Much later
A friend of mine used to say to me “Tam, you were dealt a bad hand in life.” True, but by this time several old cards had been discarded and the only one missing was the king of spades for my royal flush.
Heading to Josh’s house for the weekend, I anticipated his familiar greeting. He emerged with a slow, confident stride, light bouncing off his forehead. That lustful grin always preceded this intense gravity of his presence.
Towering over me, his broad shoulders and large frame pressed against my body as our bellies touched. As he drew closer, I could see that his nose was slightly crooked, one nostril noticeably larger than the other as he looked down at me with a claiming gaze.
There was a steamy undercurrent wrapped in his 55 something persona, a hunger that seemed both seasoned and immediate.
Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, brushing his lips against mine before pulling me into him.
Our story almost never happened.
If he hadn’t sent that text three weeks after I told him we couldn’t meet. It would’ve ended before it ever had a chance to begin.
We had matched on a dating app and exchanged a few thoughtful messages. There was substance in his words, they were measured, intelligent, and unexpectedly warm. We took it to FaceTime where he lounged in bed during that first virtual chat with casual ease. He had a playfully confident disposition, monopolizing most of the conversation. His eyes lit up as he shared stories of his upcoming biking trip along the California coast with his daughter, childhood memories, and other tidbits of his life.
At the time, I’d been on the app for six months and had gone on a handful of lackluster dates. There was one person I’d been chatting with more seriously, and while we hadn’t met in person yet, it felt like a possible something. Out of integrity, I sent Josh a text explaining the situation.
His response was kind. “I totally understand and wish you the best.”
And that was supposed to be the end of it.
But three weeks later, a photo lit up my phone of Josh and his daughter on a biking trip. “Just thought I’d share this from the trip I mentioned. Hope you’re well.”
Surprised, I replied. “Would you happened to be interested in that dinner we’d cancelled.”
“I thought I’d never hear from you again,” he wrote back. “Absolutely.”
And just like that, what almost wasn’t... began.
Our first date unfolded in downtown Cleveland at Alley Cat Oyster Bar on the east bank of the flats.
A votive candle flickered between us, casting a soft amber glow across the linen tablecloth. The clink of silverware and quiet hum of conversations filled the space. As the waiter approached our table, I asked for his name. “Anthony,” he replied with a friendly smile. We put in our orders and then shifted focus towards one another.
Settling into dinner, our conversation flowed easily with a mix of light inquiries about our backgrounds and what we were each seeking from dating. We kept it surface-level. He regaled me with stories of his more thrilling adventures that included a deep-sea fishing trip with sharks in the Bahamas and rescuing a stranded sloth during a family vacation. Each tale was highly animated, only pausing to call out to Anthony with a casual “Thanks, man,” or “Hey, man,” when making a request.
Josh then leaned in, resting his forearms on the table.
“I come from a big family,” he said. “Ten kids. I’m number nine.”
He picked up his glass then paused staring into it.
“My mother begged the Catholic diocese to let her stop. She told them she’d done her duty to God and her husband. They told her no. And then I was born.”
He looked down, fingers tracing the rim of his glass.
“I was an unwanted child.” He said with a smile that seemed to cover more than his words spoke.
I reached across the table and took his hand.
He looked up at me searching for something with his eyes. We paused into the moment. And then the conversation wandered from one topic to the next, brushing past politics, parenting, and diets.
It felt comfortable—easy.
Josh leaned back and tilted his head.
“You want to go on a trip with me?”
My head noticeably snapped back. Nice try buddy. I don’t even know you! I almost blurted out but instead paused, swallowing the thought. I’d made it clear before the date that I wasn’t comfortable with physical touch or rushing into intimacy. Which made the ask feel all the more unexpected.
Smiling politely, I responded. “Let’s see how things go… maybe we can revisit that idea down the road, once we get to know each other.”
After dinner, we wandered toward the waterfront. The crisp air sharpening the sparkle of city lights dancing across the river. Music and laughter spilled out of the bars as we passed, creating a rhythmic backdrop to our conversation. The flames of a nearby patio fire guided us to warm in its glow.
Stepping in, Josh slipped off his scarf and wrapped it around my neck, pulling me closer to him.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked, voice low and gaze steady.
The space between us disappeared as the intensity of his stare pulled me in.
I paused for a moment tuning inward. But no hesitation surfaced.
