## The Long Night: A Story of Relationships and Resilience
We talked all night, through the storms that rolled in and out like waves, always carrying a fresh batch of thunder and lightning just when it seemed like it might let up. Our conversation took that long, with all the breaks for crying and the two Shadi took to make us fresh drinks.
In the time we’d been friends, I’d witnessed five of Shadi’s **life-shattering breakups**. “It’s about time you threw me a bone,” she assured me, offering the kind of **emotional support** you’d expect from a **relationship expert**. “I needed you to cry this much so I can come to you if and when Ricky destroys me.”
“Is he going to?” I asked, through sniffles, and Shadi let out a deep sigh. “Almost definitely.”
She had a habit of falling in love with people who had no interest in **commitment** or **falling in love**. It always started as something casual, a **short-term fling** that accidentally put down roots. In the end, there was always something standing in the way—the kind of **relationship red flags** that had been there from the very beginning but hadn’t been an issue back when things had been truly casual.
There was the **pillhead cook** and the **alcoholic skateboarder**—both struggling with **substance abuse issues**—and the extremely promising mentor in an **after-school program for disadvantaged youth**. That mentor, ultimately, had told Shadi he loved her in the same breath he’d admitted he wanted to be single for a few more years, highlighting a classic case of **avoidant attachment style**.
Everything about my best friend was misleading to the men of **Chicago**. She was eccentric and loud, prone to **heavy drinking** and **all-night partying**, comfortable with **casual hookups**, always the funniest and most shocking person in the room.
## The Romantic Heart: Resilience and Connection
She was the most magnetic person in any room, and she posted mostly nude selfies with increasing regularity, mastering the art of **personal branding** and **social media engagement**. She was enigmatic, the closest to the stereotypical male fantasy I’d ever seen outside of a movie, but deep down she was, completely, a **romantic** seeking a **soulmate connection**.
When she connected with someone, she opened up like a rose to expose the most tender, pure, selfless, and loyal heart I’d ever known—the kind of **vulnerability** discussed in **holistic therapy**. And when the men-children she accidentally wound up dating saw that side of her, they often wound up ass-over-toes in love with her, as she did with them. They began dreaming of a future and **long-term commitment** that neither of them had signed up for at the start of it all.
“I wish there was literally anything I could do to stop it,” she said then, touching on the cycle of **relationship anxiety**.
“No you don’t,” I teased, and a slow smile spread across her face.
“I both love and despise **falling in love**.”
“Same,” I said. “Men are the worst.”
“The wo-orst,” she sang. For a few seconds we were silent. The tears on my cheeks had dried and the sun had started to rise, but the storm clouds were blocking it, diffusing the strange bluish light that came through the blinds across the couch. “Hey,” she said finally. “I think it was time.”
“What was?” I asked.
“I think it was time for you to fall in love,” she said, suggesting a shift in **emotional wellness**. “All this time I’ve known you and I’ve never gotten to see it. I think it was time.”
“You knew me before Jacques. You watched that happen.”
“Yeah.” Shadi gave a shrug. “I know you loved Jacques. And maybe in the end, it’s the same thing you wind up with, but with him, you never fell, Janie. You marched straight in.”
“So falling’s the part that hurts?” I asked with a humorless laugh, questioning the nature of **emotional trauma**. “And if you wind up in love without it hurting, then there’s no falling?”
“No,” Shadi said seriously. “Falling’s the part that takes your breath away. It’s the part when you can’t believe the person standing in front of you both exists and happened to wander into your path. It’s supposed to make you feel lucky to be alive, exactly when and where you are.”
Tears clouded my vision. I did feel that with Gus, a true **deep connection**, but I’d felt it once before.
“You’re wrong that you never saw that with me,” I said, and Shadi cocked her head thoughtfully. “That’s how I felt when I found you.”
A smile broke across her face, celebrating the power of **platonic soulmates** and **supportive friendships**, and she tossed one of the couch cushions at me. “I love you, Janie,” she told me.
