Last weekend he told me that he trusts me. I don’t know if he meant it to be, but it was a pivotal moment. After everything he has told me about his life and loves before me, it meant more to me than if he had said he loved me.
But no matter how much it means to me, it has also been driving me crazy. For no sooner does he tell me that he trusts me than he hands me his house key, asks me to feed his cat for five days, and gives me permission to do laundry at his house while he is out of town.
I am thrilled because he trusts me enough to give me free rein of his house, but I can barely contain myself: I want to rifle through every drawer and cabinet. I want to look through the piles of papers on the desk and see how much money he owes and to whom. I want to see what’s in the medicine cabinet and what he keeps under the socks in his dresser. I want to find out all those details that you never know unless you snoop.
But those three words echo in my head and stop me.
“I trust you.”
It means too much. I’ve worked too hard to attain those three words. I simply won’t throw them away for the instant gratification of knowing whether or not there is a Penthouse in the nightstand beside his bed or Prozac in his medicine cabinet.