Growing up, I had two very intense crushes that went on for years and also went nowhere. One was my best friend in the neighborhood, a sweet boy who grew comfortable enough with me to ask for advice about girls he liked (I know. I know. It is painful even now, twenty-four years later). We rode bikes together every day and then I’d lie in bed at night planning our wedding.
The other crush was the lifeguard at our pool. He was two years older and I was very shy, but that did not stop me from waiting on AOL Instant Messenger to see if he’d sign on. After a few years of silent stalking and smiling across the pool and daydreaming about faking a drowning episode, I turned sixteen; he was still working at the pool in the summer. We eventually exchanged contact info and months later, we started talking on AOL. Things are fuzzy, but I think he told me he had a crush on me. Hallelujah! He definitely invited me to a New Year’s Eve party. Absolutely! It was at a hotel just off of the interstate, in a suite he and some friends had rented. Why not?! Despite the questionable and dangerous setup, my parents lost their minds and said I could go as long as I brought a friend and left as soon as the Times Square ball dropped on TV.
What is better than a New Year’s Eve party with a boy you’ve liked for most of your life? Nothing! That’s what. The big day arrived, and my friend and I were off to the races. She also lived in the neighborhood and had been faithfully supporting my romantic quest for years. This was also an excellent opportunity for her to evaluate my crush’s friend selection, in case any suited her fancy. When we got to the party, I didn’t drink. I didn’t flirt. In fact, I can’t remember a single moment, other than I know I wasn’t alone with this guy all night long. I think I sat on the couch and watched TV? Every time I stole a glance at the boy, he was being loud and silly with his friends. Midnight came. The ball dropped, which was my cue to leave. I don’t think my crush even noticed my exit. After loading my friend into my car (who, by the way, had a FABULOUS time) and pulling my Ford Bronco out of the hotel parking lot, I called the boy. What courage?! Text messaging was not yet mainstream; my cell phone was for emergencies only and came with an antenna. The boy answered. I told him, with my actual voice, that I’d had a rotten evening. He told me to come back. I pulled a u-turn and whipped into the hotel parking lot, my drunk friend cackling in the passenger seat. The boy was waiting outside of the hotel. I rolled my window down a few inches. He lurched forward and planted a quick, awkward Grandma-style peck of a kiss on my face. I rolled up the window and drove away. My friend whooped and hollered. Victory.
A few long, excruciating days later, the boy called. He invited me to a movie. Yes! I couldn’t wait. We were finally going to get things rolling and be the dreamy couple I knew we could be. He picked me up on that historic winter night in his very tiny, very fast sports car. I knew it well, as I used to check on its status in the pool parking lot. He was quiet en route, although with his subwoofers and modified muffler I’m not sure I could have heard him speak anyway. As we walked up to the ticket counter, he mumbled something. I’m sorry, what? Please repeat? My ex-girlfriend, he says. She’ll be mad if she finds out I paid for your movie ticket tonight.
Fighting the urge to look around for his ex, possibly spying in the bushes, I fumbled in my purse to pay my own way. I felt desperate for the moment to pass. I felt certain the person at the ticket counter heard. I felt certain the people behind us heard. I felt certain everyone in the world just heard my dream date tell me he wasn’t actually my dream date. I rallied and walked inside, ready to sit in a dark theater next to this boy who smelled good and might redeem himself. The night was still young. Maybe he’d hold my hand, and his ex-girlfriend wouldn’t notice with her ex-girlfriend radar. I could only hope.
The movie theater was packed; the only available seats were at the very back, beneath the projector. We stepped over and around people, working our way down the row and settling in just in time for the previews. As I felt myself begin to relax and enjoy the evening, I heard a familiar voice. Rachael? Rachael Brown? I slowly turned to my left to find my dad’s best friend sitting right next to us. He hugged me, and then he leaned across me to shake my date’s hand. His wife leaned over and gave her greetings, and it was all over. I don’t remember the rest of the night, but I can look back and smile. A few short years later, I met a man who would never lose me at a party or ask me to pay for my own movie ticket again. Thank God for bad dates.
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