The morning of November 10, 2002, I awoke to a pitch-black room. The sound of the wind blowing leaves across the driveway reminded me of running water. I didn’t bother looking at the clock. I instinctively knew it was much earlier than my usual five a.m. wake up.

I pulled the covers to my chin and tried to fall back asleep. It was pointless. The leaves continued to make scratching sounds as they were carried from the driveway to the street. Then the furnace kicked on with its customary clatter. Usually I would have found such noises comforting. But this morning my mind was too active and alert for them to be anything but unwelcome.

Two weeks before the St. George Marathon, I ran with Julianna on her last, long training run. It was the first time she had let me join her on a run over ten miles. To me it was proof that our relationship was growing stronger and that Julianna didn’t view me as a hindrance to her training.

I mapped out a twelve-mile course that snaked through the business depot. The route took us past warehouses, abandoned trains, and old ammunition bunkers. The latter was leftover from when the facility was owned and utilized by the US Army. I thought the route would be a nice change from the busy, main roads we usually ran. Being Saturday, the streets of the depot would be empty.

By late August, Julianna and I were spending every free moment with each other. From running early in the morning together to dinner after work, our lives slowly became one. Our conversations grew more comfortable and intimate, and soon we felt more comfortable talking about Krista, though I was still hesitant to voluntarily share information because I didn’t want Julianna to think I was comparing them. One evening I took Julianna to an out-of-the-way Chinese restaurant Krista and I had frequented when we in college.

"The food’s really good," she said near the end of our meal. "How did you know about this place?"

My first impulse was to tell a half-truth — that it was a place I learned about in college, leaving out the fact that Krista and I had lived two blocks away. I worried if I told Julianna she wouldn’t want to return because it would be something associated with Krista. But I knew that being open and honest about Krista was important. So I told the truth.

The day after Jennifer returned to Arizona, Bekah invited me to dinner. I had a feeling this wasn’t just a friendly dinner invitation but an excuse to talk with me about Jennifer. I was glad for the chance. Since I was unable to talk with my family about Jennifer and wanted a sounding board for my feelings, Bekah was the perfect for that.

The meal was simple but one of my favorites: pepperoni pizza and breadsticks. Bekah and I made small talk and watched as Anderson, who was now fifteen months old, ate and played with his food. I was on my third slice of pizza when the subject of Jennifer finally arose.

On the flight back to Utah, I sat next to a chatty, raven-haired college student who was flying to Salt Lake to spend a week with her fiancé. While she talked about her impending nuptials and plans for the future, I thought about my relationship with Jennifer. I had hoped my visit to Arizona would either solidify my feelings for her or prove that there was nothing between us. But the trip had done neither.

Physically our relationship had taken off. The kissing, hand holding, and feeling of her warm body pressed against mine when we hugged was wonderful. Emotionally something was missing. With Krista there had been an invisible, almost magnetic, attraction to her — something that made me want to spend all of my time with her. Even after the initial euphoria of dating and marriage had worn off, long periods of time away from her were difficult. It wasn’t like that with Jennifer. After spending several days with her, I felt drained. I was looking forward to the two-week break before she was coming to Utah.

The 2002 Major League baseball season came with a pleasant surprise. The Detroit Tigers were scheduled to play a three-game series against the Arizona Diamondbacks in Phoenix. Watching the Tigers play in person was something I always wanted to do but never had the opportunity. Since Phoenix was only an hour away by plane, I started making plans to attend at least one game.

I was excited not only to see the Tigers play but at the chance to see Jennifer again. Over the last few months our friendship has blossomed. We spend about an hour a day talking on the phone and sent several e-mails to each other while at work.

The first time I saw Julianna Taylor, I was sitting on the back pew of the chapel where the few single people in our church tended to congregate. The Sunday service had ended, and the congregation began to move toward the exits. Through the crowd I noticed a tall woman walking up the aisle in my general direction. She wore a long, yellow dress with small, green flowers that clung to the curves of her body perfectly. Her curly hair was the color of corn silk and fell just past her shoulders. As she drew closer my fingers and toes tingled, and my heart rate quickened. I looked at her hand to see if she was wearing a ring, then scanned the people around her to see if she had come to church with another guy. As far as I could tell she was single and alone. Though I attended church weekly, I had never noticed her before and wondered if she was visiting.

It wasn’t until the end of April that I swallowed my pride and posted a profile on an online dating site. It was frustrating being able to post only a few paragraphs and a photo. I had no idea how to show I was just a normal twenty-seven-year-old who happened to be a widower. Each time I looked at the profile, the only thing I could see was the line that said "widower." Everything else seemed irrelevant.

Despite my trepidation, I began e-mailing women who seemed to have a lot in common with myself. One of them was a twenty-nine-year-old teacher named Michelle. She had short black hair, liked to read, watch movies, and run. After two weeks of exchanging e-mails, we agreed to a date the next Saturday.

The weather warmed in March, and it seemed everywhere I went, I saw either happy couples walking hand in hand, or single women, alone and wishing for someone to date. Or so I thought. Maybe it was hope. When I was shopping for groceries, for example, my eyes would roam from one woman to another, and with those I found attractive, I imagined myself asking them out. They always said yes, of course, and from there I would conjure up a whole life for me and whoever had caught my eye. From our first date, to falling in love, marrying, and living happily ever after, I planned out my life with each woman at a glance.

The evening before I flew to Phoenix, I walked through the house and examined the work that had been accomplished. All the walls had been repaired and painted white. The old carpet had been torn out, and new floorboards installed. The bathroom had been gutted, and a new shower and toilet had been put in. The house smelled of fresh paint and was finally looking habitable. I was pleased with the progress.

As I paused in each room, I realized Krista had been right. The house had great potential. She had been able to look past the dead insects and neglect to see its true beauty. I had been too preoccupied with its disrepair to see that a little work could make the place livable.