A Measure of Trust by Louann Carroll

Sandy was approaching thirty and had yet to find her perfect match. Her preference was to meet someone in person at a sporting event, party, or some such place that did not require texting. Unfortunately, she couldn't find just the right person.

She considered herself different and was never tempted to be anything other than herself. She didn't need a lot of people in her life which is probably why she couldn't find someone. She was a combination extrovert/introvert. Most of her energy could be drained in a single snap if she was emotionally overwhelmed. Then it would take her days to build up her reserves. A prospect she never looked forward to. However, if she wanted to meet someone, she had no choice other than to put herself out there. 

So, she did.

As soon as she saved her information, there it was. A like and a text. A quote from Marcus Aurelius. Now what the hell was she supposed to do? She studied it a while, unsure if she would respond. Everyone had warned her what to stay away from. She was not to trust charm. She would see it as polished or scripted. Watch for promises that were hard to believe, they were a sure red flag. That promises sometimes came with wives, children, even addiction. Always watch out for sexting. The minute that came up she was to move on immediately. Lastly, she was to watch out for love-bombing texts.  No one said anything about Marcus Aurelius.

What she was supposed to look out for was honesty. Someone who wasn't afraid to state their wants, needs, and desires. Who wasn't afraid to disagree. Who was their own person. Someone who knew what they wanted so there was no guessing, no wondering, no fear, and no anxiety. 

Hum, she wondered. What were the odds of that on a first text? Especially a quote from Marus Aurelius.

But the text caught her eye.

It was different. 
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Randy hated online dating, but he was busy and rarely had time to meet new people. He owned his own business and sometimes was out of town for weeks at a time. He dreamed of marriage and children. He wanted the things that gave life meaning. Family was one of those things. He was aware of a few things his friends cautioned him about: He was not to trust affection that arrived too fast in a text message. He was to move past someone who needed money really quickly, but most of all, he was not to fall in love at the first text.

He decided to write a message that was anything but ordinary.  Hoping to get a response that was unusual as well. 

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Sandy read Randy’s quote out loud. He wrote: You always have the option of having no opinion.

She considered her answer and wrote: Most people would rather argue than think.

Randy replied: Most people would rather control than understand.

That should have been the end of it. But Sandy didn't think that either of them was trying to impress the other, and strangely, that made her, and apparently him, continue with their texts.

Their conversations became routine. Morning greetings turned into long discussions about life. They spoke about principles, though neither used the word often. It was simply the framework they had both discovered separately: control yourself, be yourself, tell the truth, endure what you must, and do it without bitterness.

Sandy discovered that a real relationship scared her to death. Mostly because she'd never had one. ​When Randy disappeared for several hours, Sandy assumed he was speaking to someone else. She worked through it though. She hadn't known him before, didn't know his routine, and discovered that he was probably out doing things he needed to do.  

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Randy, on the other hand, thought Sandy was hiding something when she avoided answering personal questions. When she was busy in the evenings, he assumed she was on a date with someone else. 

​Soon, Randy discovered that neither punished the other for suspicion. Instead, they answered texts carefully and plainly.

I was at work, he would text.

I don’t share quickly, Sandy would reply.

He didn't feel manipulated, there wasn't any guilt, and, he thought, no performance on her part.  

One night, he texted: I keep expecting you to ask me for money.

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Sandy stared at the message for a long moment before typing back: And I keep expecting you to lie to me.

Three dots appeared on the screen. Disappeared. Returned.

Then Randy wrote: Maybe we’re both waiting for disappointment because it feels safer than hope.

Sandy reread that sentence three times. For the first time in years, she felt understood instead of examined like a bug under a microscope.

Weeks passed.

Sandy never exchanged dramatic declarations of love. There were no midnight confessions or promises of forever. Instead, there was consistency. She loved that. She loved not having to guess, to know what he was thinking.  Randy messaged when he said he would, giving her confidence. She texted without trying to fix him, which she thought would give Randy a sense of security.