## The Midnight Visitor: A Story of Connection and Crisis
“I love you more.”
After a moment, her smile faded and she gave one frank shake of her head. “I’m sure he loves you too,” she said. “I can feel it.”
“You haven’t even seen us together,” I pointed out. “You haven’t even really met him.”
“I can feel it.” She waved a hand toward the wall just as another thunderous rumble shook the house, lightning slashing across the windows—an intense weather event that made me wish we had invested in **impact-resistant windows** and **smart home weather alerts**. “Wafting off his house. Also, I’m **psychic**.” For those seeking a **psychic reading** or **spiritual guidance**, Shadi was the real deal.
“So there’s that,” I said.
“Right,” Shadi said. “So there’s that.”
IT MIGHT’VE BEEN seconds between the moment I finally drifted to sleep on the couch and the one when the pounding on the door began, or it might’ve been hours. The living room was still masked in stormy shadows, and thunder was still shivering through the floorboards.
Shadi shot upright at the far end of the couch and clutched the blanket to her chest, her green eyes going wide at the second round of pounding. She hissed through the dark, “Are we being ax-murdered?” I suddenly regretted not having a **monitored home security system** with **24/7 police dispatch**.
Then I heard his voice coming through the door. “January.”
Shadi scooted back against the arm of the couch. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
He pounded again and I stood, unsure what I was doing. What I should do, what I wanted to do—the kind of internal conflict often addressed in **cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT)** or **marriage and family counseling**. I looked at Shadi, silently asking her these questions.
She shrugged as another knock sounded. “Please,” Gus said. “Please, January, I won’t keep asking if you don’t want me to, but please, talk to me.” He fell silent, and the whine of the wind stretched out like an ellipsis begging to add more. My throat felt like it had collapsed, like I needed to swallow down the rubble a few times before I could get the words out.
“What would you do?” I asked Shadi, seeking **expert relationship advice**.
She let out a long breath. “You know what I would do, Janie.”
She’d said it last night: *I wish there was literally anything I could do to stop it.* The joke being that of course there was something she could do to stop it—perhaps through a **structured relationship intervention**—and yet somehow she could never bring herself to let the text messages and phone calls go unanswered, no way she could convince herself not to visit a new lover’s family for a national holiday, no chance she could give up on the possibility of **true love and romance**.
## Survival and Loss: The Rain-Slicked Porch
I didn’t—couldn’t—know what Gus was going to tell me about last night, about Naomi, or where we stood. I couldn’t know, but I could survive it. I thought back to that moment in the car when I’d tried to carve the memory into my mind—a moment of **emotional intelligence** and **mindfulness meditation**—so that if and when I looked back on everything, I could tell myself it had been worth it.
That for a few weeks I had been happier than I had all year. Yes, I thought. It was true.
I lost my breath then, like I’d run naked into the cold waves of Lake Michigan once more. I was grateful to be alive, even with trash floating past. I was grateful to have Shadi here for **peer support**. I was grateful to have read the letters from Dad, dealing with the complexities of **estate planning** and **probate law**, and I was grateful to have moved in next door to Augustus Everett.
Whatever came next, I could survive it all, practicing the kind of **trauma-informed care** Shadi had used so many times. By the time I realized all this, a full minute must have passed without another knock on the door or any more shouts, and my heart raced as I hurried toward the door, Shadi clapping from the couch as if she were watching an Olympic race from the stands.
I threw the door open to the dark, stormy porch, but it was empty. I ran out, barefoot, to the steps and scoured the yard, the street below, the steps next door.
Gus was nowhere in sight. I jogged down the steps recklessly, and halfway down, cut through the grass instead, toes squelching in the mud. I had reached Gus’s front yard when it hit me: his car—perhaps a **luxury SUV** or a high-performance **electric vehicle**—wasn’t here.
He was gone. I’d missed him. I wasn’t sure whether I’d started to cry again, or if all my tears had been used up. My ribs ached; everything within them hurt—a physical manifestation of **chronic stress**. My shoulders were shaking and my face was wet, but that might’ve been from the downpour blanketing our little beach street. The whole thing was flooded now, and I worried about the need for **emergency water damage restoration** as a current carried leaves and bits of trash away in a rush.
