The cute boy at the mission trip fundraiser. I was 14. He was 16. That was a no-go. But a note in my 8th grade yearbook that assures I will continue to get “Jonathan LaCour” updates. “Went out” with a couple guys the Fall of my Freshman year, 15 at this point. Broken-hearted on Valentine’s Day. A realization that 15 made the prospect a bit more acceptable. An “outreach opportunity” to get us in the same room. In a room full of youth group teens, me finding my way to be next to him. Watching Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and So I Married an Axe Murderer as he made quiet jokes. Disappointment when the night is over. Elation when he asks for my phone number. That was it. High school sweethearts to husband and wife in 7 years. Through some of the most formative years of a person’s life. I look back at our mementos, and I wonder how in the world was that 17yr old boy so mature to be able to be so good at communication and honesty?
I read the letters we sent to each other, and I think, “wow, we fell deep, quickly.” We didn’t go to the same high school. We didn’t see each other every day. We didn’t even talk on the phone every day. There are love notes and poems. Cards with notes and trinkets to send with each other when one of us would go out of town. Mixtapes and CDs with songs precisely chosen to convey how we felt about each other. I’d like to call it puppy love. I’d like to say, “oh boy we were just kids.” But as I go through these keepsakes, I am dumbfounded at our maturity.
Of course there was a lot to learn. We made mistakes. We navigated disagreements and relationship needs and boundaries. Yet neither of us decided it was too much. We weren’t thinking of marriage, but we sure were committed to each other from day one. There wasn’t much of a “let’s see how this goes” time for us. Maybe there was, and I don’t remember it. The evidence I kept does not bear that out though.
The first year. I can feel that one in my bones.
Our first date: A call to tell him that traffic is terrible and he may want to take another route. Standing around the kitchen island fumbling with my lipstick waiting nervously for his arrival. The cute boy in his cream polo shirt, black jeans, and converse. Blushing as he opens the passenger side door to his car. Immediate comfort and ease of conversation. Learning about each other “I’m a good girl. I roll with the punches.” A dinner at Fratelli. My pre-dinner warning that I can’t eat around boys. I didn’t eat around boy. Meeting up with his friend for moral support at Cafe Intermezzo. More connecting as he gets me home in time for curfew. The perfect first date. Butterflies, laughs, and comfort.
Our first kiss: His hand gently touching my chin to turn my face toward his. Everything else in that movie theater fading into the distant background.
His Junior prom: A freshman girl trying to find the confidence to fit in with the upperclassmen. The boy I was giddy over not having a care in the world as he was teased about “robbing the cradle.” Ensuring I felt beautiful and wanted and welcome. I can still feel how our bodies touched for the first time as we danced closely.
Our first summer: Being torn about leaving on exciting adventures while leaving the other behind. Sending envelopes marked for each day we would be apart, sometimes with lyrics to a pertinent song, sometimes a quick note, and even the tab from a soda can to signify an IOU for a kiss upon return. Standing in line at the amusement park with his arms wrapped around me from behind.
My 16th birthday: A picnic set up in the park. Framed art featuring Winnie the Pooh looking at his reflection in water “When I see me alone, I think of us together.”
His Senior year: Still deeply attached. Sophomore me needing reassurance that I wasn’t being left behind, while also learning that things were different for him in that last year of school. The sigh of relief that he would be going to college in the same city.
Our first Christmas: An engraved watch for him. A brown cashmere sweater for me. The gift he will never forgive himself for because he didn’t know brown was my least favorite color despite the color of my eyes.
Our first anniversary: A scavenger hunt around Atlanta to the places we had been throughout the year.
The memories become a bit less visceral after that. We bridged the gap between his first two years of college and my last two years of high school. Navigating those two completely different phases of life as a couple was no easy feat, but it was never a task that either of us wanted to give up on.
To be continued…