She was so pretty, that night. The first time I felt my heart jump at her oblivious command. Shimmering black hair fell in two pigtails, framing her olive skin that was just a little too round. She was so awkward and gangly, standing there in my living room, nearly bumping her head on the light fixtures. But I was captivated. We had known each other six months, perhaps, and I had always thought of her merely as that silly, fun girl with the beautiful voice that all my friends seemed to fall for. But then . . . the night of my twentieth birthday, I felt as though I had caught glimpse of an angel who had fallen to earth. Okay, maybe that’s exaggerating just a tad, but I thought she was very pretty, and a girl that’s pretty and sweet is like a magnet for a lonely boy whose heart has just barely healed.
I liked her. After months of friendship, the dreaded crush-bug had finally sucker-punched me. But what was I now to do with that? Tell her? Hint? Or simply keep it to myself, not risking the friendship we already had? For two weeks I thought about it, mulling over the consequences, the possibilities that might come of such a revelation. But in the end it came down to one thing: I knew that I would regret it if I didn’t tell her. That I would always wonder “what if?” As I was, and am resolved to live my life with as few regrets as possible, I decided that I had to tell her.
Telling a girl he likes her is one of the most awkward, nerve-wracking events in a man’s life. If he’s lucky, she likes him back and cuts off his stumbling words with a kiss or a hug. If he’s extra-lucky then she initiates the conversation, making it just as awkward but not nearly as scary. I could have written her a letter or told her on Facebook chat, masking my fear with carefully thought out words and paragraphs, designed to truly convey the emotion I felt for her. But no, I decided that that would be far too easy. It had to be face to face.
We attended the same Wednesday night Bible Study, which I led, and afterwards I would usually offer to drive her the five minutes back to her house before returning to my own some distance away. It had been nearly a month since my party, and I knew I had to act. There was another boy I knew she was getting involved with from church, and from what I could tell things soon would come to a head between them. And so act I did.
We began the drive back to her house as normal, talking about mutual friends and how the Bible Study had gone. I was nervous. I kept thinking about bringing it up but every time I did my heart started beating a thousand times per minute. Down a side street, past a round about . . . I was running out of time. But I couldn’t bring myself to speak the words.
Finally, we turned down the street her house was on. The car crept closer and closer, and my foot unconsciously let slowly off the gas. But the distance was not far and it was no more than a few seconds before the silver minivan I drove was parked in front of her pretty suburban home. I turned off the engine. We talked for a few seconds more, finishing whatever conversation it was we had been having on the ride back. Silence. She turned to go, opening the latch of the door. There would be no second opportunity, I knew.
“Goodbye.” She said.
“Goodbye.” I replied. She pushed the door open. Her body was halfway out of the car. My chest ramped up its exertions to approximately one million beats per minute as I forced air from my lungs up, past my larynx and used my lips to form the shape of two more words.
“Annie, wait.” She paused, turned and looked at me. I kept my eyes firmly on the gently glowing dials in front of me. “There’s something I need to talk to you about . . .”