“Yes,” I said, and let the moment happen.
We walked through the city, the streets slick from melted ice and colorful with the neon reflections of the surrounding lights. Slipped into a tucked-away dimly lit lounge and the melody of jazz vibes our conversation drifted deeper, landing on psychedelics and their emerging role in trauma recovery. Josh spoke with an unexpected depth about science, experts he followed, and his own curiosity. We even tossed around the idea of traveling abroad together for an Ayahuasca journey someday. Time blurred and six hours vanished in a series of moments. The night ended with a steamy kiss before parting ways.
By morning, his texts began. He asked what excited me, about the things I was working on, and the little details that made up my world. And just like that, our second date was already in motion. We met at Stan Hywet Hall & Gardens. It was a sprawling estate once home to F.A. Seiberling, the co-founder of Goodyear Tire. Now a national landmark, the mansion stood like a remnant of America’s gilded past, grand, opulent, and a little worn around the edges.
Josh seemed slightly nervous at first but seemed to settle into ease as we explored. His curiosity lit up the moment as he read every plaque, peered behind velvet ropes, and asked about the mechanics of century-old innovations. We got lost in the architecture, then he would return with a glance that locked onto mine stealing the moment. I sensed his curiosity about the house was a strategic distraction, while he internally focused on learning me.
Venturing outside, the gardens had long surrendered their blooms for the year, but the bones of beauty still lingered in its arched trellises and serene stillness of the fountains. I’m not sure if it was the smack of the winter air hitting our cheeks, or the flirty looks that caused them to ripen as we wandered the grounds. As we circled the pond, Josh pulled off his scarf and wrapped it gently around my neck. He stepped in close and our frozen breaths mingled together.
“May I kiss you?” he asked looking down into my eyes, as if to establish a routine.
I nodded. And once again he lingered for several moments before meeting his lips with mine.
Finishing the tour, we made our way to Alexander Pierce, a restaurant frozen in time like a gentleman’s club from the late seventies, reupholstered but untouched in many ways. The dark mahogany paneled the walls, and flickering votives sat atop white-linen tables, casting amber halos across silverware. Dramatically dim lighting complimented the faint scent of aged leather and burgundy.
Sitting across from him, I noticed how his white goatee was perfectly groomed, and the black leather jacket gave him a rebellious edge that contrasted with the quiet elegance of our surroundings. His smile stretched, directing me to his sky-blue eyes. Time together was allowing me to get to know him and a sense of attractiveness about his appearance began seeping into my awareness.
Josh continued to schedule a series of carefully crafted dates, each one chosen for geographical fairness and maximum adventure. There was a rhythm to it, a choreography of care. Josh never let me pay, he held doors, pulled out chairs and wrapped his scarf around my neck as an ending ritual each time.
There was a string of creative outings that followed. The rock-climbing date involved establishing trust, especially for someone like Josh who was afraid of heights. He clipped in without hesitation, relying on me to belay him. Somewhere between our laughter and his cautious belaying, I lost my grip while rappelling and swung straight into a protruding boulder, that knocked me on the head. Josh laughed and I blushed.
Then there was billiard night where I showed off my infamous “booty bounce” shot with low hips and a playful sway I’d perfected in my early twenties. His eyes continuously locked on me as I navigated the table.
On one of those early nights, when he leaned in for his ritual goodnight kiss, I tried something new, declining his kiss to see how he’d respond. He laughed and stepped back without pressing. Referencing our next fun excursion, I said “I can’t wait to play with you.”
He smirked, and with a combined sultry tone and mischievousness look in his eye replied. “I can’t wait until you play with me too.”
I giggled as he confidently turned and walked to his car. The discrepancy between our exchange was clear but cute.
Josh’s attention to detail and creative date planning was unmatched by others, only to be topped by the intensity of his charm. As time progressed, eventually we came to the crucial point all men seem to push for eventually. Post one of our dinner dates, amidst the tension building between us, he directed the conversation toward intimacy.
I paused.
“I’m like a flower,” I explained. “I bloom slowly over time as I get to know someone and feel safe.”
He stopped mid-step, turned toward me, and smiled. “You’re my delicate flower.”
My head tilted as I looked up at him, the corners of my mouth softening into a gentle smile.
He continued with a different invitation this time. “Come to my place,” he requested. “We’ll cook dinner, relax and spend the weekend together.”
