For two years, he'd grieved, and he'd insisted that the idea of dating was pure folly. That no one else would ever appreciate him the way Scully had, that every attempt at human connection felt pointless by comparison, that he was incompatible with the very concept of Tinder. What it had boiled down to, which had taken something like half a year of therapy visits to admit, was the fact that all he really wanted was for Scully to come home. He didn't want to start over. He didn't want to make changes to his life, plan new adventures, meet new people. He just wanted her back.
And even with his therapist - a well-dressed woman fifteen years his junior who took no shit, but politely - gently pointing out that that didn't seem likely, it took another year and a half to accept it. If he ever truly did. They talked about goals and dreams, and he'd even come up with some. See a Knicks game at every NBA arena. Try to write a memoir - not for public consumption, but just so there was a record of his life beyond government files locked in a basement. Make friends to watch baseball with and maybe try eating dinner with someone new. Just see where things go. But he'd never done most of those things. He'd talked about making a fulfilling life and then gone back to his empty house with its newspaper clippings, and the best he'd managed was cooking stir-fry for one, because decent Chinese delivery in Farrs Corner was like asking for a unicorn from Santa Claus.
(They talked about all the usual things, too, Samantha and government secrets and William and Scully. About how their son and their past meant he'd always have a connection to Scully, and how it could be okay if it weren't romantic anymore. About his sister's soul, sparkling out there among the stars, and what he'd want to share from his life with her. How to live a life he'd want to tell her about, if he could.)
Now, with Scully's hand on his, he feels - well, something. Something that doesn't have a good single word to sum it up. Happy and sad all at once, and like he can't ask her about herself unless he says at least one more thing about his misadventures in dating.
"The last one," he says instead, "was a divorced guy from Rhode Island. Two kids, rock climbing instructor. I think he thought I was a lunatic by the time we said good night."
I didn't get to a third date with anyone. Either he was too crazy for them, or they were the wrong kind of crazy for him, or he was bored to tears. No one understood him immediately and implicitly.
"You probably did better." There's less bitterness there than he expects; he doesn't mean to be bitter, but until he says it, he halfway expects it to come out wrong.
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And even with his therapist - a well-dressed woman fifteen years his junior who took no shit, but politely - gently pointing out that that didn't seem likely, it took another year and a half to accept it. If he ever truly did. They talked about goals and dreams, and he'd even come up with some. See a Knicks game at every NBA arena. Try to write a memoir - not for public consumption, but just so there was a record of his life beyond government files locked in a basement. Make friends to watch baseball with and maybe try eating dinner with someone new. Just see where things go. But he'd never done most of those things. He'd talked about making a fulfilling life and then gone back to his empty house with its newspaper clippings, and the best he'd managed was cooking stir-fry for one, because decent Chinese delivery in Farrs Corner was like asking for a unicorn from Santa Claus.
(They talked about all the usual things, too, Samantha and government secrets and William and Scully. About how their son and their past meant he'd always have a connection to Scully, and how it could be okay if it weren't romantic anymore. About his sister's soul, sparkling out there among the stars, and what he'd want to share from his life with her. How to live a life he'd want to tell her about, if he could.)
Now, with Scully's hand on his, he feels - well, something. Something that doesn't have a good single word to sum it up. Happy and sad all at once, and like he can't ask her about herself unless he says at least one more thing about his misadventures in dating.
"The last one," he says instead, "was a divorced guy from Rhode Island. Two kids, rock climbing instructor. I think he thought I was a lunatic by the time we said good night."
I didn't get to a third date with anyone. Either he was too crazy for them, or they were the wrong kind of crazy for him, or he was bored to tears. No one understood him immediately and implicitly.
"You probably did better." There's less bitterness there than he expects; he doesn't mean to be bitter, but until he says it, he halfway expects it to come out wrong.