local dialect, but his "Californian-mixed-with-native" lilt was something else entirely. Still, the language barrier did nothing to dampen my hope of seeing him again.
Then, I got sick. My back gave out, as it usually does. The pain was excruciating, and I was stuck at home. I was living in a gated community at the time and didn't have many friends nearby. My assistant was gone, my business partners were in the middle of a "cold war" with me over contract rights, and my best friend had just flown back to London. I didn't even have anyone to go to the pharmacy for me.
The doorbell rang.
"Probably the HOA with more bills," I decided, refusing to get up. The pain had subsided slightly, and I was terrified to move.
The bell chirped with a persistent, annoying melody. Who chooses these hideous electronic trills for a doorbell?
"I'm going to kill whoever that is," I hissed, crawling toward the door.
On the doorstep stood Kevin and Uncle.
I was floored. How had they found me?
I remembered that once, while driving past my complex, I'd waved a hand in its general direction and muttered, "I live somewhere over there." At the time, it seemed like no one was paying attention, and they didn't know the area, but they'd found it.
My Italian neighbors had happily pointed them toward my unit. I was the only girl from my part of the world in the building.
Kevin was immediately dispatched to the pharmacy, while Uncle began unpacking bags of groceries—a godsend, since my fridge was completely empty.
Uncle wasn't "movie star" handsome, but he had that raw, masculine magnetism that made me nervous in the best way. He was well-built, tall, with strong features and intelligent eyes. And he had a beautiful mouth... a perfectly defined, smiling mouth. There was a quiet confidence in his steady, deliberate movements.
To put it simply: I think I fell in love. Or I was dangerously close to it.
They brought in a physical therapist to see me, stayed while I got my treatments, fed me homemade soup and local delicacies, and nursed me back to health.
I spent a week in the company of the two best men I'd ever met.
I know that for a fact. They were attentive, selfless, and incredibly kind—a world away from the usual types I encountered in the local dating scene.
As they were leaving, Uncle made it very clear that our next meeting would not include a chaperone.
***
They left, and immediately, a scandal erupted with my property manager.
"You aren't allowed to have guests in a rental," insisted "Tony"—actually a local guy who'd adopted an Italian stage name.
"You absolutely cannot have men in the apartment, not even a doctor! It is strictly forbidden for a woman to host male guests!" He lectured me after the fact (where were you when they were actually here, Tony?). I told him exactly where he could shove his rules and started looking for a new place.
Then, the political unrest hit. The government was being overhauled, chaos broke out, and the military was deployed. There was a sense of danger in the air.
I spoke to Uncle every day. He was worried. He begged me to come to his city, but he couldn't come to me—the resort towns had been locked down to outside travel. Traveling across the country felt too risky, so we decided to wait.
Finally, I moved into a new apartment.
The very next day, I lost my phone.
At first, I didn't even realize that I hadn't just lost a device; I'd lost every single contact I had. I didn't have a single number memorized.
I drove back to my old complex and tucked a note with my new number into the door of my old apartment. I gave my number to the Italian neighbors, but they were all being evacuated indefinitely.
Trying to get help from Tony was a lost cause.
I tried in vain to recover my old number, but the service providers had all shuttered their offices. "Closed until further notice due to technical difficulties."
Soon, my own embassy began evacuating citizens.
The evacuation was all over the news. I think my two men assumed I had flown home, which is why the line went dead. Maybe that's why Uncle didn't look for me.
Or maybe he did, and he just couldn't find me.
I eventually moved back home for good. I made a few more attempts to track down that phone record, but since the SIM card had been registered years ago under some long-forgotten travel agent's name, it was hopeless.
For a long time afterward, I found myself scanning the faces of strangers in every crowd.
And even now, my heart still skips a beat whenever I hear someone mention that little town by the coast.
P.S. Since then, I always write my phone numbers down in a paper notebook.
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