The time of in-between

This is a continuation of The Story of How I Met the Mr.  This is Part 3.

Here is Part 2:

Here is Part 1:.

I had huge issues with being loved. in trusting.  in being wanted by someone for more than a night, forget a lifetime. I could temporarily fill the expectations of a disappointed boyfriend that never left and was never given a fair shot in the time I was with him. I could manage to fill my days with the speculations of what ifs, what could have beens and what I actually filled the days with that I lived without him were the bottoms of bottles and packs of cigarettes, with endless strings of happy hours that were neither happy, nor just hours.

I never believed in people that were meant to be until I met him.  I never believed in fate, I just figured alcohol was an valid substitution for fate that was enough for the most of us.
I missed his eyes, the way they looked at me expecting everything and nothing and taunting me in a way I didn’t let others.  They were slate greenish, like the smoothed glass left at the bottom of the sea, grayish.  I could never get his stare out of my head.
I wondered how many nights he filled with people not worthy of his time and why it took him so long to deem me worthy, and in thinking this way I grew angry, wanting him to know it was me who should say I was ready, I was willing, not him.  I would punish him for this one day, he would pay for making me feel this.  He would be punished for making me feel such levels of vulnerability that I was embarrassed at the thought of how many times I found myself crumpled and crying in the sake of his name.
I hated and loved the teeshirts he wore with names of foreign cities I’d never been, but he had.  I had missed the way he cooked for me as roommates, cooked elaborate dishes that used mounds of dirtied pots and pans and millions of ingredients, and how he never made me do the dishes, even though he hated me, and would always resent me for my domestic laziness.
I hated him for telling me  his darkest secrets, the secrets of a lifetime, and for being one of his, but for knowing all his truths, too, the truths that no one else seemed to know but I didn’t get to live.  I hated him most for not allowing us to be each other’s normal.  I wanted so much to be his life, and even with the hope that came with his drunken phone call, I had no idea what we would become.
I may have thrown myself on my bed that night with some sort of twisted satisfaction that he finally called, but he had broken my heart into a billion ugly pieces and I didn’t know how to put myself back together before I saw him.  I wanted him for all of time, I didn’t want him for another round of bar calls in which I’d walk away again, alone, to go home to a life in which I’d stare at the ceiling for more uneventful months and days, surrounded by cats who were awful, insensitive and downright judgmental. I wanted him to see me, ugly and broken, with no makeup and ratty hair, with tears and laughter and snot running down my face, with manic excitement and adoration and unconditional trust, a me downright stripped of the bullshit I always projected, calculated and indifferent.
I was nothing but desperation and anger and a shell without him.  My senses were shot and just a mere taste, the sound of his voice, catapulted me back into the vibrant happenings of the living.
I had been dead without him and I was afraid of what I’d be like brought back.  I was afraid I’d be, at minimum, a disappointment, a figment of his imagination, of mine, a moment of time that only existed in our heads.