The Call I’ll Never Forget

I’ve always been someone who answers the phone—even when I probably shouldn’t. Maybe it’s growing up in a small town like Bar Harbor, where a call could mean anything from your mother asking you to pick up milk at Hannaford to your neighbor needing a hand because a seagull got tangled in their lobster trap. Phones, to me, have always felt like lifelines. I never expected that one of those lifelines would yank me into the emotional deep end—or that it would involve a guy I met at a clam bake.

Let me set the stage first. This wasn’t a clam bake in the breezy, East Coast-rom-com kind of way where you’re wearing a perfectly oversized cable-knit sweater and laughing as golden-hour sun filters through your wineglass. It was a potluck-style affair on Lamoine Beach, complete with folding camp chairs, mismatched Tupperware containers of potato salad, and a temperamental bonfire. I went because, in a town as small as Bar Harbor, turning down an invitation to free food is basically sinful. What I didn’t expect was Peter.

Peter, who was visiting from Portland and managed to look ruggedly handsome yet somehow out of place in a fleece jacket that screamed “I’m an L.L. Bean catalog model moonlighting as a real person.” Peter spent most of the evening talking about his job (software—exciting if you’re into that kind of thing) and the kickboxing classes he’d taken up to “build discipline.” He left with my number scrawled in the corner of a paper plate. I left with several empty Tupperware lids that weren’t mine.

But this isn’t about Peter—not really. It’s about the call that came several weeks later, alone in my one-bedroom apartment with the haunting smell of low tide wafting through the window. You know how some people describe life-changing moments as being crystal clear? This was more like foggy headlights cutting through the mist. Blurry but undeniable. I answered my phone, figuring it was my mom, my editor, or, if I was wildly unlucky, my landlord about the kayak temporarily stored in my bathroom. Instead, it was Peter.

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said, cutting straight to the point like he was delivering a TED Talk titled "Why I’m Still Single but Optimistic."

Cue the swoon-worthy moment, right? The part where my heart skips like a skipping stone across Frenchman Bay? Not quite. Because at that exact moment, all I could think about was this: I wasn’t sure he even knew my last name. See, the clam bake had lasted two hours max, and most of that time had been spent debating whether eating shellfish could ever qualify as sustainable (spoiler: probably not). And now, this guy who I knew precisely five semi-interesting facts about was proclaiming to be haunted by the memory of me.

Cue my Maine instincts, which are always split evenly between practicality and sheer skepticism. Was this love, or was this sea breeze romanticism gone overboard? More importantly, how do you trust a phone call when you spend most of your time writing about how relationships survive past “I can’t stop thinking about you?”

Lessons from Lamoine Beach: What This Call Taught Me About Connection

Here’s what I realized in the days following Peter’s impromptu declaration: sometimes, we want to believe the grand gesture so badly that we ignore the finer details of what connection truly means. That call taught me a few things—some I recall every day, others when I’m hiking alone and have too much time to think.

1. Intrigue isn’t compatibility.

You know that little thrill you get when someone shows interest in you? It’s flattering, it’s affirming—and it’s also not enough to build a foundation. Peter’s call taught me that there’s a difference between someone chasing the idea of you and actually understanding you. In two hours by a bonfire, he knew I liked hiking and hated mayonnaise in salads, but those aren’t the bricks of a long-term connection. Think of it like meeting someone who loves your favorite song but doesn’t know any other track on the album. Feels good in the moment, but where’s the depth?

Takeaway: Ask yourself whether someone’s fascination with you is rooted in shared values or fleeting chemistry. Feelings fade, but understanding lasts.

2. A good story isn’t always a good ending.

“Oh, we met at a clam bake!” sounds like the opening of a truly adorable Modern Love column. But more often than not, a charming meet-cute doesn’t guarantee compatibility. For Peter and me, the romantic spark of his call fizzled when I gently probed why, exactly, I’d been on his mind. Turns out, he’d just broken up with someone (six years together, by the way) and was feeling the emotional tug that loneliness often brings. In other words, I was less “the one” and more “a distraction.”

Takeaway: Don’t let the rush of a good story pull you into a situation where you’re the rebound or filling a gap in someone else’s life.

3. Authenticity is greater than theatrics.

There’s something undeniably cinematic about someone calling out of the blue to profess their admiration. It’s practically ripped from an early-2000s rom-com, which is probably what threw me off. But as flattering as it was, Peter’s declaration wasn’t authentic to where we stood—he skipped right past “I’d like to get to know you better” and parked himself firmly in the land of grand declarations.

The truth is, relationships are built on smaller, less dramatic moments. “I actually read that book you recommended” beats “You haunt my dreams” every single time. (Unless you're a Brontë sister. Then, I guess, dream-haunting is forgivable.)

Takeaway: Look for people who are willing to meet you genuinely where you are—not on some pedestal they’ve imagined for you.

4. Trust your gut.

I wanted to believe Peter’s call was the universe throwing me into an epic love story right there in my tiny East Coast town. But deep down, between the flickerings of flattery, I knew the timing and context weren’t right.

Maybe you’ve been there: a hot-and-cold romance, a friend who suddenly comes forward with feelings, or a dreamy fling that feels straight out of The Notebook until it doesn’t. The best advice I can give—advice I ignored briefly during this escapade—is to trust your gut’s quiet “Hmm, not quite” over an ego-boosting moment of approval.

Takeaway: If it feels too sudden, too big, or too soon—it probably is. Never be afraid to pause and regroup.

Final Words: Taking the Call but Owning the Conversation

Peter and I talked for a while that night. I listened, let him unpack his newly single thoughts, and eventually told him I wasn’t ready to be someone’s post-breakup fantasy. I even tried to pitch him a few good hiking trails near Portland where he could clear his head (because, hey, practicality never dies).

But more importantly, I hung up knowing something new about myself: I want connection rooted in tiny affirmations over time, not sudden epiphanies in moments of longing. It’s okay to answer the call when life throws something unexpected your way—but it’s even better when you know how to respond in a way that centers your needs and self-worth.

Because here’s the truth about grand gestures: they may beckon us in like the tide, but it’s where you anchor that ultimately determines whether you’ll weather the storm.