They saw each other at a holiday party. She’d gone every year with her family, feeling more at home with the adults than in the den of popular peers occupying the pink bedroom. He was a regular on a different schedule. His father was a minister serving hope at the midnight mass, but not that year. So he, his brother who she knew better, and their parents basked in the champagne glow of the Christmas Eve court.
He was still in school. She was in her first capital-j Job. That night, he asked what she loved about it and she talked about pottery, the edges and effort that people put into everyday objects to bring beauty and meaning to the necessary. And he laughed and let her. They exchanged numbers. While he hunted in Texas, he sent a happy new year to her in Chicago. Her ex’s auld lang syne arrived first, but his meant more.
He came to New Orleans for the weekend to see his brother, but spent every wakeful hour with her. They walked and laughed, admiring the butts and brushwork on display at the park museum. When he walked her home at night, she tucked her hand in his elbow and he held it tight.
She got a job interview in Baton Rouge. They met at a coffeehouse after and he followed her to trivia. She moved to Baton Rouge to save money, to give a coworker a new place to live...and to be closer to him, though she wouldn't admit it yet. They had lunch on Valentine’s Day. She made brownies. He paid. No one called it a date. She got the job, put in her notice, and then the job fell away. But her family was there. He was there. A life could still be there for her. So she went to more interviews and got another job. She got an apartment. They still didn’t go on dates.
She got a boyfriend and her first solo apartment. They talked less for a while. He disappeared into school, she into work. They resurfaced. They met for coffee and went on long walks around the lakes. She made a mistake one night. Not knowing what they could still mean, she left him at a bar and went home with someone else. He forgave her (she thought). They went on walks. He talked about wanting something more. She did too. She didn’t want to be nice, but she hoped she was kind. He made her feel like she was.
For her birthday, she had dinner with friends. He came. When the friends left, he walked her under the overpass to his favorite martini bar. They played at playing pool to a soundtrack of '90s hits. They held decaf in giddy hands and sat in the garden of their coffee shop trying to find stars above the streetlights. He walked her home. It wasn’t a date.
She went to Iceland with her best friend. He told her he’d pick her up. Her flight was delayed. And delayed. And delayed. Wandering the lengths of the Atlanta airport, she gave him an out. When her flight finally landed, her bag wasn’t in sight. And then it was. And he was there when she turned around. She fell into him. He hugged her, drove her home, and made sure there weren’t any monsters hiding under her sink.
He made her feel funny. She mentioned an open mic and let the weeks pass. He remembered the next one, drove her so she couldn’t chicken out, and made her feel like the best person of the night. He recorded her. He called her “the one. The only.”
She felt brighter around him. She liked how she seemed to tuck right into his warm chest when they hugged. They went for dinner and long walks. They danced and laughed. Nobody called these nights dates.
One year, four months, and nineteen days had passed since they met in the warm glow of that winter evening. She had been offered a job she could care about. In Massachusetts. No one was more excited than he was. He graduated. They went out to celebrate each other, to drink, and to dance. A friend from the open mic asked what they were. Friends(?). The friend asked why. They didn’t know.
That night, he drove her home again. She didn’t get out of the car immediately. He asked.
Why didn’t we?
I was waiting on you..
Well, better late than never.
They kissed.
They both came home that night.
She can’t remember now if it was that night or the next morning, but he gave her a gift she still carries with her. A gift he had carried in his car’s trunk, not knowing how to give. An album she mentioned because it made her feel connected to the grandfather she couldn’t always remember and the father she couldn’t always understand.
They went on dates. For two weeks, they went on many dates.
And then she moved. Like they knew she would. And he thought about moving. And she thought about it too.
He got a job in Baton Rouge. They celebrated. She sent him silly socks. He sent her a blanket poncho.
She called him on her walks home. He woke her up with beautiful messages.
She helped him look for apartments, sending him craigslist ad after ad. He asked if they were places she'd want to spend the night. She couldn't stop smiling that day.
He visited her once. A hot weekend in July spent on the third floor of a New England house with every box fan angled to suit.
She got a job in Vermont.
He was her date to a wedding in their hometown. The flights were too early and she hadn’t planned well. She should’ve flown in the night before. She was exhausted. Not the person she wanted to be. He was ecstatic. She fell asleep with a baby in her lap, but woke up to kiss him good night. He pulled away.
At least, she thought he did.
They went to dinner with her friends before she left. Then they walked around the neighborhood at night. He pushed her on a swing.
She moved. He responded less.
She didn’t wake up to his messages anymore.
She got lonely and started downloading avenues to companionship.
She saw him holding hands with a hotdog in a friend's snapped story.
She deleted snapchat.
She knew he was pulling away. Pushing toward something new.
She clung.
She had never known what they were to each other, but nothing had never seemed possible.
In February, they went for coffee and walked around their lake. He didn't mention the hotdog. She didn't ask.
In April, he told her over a text. She called. He didn’t pick up.
He stopped picking up.
It’ll be three years tomorrow (the day after if you want to get technical) since they found better later.
It’s been over a year since she started considering the never.
She always offered more than she could give. He always gave more than she could offer. Perhaps she could finally give him exactly what he asked. Space.
The album will always have a place on her shelf, though it’s not displayed like it used to be.
She’ll always hope for his reply.
But these days, she thinks three times and doesn’t hit send.