My True Love Story

The Two Forbidden “H” Words

Day 735ish

I’m sitting across from Ryan at a candlelit table. The room is dark except for the romantic glow of two small flames. We’re finishing a delicious home cooked meal, in Bruce’s quiet basement. We are alone. Bruce and Christy have just left us to go and get dressed for the dance. Ryan and I are already dressed, me in a short, fitted, dark purple, velvet dress, my hair twisted up off of my neck, and he in slacks, a dress shirt and tie.
“Have I told you how good you look yet?” he asks.
He has. At least ten times. But do you think I could ever get tired of hearing it?
I beam at him, remembering the look on his face from about an hour ago, when he came to pick me up and I walked down the stairs of my home. Every girl should see that look on a boy’s face at least once, that look that is frozen, riveted, stunned, blessed. The look that says, “I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to be here with this girl.”
Then, as so many times before, I saw the “H” word cross his mind and show in his features. His forbidden “H” word. The one that creeps into his mind because he loves me and he’s only seventeen and he’s a boy. Honeymoon.
Short, fitted, dark purple, velvet dress, hair pulled up off of her neck- honeymoon... Honeymoon, honeymoon, honeymoon.
He pushes the thought away and makes me laugh by telling me over and over again, at random times, how good I look.
I take a sip of Sprite from my champagne glass, and gaze at him over the dinner table. The moonlight streams in and lights his features and for an indulgent moment, I imagine that I can see the distinguished crinkles of time at his temples. I imagine the wisdom of age in his eyes. I imagine a lifetime of him saying, “Have I told you how good you look yet?” I think of my own forbidden “H” word. The one that creeps into my mind because I love him and I’m only seventeen and he’s a catch. Husband.
Husband, husband, husband.
“I foresee a lot of candlelit dinners in our future,” I say. “I will cook gourmet meals. They’ll be sitting on the dining room table, with steam gently rising from each dish the moment your car pulls in the driveway. I’ll come skipping out in a classic, yet somehow modernly sexy, homemaker dress, heels with sophisticated button clasps and a domestic little apron lined with ruffles.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Amie. You wouldn’t need nearly that many clothes.” Honeymoon…. Honeymoon, honeymoon, honeymoon.
I laugh because we both know the amount of clothes I described is not the most absurd thing in the future scenario. I laugh because Ryan has perfect comedic timing. I laugh because I’m flattered.
“It sounds nice though, doesn’t it?” I ask. “You… coming home… to me.”
“Amie…” Ryan says in that somewhat pained and chastising tone.
“What? Don’t you believe in happily ever after?” I ask, reaching across the table to take his hand in mine.
“You know exactly what we believe in. We’re members of a church that asks young men to serve two year missions. Two years away, with only letters to keep in touch.” He leans toward me and gives me a soft smile that says he loves me despite the harsh reality of his next words. “And I have a girlfriend that has an un-restrainable heart. That’s my reality.”
Even I, alive in my world of hearts and rainbows, know better than to make promises that stretch three years into the future. Would I wait for Ryan? Would I date other people? Is there some guy out there that I don’t even know right now that- No. That doesn’t seem possible.
If roles were reversed would Ryan wait two years for me? Or would he run off with the first wretched girl that just happened to sit her warm body next to him in the backseat of a car on some college road trip and fell asleep and “accidentally” let her head with all of its gorgeous, blond curls and its come hither smell fall on his shoulder just inches from his curious lips! Murder.
Murder, murder, murder.
What am I doing? I’ve promised myself that today will be just about having fun. Keep it light. Whenever it becomes about our unreachable future, the frustration of it brings us down. The impossibility of our odds binds us like chains.

When I change the subject it’s obvious, but welcome, like we both have the same unspoken goal to force ourselves to remember that we’re seventeen years old.
“Today ranked in like the top ten dates of all time,” I say, “I had no idea how much fun sand dunes could be!”
“It was really fun, huh?”
“I can’t believe I let them bury my whole body. And I can’t believe that after making them PROMISE not to put any on my head, Bruce waited until my arms were fully pinned with sand and I was completely helpless and then he threw some on my face! But it was kind of worth it seeing you defend my honor.”
I remember how I spluttered and panicked and how the sand crunched in my teeth. Then I remember how fast Ryan retaliated by stooping to fill his hand with sand, chasing Bruce down and throwing it in his face. My hero.
Husband... Husband, husband, husband.
“We were so exhausted on the drive home,” I say, “The perfect amount of exhaustion to achieve the ‘delirious’ laughter at the sight of Bruce, post sand dunes.”
Ryan laughs at the memory of Bruce on the drive home, looking as tired and sand covered as if he’d survived a sand storm… barely.
“It looked like he applied glue to his eyelashes with a mascara wand and the then sprinkled sand over the top!” I say through giggles.
“That is probably exxx-actly what he did,” Ryan says. “But who am I to accuse Bruce of using sand for a cosmetic? I was covered in it too! I had sand in my ears! How’d that happen?”
“I had handfuls in my underwear! Not just a little! Handfuls!” Uh oh. I spoke of my underwear.
Honeymoon…. Honeymoon, honeymoon, honeymoon.

The night continues on this way, and fighting off thoughts of our forbidden “H” words proves itself successful on this date. We talk and we laugh and we dance, and on the drive home Ryan plays the most romantic song for me and tells me that it reminds him of us. On the porch, he gives me soft, short kisses, mixed with long, meaningful looks. The kind that mean, I love you. The kind that aren’t about thoughts of honeymoon, honeymoon, honeymoon… but that betray me still by making me wish more than ever...
Husband…. Husband, husband, husband.