And so it was, my first trip to Josh's house filled with a mix of anticipation and a hint of apprehension. This would be our first time truly alone. No noisy restaurant, no public setting—just us.
After almost two hours, veering off to back country roads, I finally reached a turn marked by the sign Josh had described with letters barely visible in the country night. The drive turned off onto a winding, secluded path. Rough gravel crunched beneath my tires as I slowly made my way through the dense trees and brush lining the narrow drive. My headlights sliced through the pitch black, illuminating only what was directly in front of me.
This place could hide a thousand secrets, I thought. What in the world am I getting into? I felt the unease lightened as the warm glow of a house came into view.
The house sat tucked among the trees, bordered by two still ponds. A four-car garage came into view as I pulled in, along with a long porch stretching across the front. Golden light spilled from the windows, softening the shadows. Josh stood in the doorway with his familiar saunter, that sultry smile already waiting. He took my overnight bag and led me through the back door and into the kitchen.
Inside, the air was laced with the warmth of garlic, butter, and a trace of citrus. The house had the patchwork feel of an old farmhouse, built up in pieces over time. It was a shrine to wood with planked floors, red-toned ceilings, and paneled walls. Pendant lighting hung awkwardly from the ceiling over the kitchen counters, with several missing shades.
The living room just beyond the kitchen was painted in a strange shade that clashed with the earthy tones around it. But what caught my eye was the grand stone fireplace, where flames danced and cast shadows that flickered up the walls.
We moved around the kitchen where he prepared the fish, and I chopped vegetables. There was synergy in the way we navigated around one another. Fingers grazed. His body brushed mine when he leaned in close. A kiss to the neck. A palm to the lower back. Subtle choreography hinting of the dessert to come.
After the meal, the fire drew us toward the living room. The energy shifted slowly, electrically.
Our clothes gradually found their place on the floor as we explored new territories. The crackling notes of the firewood enhanced the rising tension. We moved from the couch to the floor, to the ottoman, and eventually making our way upstairs to the bedroom. It was a perfect storm of chemistry, lust, and desire.
But beneath the surface, there was an ache of awkwardness, at least for me. The first time is always a little uncomfortable, as two partial strangers come together in the heat of animalistic exchange. Nearly five years had passed since I’d last been touched, an intentional choice. I had chosen to be alone, to focus on my life, growing my business, and appreciating the solitude of life now that the kids were gone. And here I was naked and vulnerable.
Josh, on the other hand, seemed completely at ease. Assured. Seasoned. He navigated both the bedroom and my body with a well-practiced sequence of progressions.
And so, it was a milestone in our relationship, or whatever it would become.
Following the big weekend, we met for dinner at a quiet countryside estate-turned-restaurant tucked away just outside the city. The dining room was carved from old stone, filled with candlelight and the soft hum of acoustic music drifting through a nearby lounge. We talked for hours, laughing and flirting woven between courses, as though the rest of the world had fallen away for the night.
After dinner, we stepped outside to stroll the property’s cobblestone paths. The lake nearby mirrored the moon’s spotlight that shined above. There was something cinematic about the moment with the hush of the trees and the crisp clacking of my heels on the stone walkway.
“I want to share something with you,” he said, his tone shifting to something more serious.
He told me about a medical investment he'd made in an emerging treatment moving through advanced clinical studies. "It's up for FDA approval next. The results are extraordinary — there's nothing else like it."
"I was successful prior to, but this investment changed everything for me. The first payout was tens of millions." He said, gauging my response. "There'll be more. Several infusions of similar amounts or more over the next few years."
He turned to me as we continued walking and said. “I’m in the top one percent.”
The weight of what he said didn't land in the way I suppose it should have. My mind, curious by nature, was already unraveling the science of it all, the implications of what a treatment like this could mean, how it could transform lives and reshape an entire field of medicine. How families burdened by illness might one day find relief.
My mind continued down the rabbit hole of the potential impacts of such a development.
And then, casually, he asked, “Would you like to go on a ski trip with me to Vail?”
I paused. Mindfully assessing his question, I did a gut check. “Yes, I would.” I replied with a gentle smile.
Turning once again to me he smiled. “In my Gulfstream.”
“You have a pilot?” I responded.
“I am the pilot.” He said with a gleam in his eyes.