May 162014

Crafty signs have popped up lately saying, “Every love story is beautiful, but ours is my favorite,” so let me be cliché and give you a few snapshots of my favorite love story.

I fell in love with him right away. I don’t like to talk to people in real life and the day we met, we talked for half an hour about things that mattered and I fell in love.

After our first few dates, I was pretty sure this was headed somewhere and that’s when I walked into church and he was holding hands with a platinum blonde, large-lipped, tight-shirt wearing girl and my little heart was smashed, but I didn’t give up—you don’t when you’re in love. You don’t give up until every road has been tested and every marriage has been consummated, and I still remember how happy I was the day he stopped dating her.

I was in love but remember how I hate talking to people in real life? So he didn’t know that, but we were best friends and, without knowing it, he chased away every other boy until it was just him and me in his car one day driving down a curvy road and I was about to tell him that “I was in love and had been in love for a year and hadn’t given up on him even when it was clear he didn’t love me back–” and that was when he opened his car door and threw up on the side of the road and I knew that it was not meant to be just yet. But I didn’t give up because you don’t give up when you’re in love.

I finally told him how I felt, though, one night standing blushing and stuttering in his apartment when he was wearing a white shirt and blue jean shorts, and he gave me a consoling hug, patted me on the back, and I left. I hoped we would still be friends because what would I do if I couldn’t see him every day?

And then he went on a date with a different Emily and I wrote him an angry letter that he would never see. Just as I was about to finish it off with the final exclamation points, he called and asked me to please drive him up the canyon so that he could ride his longboard down and would I pick him up at the bottom? Being in love (even when you’re angry), you say yes, so I did and, when I picked him up at the bottom of that hill, he sat down and said, “Emily, I’ve been thinking about what you said that night in my apartment…”

Later he invited me to go to Yellowstone together with his grandparents. The four of us were cream and milk, so we separated. He and I talked, star gazed, walked, and slipped down a mountain together and I shared a one-room log cabin and a bed with his snoring, spitting, spooning grandmother (when you are in love with a boy, you do that sort of thing). When we drove home together at the end of the trip, tired, in our dusty clothes and dirty shoes, I held his hand.

That’s how it began, my friends. And now we drive a minivan and, every once in a while, I bring out these little pictures I’ve just shown you and remind him of my favorite love story.

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