A Tale of Not-Quite-Love

At times, I use my blog as a place to think things through, a place to articulate outrage or astonishment or write open letters to someone who will likely never read them. Tonight, though, I’m taking an idea from a friend, and simply posting to tell a story.

One of my favorite bloggers has more time to surf than I do, and in his ramblings through this space we call the web, he found an amazing tale. When he read it, it touched his heart and called to him to write about the ache of first love. When I read the two of them in tandem, the pair of posts called me to write as well, but instead of first loves, it inspired me to tell my story of not-quite-love.

I was 19 and home from college for the summer. (That’s always a good opening line, right?) He was 26 and worked in the office where I found a summer job. We hit it off wonderfully! He was kind, chivalrous, mature, fun-loving yet not quite over the top in the way of the college boy who’s trying too hard to be noticed. He wasn’t the most handsome of men, but I’ve always been a full-package kinda gal…and let’s be honest here…I was slightly overweight and awkward myself. After all, 19 isn’t the height of self awareness you believe it to be when you’re living those years.

He rented an apartment from his parents to save money. I lived with mine for the whole summer, so I was at least satisfied with the fact that he didn’t live under his parents’ “roof.” He lived one hour in one direction from our office, I lived half an hour the other way, so most of our interaction was going for a bite to eat after work, or playing mini-golf with other co-workers. We had a blast!

Then it happened.

We were standing in the parking lot one Sunday afternoon, the sun was shining, we had just had a wonderful day, and he moved in to kiss me. Time slowed like a bad B-movie. I could see him tilting his head, closing his eyes, and moving in for that moment of long-pondered lip lock. The voice in my head was screaming, “Noooooooooo” in that baritone fashion voices always assume when they’re slowed down for those kinds of Hollywood moments. However, I didn’t say it. I let him kiss me. And that was the beginning of the end.

The spark was there, but the chemistry to take that moment beyond its flash point and fuel flames from the ember, was not. At first, I blamed him. I thought that he was just out of practice and the kisses and chemistry would get better with repetition. They didn’t. Then I blamed me. I enjoyed his company and we could play a mean game of Trivial Pursuit, so there had to be something wrong with *me* that his touch reminded me of a limp celery stalk, his kiss of a fish pulled from the water, flopping unpredictably and in vain as it tried to find comfort once again. So I stayed with it until he broke it off, saying he was ready for a family and I had too much school left to make that a practical option for him.

Fast forward two years later. We’ve not spoken, although we did exchange letters twice a year or so….I was on track to graduate and had found a job in my college town to sustain me while I looked for real work. He moved out of his parents’ apartment and to the town he worked in, where he met a wonderful lady. Then one day, my phone rings…he’s on the other end, wondering why I hadn’t RSVP’d for his upcoming wedding. I’m not an irresponsible sort – I had never received an invitation to start with. Not that I expected one, so it threw me for a loop when he gasped in astonishment and sent one out that night.

Put yourself in my shoes for a minute… You’re within driving distance, you have the day off, and the guy has obviously gone to trouble to make sure you’re there… What would you have done? I went. The ceremony was beautiful, and I saw a few friends before wishing the happy couple well. End of chapter, close book.

Not quite! Two years later I went to a high school reunion. I had actually tried to set this man up with one of my friends when we broke up and before he met his now-wife. This friend was at the reunion, and as we reminisced about the old days, she asked if I ever spoke to our mutual friend. I said the last time I had seen him was at his wedding.

She looked shocked.

30 minutes of conversation later, the final pieces fell into place: our upstanding chivalrous citizen…had cold feet and wanted a booty call! My invitation to the wedding never got lost in the mail. He never sent one to start with. He wanted me to come home and talk him out of it, but he would have preferred I not use words to do my persuading. How do I know this for sure? Because he spilled all to my friend over martinis one night, but she had no phone number to call and warn me. She didn’t think I would’ve gone. But I did.

I haven’t spoken to him since the wedding. I recently found something he was looking for a long time ago – I’ve pondered sending it to him with a “hope you’re well” note, but every time I come close, I think of that reunion night conversation and stop myself. If he does still care, I can’t accept the karmic responsibility or opening up someone’s old wounds for something so small. It would be so much easier if I didn’t know that – if I could just be myself and assume that he’s happily married and therefore any act of kindness on my part is merely one old friend to another, without any thing else in the mix. But I can’t.

Ah, the complexities of not-quite-love…