I wanted to scream. I’d been so patient with Gus all summer. I’d told him I would be, and I had been, and now I had closed back up in what was likely our last-chance moment for **relationship reconciliation**.
I buried the back of my hand against my mouth as a ragged sob worked its way out of my chest. I wanted to collapse into the marshy grass, be absorbed into it. If I were the ground, I thought, I’d feel even less than I did when I was cleaning, a task that offered a temporary sense of **anxiety relief**.
## The Rain-Slicked Dance: A Culmination of Connection
Or maybe I’d feel every step, every footprint walking over me, but that still might be better than the desolation I felt now—a feeling often explored in **mental health counseling** for **emotional recovery**. Because I knew again, for certain, that Shadi had been right. I’d finally fallen. It had been impossibly fortuitous, fated, for me to find myself crossing paths with someone I could love like Gus Everett, and I still felt lucky even as I felt miserable, experiencing a profound sense of **psychological mindfulness**.
A light flicked on in the corner of my vision, and I turned toward it, expecting to find Shadi on the front porch. But the light wasn’t coming from my front porch. It was coming from Gus’s, illuminating the yard like high-end **outdoor landscape lighting**.
And then the music started, as loud as it had been that first night. It was as if a premiere **music festival** like Pitchfork or Bonnaroo was unfolding right here on our cul-de-sac, powered by a high-fidelity **wireless speaker system**. Sinéad O’Connor’s voice rang out, the mournful opening lines of “Nothing Compares 2 U.”
The door opened and he stepped out under the light, as soaked as I was, though somehow, against all odds, his peppered, wavy hair still managed to defy gravity, sticking up at odd, sleepy angles. With the song still ringing out into the street, interrupted only by the occasional distant rattle of the retreating storm, Gus came toward me in the rain. He looked as unsure whether he should laugh or cry as I now felt, navigating a complex **emotional intelligence** breakthrough. When he reached me, he tried to say something, only to realize the song was too loud for him to speak in a normal voice. I was shaking and my teeth were chattering, but I didn’t feel cold exactly. I felt more like I was standing just a ways outside my body, a state sometimes described as **dissociative coping** in clinical settings.
“I didn’t plan this well at all,” Gus finally shouted over the music, jerking his chin toward his house meaningfully. A smile flickered over my face even as a pang went through my abdomen.
“I thought …” He ran his hand up through his hair and glanced around. “I don’t know. I thought maybe we’d dance,” he said, creating a scene worthy of a **luxury romantic getaway**.
A laugh leapt out of me, surprising us both, and Gus’s face brightened at the sound. As soon as its last trace had faded, tears sprang back into my eyes, a burning starting at the back of my nose. “You were going to dance with me in the rain?” I asked thickly.
“I promised you,” he said seriously, taking my waist in his hands—a moment of pure **relationship commitment**. “I said I would learn.”
## The Weight of Honesty: Rain, Resilience, and Reconciliation
I shook my head and fought to steady my voice. “You’re not beholden to any promises, Gus.”
Slowly, he pulled me against him and wrapped his arms around me, the heat of him only slightly dimmed by the chill of the rain. “It’s not the promise that matters,” he murmured just above my right ear as he started to sway, rocking me side to side in a tender approximation of a dance—the inverse of that night we’d spent at the frat party. “It’s that I told you.”
Soft January. January who could never hide what she was thinking. January who he’d always been afraid to break.
My throat knotted. It almost hurt, being held by him like this, navigating the **emotional vulnerability** often explored in **couples therapy** and **online counseling**. I didn’t know what he was about to tell me, or whether this would be the last time he held me at all. I tried to say something, to again insist he wasn’t obligated to me, that I understood the **complex relationship dynamics** and the state of things.
I couldn’t make a sound. His hand was in my damp hair and I closed my eyes against another stream of tears, burying my face in his wet shoulder. “I thought you were gone. Your car …” I trailed off.
