If this is your first time reading my version of how I fell in love with my husband, you might want to start with Part I and Part II.
Spring Break had come and nearly
gone, and my mom and I were up late talking, trying to get the last bit of
conversation in before I had to drive back down to school the next morning.
“So, tell me more about this
Steve,” she leaned her chin on her hand as we sat at the old kitchen table we’d
had since I was a kid.
“Well, there’s not much else to
tell—my roommate says he likes me, and we’ve hung out a few times…” I avoided
eye contact as I traced my fingernail along a dent in the top of the table.
“And you went on a date…” she
prompted me.
“…And we went on a date,” I
agreed. “But that’s it. I don’t really see it going anywhere.”
“Why not?”
“You forget—I’m getting ready to
go on a mission!” I was surprised. She knew about my decision and supported it,
or so I had thought.
“So?”
“So what? It’s not like we can get that serious between
now and the time I leave. And he and
Heather were together, which would just be weird….Besides, he’s not really my
type.”
“What do you mean, he’s not your
type? What’s your type?” Her brow was
furrowed.
“You know…more like the guys I’ve
always liked before, I guess…..Darker hair, looks, I dunno--different…” my
voice faltered as I tried to find words that wouldn’t come.
“So you’re saying that if he
looked different or had different colored hair, you’d consider a relationship
with him.” My mother’s voice was
suddenly cold.
I tried to explain. “Well—it’s not like that…”
“Jewel, I have to admit, I’m
disappointed in you. I’ve never heard
you say something so shallow in your life.”
I flinched. “It’s not the looks, necessarily…”
“Then what? It sounds like this guy treats you like a
queen—the way you deserve to be treated.
He sounds funny and smart and talented and good, and if you pass him up because he doesn’t have the hair color
you imagined or doesn’t fit some vague description you’ve given yourself, you’ll
regret it someday.”
“But my mission—“ I started, feeling
a little bit cornered.
Gentler now, she took my hand in
hers. “It doesn’t mean that you have to
get married or decide to ask him to wait right away—all I’m saying is that this
is an opportunity to have a relationship that could probably enrich your life,
if you’re willing to stop making excuses and go for it.”
I couldn’t sleep that night. My mom’s voice kept ringing in my ears, and
on the drive back down to Thatcher the next day, I couldn’t help but ponder
what she had said.
It was true. I tried to be unflinchingly honest with
myself as I drove, and came to the conclusion that I was making shallow,
unsustainable excuses, but the bottom line was that I was scared. Scared of putting myself out there, scared of
being rejected, scared of getting hurt as I had before. During the drive, as I thought and prayed, I
made a resolution—if Steve was interested in a relationship with me, I would go
for it. No holding back now.
“Wow! This looks great!” I looked admiringly at the dinner Steve and
his roommate had put together—lasagna, Caesar salad, and breadsticks. Jeremy, Steve’s roommate, had had a crush on
a friend of mine for a while, and as we had walked together over to the trailer
Steve and Jeremy lived in, Erin and I had agreed that we were both pretty excited
for tonight’s double date and hoping that it might lead to something more
eventually. *
(*SPOILER ALERT! That date must
have had some good juju, because not only did Steve and I end up getting
married, but Erin and Jeremy got married to each other while I was off serving
my mission, and now have three beautiful children.)
As I sat down at my place, I
noticed a couple of orange daisies sitting next to my plate—the same kind of
flower Steve had pulled out of my hair a couple of weeks ago in class.
I glanced up at Steve, who was
watching me closely for my reaction. As
I watched him, I had a jolting realization.
He’s nervous, I thought. The thought was startling to me—I was pretty
sure I had never made someone else nervous on a date before; I was usually the
nervous one. To think that I was enough
to make someone nervous about going on a date with me was…exciting. I resolved to not make the same mistakes I
had last time and be sure to send the “right signals”—whatever those were.
By the end of the date, I felt
that I had done pretty well. I had
stayed close to Steve all night long, laughed at all his jokes (It wasn’t hard to do—the guy was hilarious), and really enjoyed the conversations we’d
had. He offered to walk me home, and we
started out on the road arm in arm, looking up at the stars.
“Oh, it’s so beautiful,” I
sighed.
“I agree,” he said, looking at
me. I slapped his arm.
“Don’t make fun!”
“I wasn’t.” He answered quietly. I felt his hand slip
into my hand, the fingers intertwining with mine. Goosebumps ran up and down my arms as we
walked. So, this is what it feels like to hold hands with someone you like, I
mused. I had held hands with someone
once before, but it had been a clammy, disappointing experience—nothing like
the intensity I was feeling now.
We were quiet on the walk back to
my apartment, one of us occasionally making a remark here and there, but both
of us focused on the subtle change that had come over us with this new
development.
As we neared my apartment, I
stiffened—there was a large group of people, all of whom I recognized, standing
just outside the stairs to my apartment.
Is he going to drop my hand? I wondered. In EA culture, it was one thing to hold hands
when a couple was in the dark by themselves—holding hands in public, or even in
front of a big group of friends, was tantamount to announcing an engagement.
I decided to let him decide
whether or not to drop my hand. He
didn’t, but held on to it steadily as we both greeted our group of friends
casually, doing our best to ignore their knowing grins and stares, as well as
the tittering and whispering that followed in our wake. In fact, he held my hand all the way until we
got to the door.
“Thanks for a great evening. So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” His blue eyes were deep, fascinating—I could
barely breathe.
“Yeah. Sure,” I managed to say, and he hugged me,
then turned and walked back down the stairs.
I closed the door and leaned against it, only to notice my three
roommates all staring at me as I came in.
“So?!?!?! What happened?!” Heather giggled at my expression.
I smiled. “I think I finally figured out how to send
the right signals.”
That’s when the squealing began.
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