At 77, I found myself at a crossroads. After two failed marriages and decades of fruitless dating, I had come to terms with what I believed to be my destiny: nearly 40 years of being single, and a future that promised more of the same. I had my family, friends, and work to keep me grounded. Life felt orderly—until Ty came into the picture.
Ty was the husband of my best friend, a figure I had known but never truly connected with. That changed a decade ago when my friend was diagnosed with lung cancer. Observing Ty’s tender care for her during that time was eye-opening. Despite their separation years prior, he devotedly attended to her needs until her passing.
Following her death, Ty and I maintained sporadic contact—his delightful news about his growing family, an invitation to my book launch. He showed up quietly at the event, lingering in the background before stepping in to assist me as I packed my car.
As the years rolled by, memories of Ty’s kindness stuck with me. His tall, attractive frame and the warmth of his presence left an impression I couldn’t shake. Unsure of my feelings, I reached out to him under the pretext of needing advice for a tree in my backyard. We spent a delightful afternoon at a nursery, laughing together as we carefully selected the perfect tree. When it arrived, I sent him a picture, and he graciously responded with thanks.
Three more years slipped by. I received updates about his family, yet my thoughts increasingly turned toward him—his attentiveness matched with an unsettling sense of distance. Finally, I decided to contact him again about a garage remodel I was contemplating.
Ty spent hours at my home assessing the space, sharing tales of his own renovations. His sketches arrived a couple of weeks later, and I appreciated his help but couldn’t decipher what sort of rapport we had built. I longed for him to gather me in his arms and whisper sweet nothings, but instead, I opted to send a gift card to a local restaurant to express my gratitude.
To my surprise, Ty suggested we use it together.
Our dinner under the summer sky was filled with easy conversation, but an uncomfortable tension lingered between us. I found myself subtly trying to bridge the gap, letting my hand hover near a flickering candle, but it remained untouched. I was hesitant, determined not to take the initiative; after all, I believed that if he lacked the confidence to make the first move, he wouldn’t be a fitting partner.
A couple of weeks later, an email from Ty proposed an evening hike at Tuna Canyon. The landscape was enchanting; sunlight danced on the ocean while a soft breeze cooled the air. As we navigated the trail, he reached for my hand to steady me on the slippery path. At the trail’s end, we stood facing one another, engaged in animated conversation, reluctant to part ways.
Despite the engaging dialogue, my thoughts remained fixated on when he would suggest we continue our evening together. Passing hikers even commented on how well we matched with our white hair, further fueling my anticipation. Yet, we each returned to our solitude that night.
Weeks later, as if reading my mind, Ty invited me back to Tuna Canyon. This time he suggested we extend the evening at his home. Sat cozily on his couch, we edged closer in the dim light, sharing hopes and dreams as shadows danced in the moonlight. And then, at last, he reached for me.
This gentle man who had been so careful and slow with his affections finally opened up, revealing feelings he had held back for so long.
“I wanted you,” he confessed, repeating it as if reassuring himself. “I was scared of ruining things. You were her best friend, and I didn’t want to jeopardize our friendship.”
In that moment, everything shifted. The pent-up tension dissolved as I leaned into the space he created. Three years later, that special space continues to thrive—a haven where we cherish our moments together, embracing the love that found us despite the years gone by.