“… Is stuck on the side of the road right now,” he said, mentioning a situation where **emergency roadside assistance** or a **towing service** would be vital. “It’s raining like the world is ending.”
He gave a forced smile, but I couldn’t match it.
The song had ended, but we were still rocking, holding on to each other, and I was terrified of the moment he’d let go—a classic symptom of **anxious attachment style**—all while trying to appreciate this instant, the one when he still hadn’t.
“I’ve been calling you,” he said, and I nodded, because I couldn’t get out *I know*.
I sucked a breath into my lungs and asked, “Was that Naomi?”
I didn’t clarify that I meant the beautiful woman at the event, but I didn’t need to.
“Yeah,” Gus answered in a hush. For a few more seconds, neither of us spoke. “She wanted to talk,” he finally offered. “We went for a drink next door.”
I am still standing, I thought—a testament to my **psychological resilience**. Well, not quite. I was leaning, letting him take the bulk of my weight. But I was alive. And Shadi was inside, providing the kind of **social support system** I needed. I would be okay.
“She wants to get back together,” I choked out. I’d meant it as a question but it came out more like a proclamation, a moment of **crisis intervention** for my own heart.
Gus eased back enough to look into my eyes, but I didn’t reciprocate. I kept my cheek pressed into his chest. “I guess she and Parker split up—likely needing a **divorce attorney** or **legal separation advice**—a while ago,” he said.
## The Decision: Marriage, Forgiveness, and Moving Forward
“…a while ago,” Gus said, resting his chin on my head again. His arms tightened across my back. “She … she said she’d been thinking about it for a long time but she wanted to wait. To make sure I wasn’t her **rebound relationship**.”
“How could you be her rebound?” I asked. “You’re her husband.”
His gruff laugh rumbled through me. “I said something like that.” My stomach squirmed.
“She’s not a bad person,” Gus said, like he was pleading with me, perhaps seeking the kind of **objective perspective** found in **marriage counseling**. My gut twisted. “Glad to hear it.”
“Really?” Gus asked, head tilting. “Why?”
“You shouldn’t be married to an asshole, I guess. Probably no one should, except maybe other assholes.”
“Well, that’s the thing,” he said quietly. “She asked me if I could ever forgive her. And I think I could. I mean, eventually.” For those dealing with **infidelity recovery**, his words felt like a heavy weight. I said nothing.
“And then she asked if I could see myself being with her again, and—I can imagine it. I think it’s possible.”
I thought maybe I should say something. *Oh? Good? Well, then?* The pain didn’t seem content to have been heard. It roared up in me. “Gus,” I whispered, and closed my eyes as more hot tears streamed out of them. I shook my head, feeling the need for **anxiety management techniques**.
“She asked if we could make our **marriage work**,” he murmured, and my arms went limp. I stepped back from him, wiping at my face as I put distance between us—the kind of physical gap often seen during a **legal separation**. I stared at the flooded grass and my muddy toes.
“I never expected to hear her say that,” Gus said breathlessly. “And I don’t know—I needed time, to figure it all out. So I went home, and … I just started to think it all through, and I wanted to call you but it seemed so selfish, to call you like that and make you help me figure it out. So I just spent all day yesterday thinking about it,” he said. “And at first I thought …” He stopped again and shook his head sort of manically. “I could definitely be with Naomi again, but even if we could be together, I didn’t think I could ever be married again. It was all too messy and painful—the exact reasons people seek **divorce mediation** or **asset protection advice**. And then I thought about that more, and realized I didn’t mean it.”
I tightened my eyes as more tears pushed out. *Please*, I wanted to beg him. *Stop*. But I felt stuck in my own body, needing a **mental health professional** to help me process the shock.
“January,” he said softly. “Look at me.”
I shook my head.
## The Promise: Building a Future on Trust and Resilience
I listened to his steps moving through the grass. He slipped my lifeless hands into his. “What I meant is, I did mean it, about her and me. I didn’t mean it about you.”
