My True Love Story

Day 105ish

Ryan and other friends have come knocking on my basement apartment door from time to time. There have been group gatherings in my own personal living room. In fact, we meet almost weekly. We usually watch a teenage drama on TV, and then we cross the street to the elementary school. I love to run to the long line of swings, grab one low enough to the ground for my stubby legs and jump on. I love to sway back and forth, lean back and look up at the night sky, filled with stars, and remember a simpler time. I spent my childhood on these swings, pretending I was an acrobat, pretending I was a space traveler, pretending it meant I was married to the boy swinging next to me if he was going the same height and speed as I was. I feel the chains of the swing in my hands, I feel the rush of the ground beneath my feet, I feel the wind push my hair forward and back and I know that for just a few minutes, I can travel through time.

I laugh. We all laugh, because where Ryan is, there is always humor. I answer to a funny name. We all answer to funny names, because where Ryan is, there are always nicknames. “Hey Lamie,” he says to me, “I hear you’re moving in with me- I mean, by me.” I let my toes drag on the dirt below me and begin to slow so that I can answer without shouting. “It’s true! My parents are buying that house just across the street and a few houses down from you! I’m gonna be the girl next door.” “That’s all very good, but remind me again why you’re not my girlfriend.” He gives me a torturous grin. I allow my swing’s direction to slow to a lazy swivel as he stands in front of me. “It’s very simple really. I like you too much.” “Mmmm. Lucky me,” he says, his eyes communicating his sarcasm. “Not lucky. Valuable. You think I would waste our friendship on a ninth grade romance? So that we could break up and hate each other forever? No, thank you. Instead, I think we’ll get married someday.” I'm trying to keep my answer playful, but the truth is he's too good for all of it. Too good for the drama, too good for the games, too good for the risk. He needs to be the one I can laugh with, talk with, go to. That means more. He means more. He means too much… so he has to be less. “Married huh?” It's hard to tell if this pacifies him or not. “Yep. You’re pretty much my fiancé.” He shrugs. “I guess whatever you say goes.” “See what a good husband you’ll make!” “Oh. Ha. Ha. Ha. So… are you coming to my basketball game tomorrow?” “I don’t know. I love watching you play,” I say, kicking at the dirt with my dangling foot, “But I hate when you lose your temper.” “Well, I hate when I lose so…” “I tend to love when you shoot those last second, winning buzzer beaters and everyone hails you as a hero.” “Okay, why don’t I just go ahead and plan on doing that then.” “Sounds great!” I say, beaming. “I’ll be there.” And I was. Author’s note: I had my Mom proofread this post for me and the only addition she suggested was that at the beginning I should mention that we had those group get-togethers in the basement apartment “under the watchful eye of my Mom”! LOL! It may be true, but it totally spoils the mood. *shaking my head* Moms…