They disagreed sometimes, but neither used silence as punishment. Neither threatened to leave the conversation. Neither tried to win. Instead, they negotiated.  Slowly, for Sandy, trust formed the way mountains form. Pressured layers one text at a time. ​Yet even then, she hesitated to meet him. Text was safe. Distance was safe. Reality carried risk. It was best this way.

Randy, Sandy learned, feared discovering she had invented herself online. Sandy feared that Randy was better at pretending than most. They lived about 100 miles apart. They were both very safe. Very protected.  And as long as they didn't meet, no one could get hurt. 

Finally, after nearly six weeks, Randy sent a message.

There’s a coffee shop halfway between us.

Sandy’s pulse quickened immediately, which upset her. She hated overwhelming emotion and before she had a chance to bottle it up, it spilled over. Still, she typed: Okay.

The morning they met, rain washed the city in shimmering diamonds. It was cold and slushy, so she left early to make sure she was there on time.  She arrived first.

The coffee shop smelled of roasted beans and vanilla. Quiet jazz played overhead. Croissants, biscuits, chocolate and fancy coffee were available. She took a deep breath and chose a table near the window so she could see him arrive, partly from anticipation, partly from caution, and, if she was honest, partly because she was afraid. She checked her phone twice for the time.

Then the door opened.

Randy walked in wearing a dark coat dampened by mist. He looked older than his pictures, but not in a disappointing way. He had dark hair, chocolate-colored eyes, was tall, well at least to her. He looked real. Tired around the eyes. Calm in the shoulders. A man who had survived things.

He spotted her instantly and smiled. 

She smiled right back.

They stood there for one suspended moment, studying the evidence of each other. There were no autocorrects, no filters, no edited replies, and there was no time to craft a perfect response. ​Just truth. Just who they are. 

Randy walked toward her slowly. “Sandy?”

His voice was gentler than she expected. “Yes.”

He nodded once and sat down across from her.

For a few seconds, neither spoke. Oddly, it wasn’t uncomfortable, and Sandy realized she wasn’t afraid. That surprised her the most. A waitress arrived, and they ordered coffee. Simple. Black for him, tea for her.

When the waitress left, Randy studied Sandy carefully. “You’re quieter in person.”

“So are you.”

He laughed softly.

It was the first genuine laugh she had heard from him. She loved it, found the person sitting across from her warm, and inviting. The conversation unfolded naturally after that. Not perfectly. Not magically. There were pauses, awkward moments, and occasional misunderstandings. But underneath it all was something steady.

Sandy didn't need to exaggerate.

Randy didn't seem to be performing a role. When he spoke about his failed marriage, he didn’t blame his ex-wife for everything.

When Sandy described the years she spent alone, she didn’t paint herself as innocent. She admitted her fears, her hesitation, and her pain. 

He told the truth.

She told the truth.

At one point, Randy looked out the rain-covered window and said, “You know what’s strange?”

“What?”

“I don’t feel like I need to protect myself from you.”

​Sandy lowered her cup slowly. She had learned many things over the years: endurance, restraint, and self-control. But one lesson mattered most now: fear should not govern decisions.

She studied the man sitting across from her. Not perfect. Not flawless. But disciplined. Honest. Steady. A person of character. And character, she realized, was rarer than chemistry.

​“You know,” she said quietly, “I almost canceled today.”

“Me too.”

“Why didn’t you?”

​Randy smiled faintly. “Because avoiding disappointment isn’t the same as living wisely.”

The words settled between them with unexpected weight.

Outside, rain continued falling against the windows. Inside, the world felt strangely still.

Sandy had spent years believing trust was naive. Randy told her he had spent years believing generosity invited betrayal. Both had mistaken caution for wisdom. But their chosen paths had never meant closing themselves to life. It meant facing life honestly, without illusion and without surrendering principles.

For the first time in years, Sandy didn't feel lonely. Not because loneliness vanished, but because she no longer had to hide from him.

Randy reached across the table slowly, giving her enough time to refuse.

Sandy looked at his hand.

Then she placed hers in it.

No fireworks exploded. No dramatic music played.

Only calm.

Only certainty.

And somehow, that felt far more powerful than passion ever had.