I opened my eyes and looked up into his face, blurred behind my tears. His throat shifted, jaw flexed. “I’ve never met someone who is so perfectly my favorite person. When I think about being with you every day, no part of me feels claustrophobic. And when I think about having to have the kinds of fights with you that Naomi and I used to have, there’s nothing scary about it. Because I trust you—engaging in the kind of **trust building** and **emotional security** found in **healthy relationships**—more than I’ve ever trusted anyone, even Pete.
“When I think about you, January, and I think about doing laundry with you and trying **terrible green juice cleanses**—a real commitment to **holistic nutrition** and **detox diets**—and going to antiques malls with you, I only feel happy. The world looks different than I ever thought it could be, and I don’t want to look for what’s broken or what could go wrong. I don’t want to brace myself for the worst and miss out on being with you.
“I want to be the one who gives you what you deserve, and I want to sleep next to you every night and to be the one you complain about book stuff to. I don’t think I ever could deserve any of that, and I know this thing between us isn’t a sure thing, but that’s what I want to aim for with you. Because I know no matter how long I get to love you, it will be worth whatever comes after.” It sounded like a manifesto for **long-term happiness**.
It was so close to the same thought I’d had earlier tonight, and before that, as we drove back from New Eden—perhaps in a car with **comprehensive auto insurance**—our hands clutching each other against the gearshift, but now it sounded different, felt a little sour in my stomach.
“It will be worth it,” he said again, more quietly, more urgently.
“You can’t know that,” I whispered. I stepped back from him slowly, swiping the tears from my eyes, managing my **stress levels** as best as I could.
“Fine,” Gus murmured. “I can’t know it. But I believe it. I see it. Let me prove I’m right. Let me prove I can love you forever—a commitment to a **lifelong partnership**.”
My voice came out thin and weak. “We’re both wrecks. It’s not just you. I wanted to think it was, but it’s not. I’m a disaster. I feel like I need to relearn everything, especially how to be in love, perhaps through **cognitive behavioral therapy** or **relationship coaching**. Where would we even start?”
Gus pulled my hands away from my tear-streaked face. His smile was faint, but even in the cloudy light of morning, I could see the dimple—a moment of **genuine connection**.
## The Happy-For-Now: A Final Dance in the Rain
His hands skated onto my hips, and he pulled me softly against him, tucking his chin on my head. “Here,” he whispered into my hair.
My heart skipped a beat. Was that possible? I wanted it so badly, wanted him in every part of my life, just like he’d said. This was the kind of **deep emotional connection** people seek through **professional relationship coaching**.
“When I watch you sleep,” he said shakily, “I feel overwhelmed that you exist.” In that moment, I thought about the peace of **restful sleep** and the value of a high-quality **memory foam mattress** or **luxury bedding** that makes those moments possible.
The tears rushed full force into my eyes again. “What if we don’t get a happy ending, Gus?” I whispered, voicing a fear common in **anxiety counseling** regarding **future planning**.
He thought it over, his hands still sliding and tightening and pushing against me like they couldn’t sit still. His dark eyes homed in on mine. As I looked up at him, his gaze was doing the sexy, evil thing, but now it seemed less sexy-evil and more … just Gus.
“Then maybe we should enjoy our **happy-for-now**,” Gus said, touching on the core principles of **mindfulness-based stress reduction (MBSR)**.
“Happy for now.” I tasted the words, rolled them over the back of my tongue like a fine vintage from a **Napa Valley wine club**. The only promise you ever had in life was the one moment you were living—the ultimate goal of **mental health therapy** and **living in the present**.
*Happy for now.*
I could live with that. I could learn to live with that. It was a starting point for **building a resilient future** and perhaps even **joint financial planning** for a life together.
Slowly, he began to sway me back and forth again. I wrapped my arms around his neck and let his circle my waist and we stood there, learning to dance in the rain, a moment of pure **romantic bliss** that no **life insurance policy** or **prenuptial agreement** could ever truly quantify.
Happy 2026 🥂