after my date’s car broke down.
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Everyone thought we were ridiculous.
They all believed we’d eventually realize we belonged together, but we laughed.
He dated other girls.
My mother, Erica, used to watch us at the kitchen table arguing over homework and say, “One day, the two of you are going to figure this out.”
Jeffrey would grin.
“Figure out what?”
“You know exactly what.”
Then he’d look at me. I’d roll my eyes.
“We’re friends, Mom.”
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That was the truth. Or at least it was what we were willing to admit.
“Figure out what?”
Losing my best friend scared me more than dating him ever excited me. I think he felt the same way. So we kept things simple.
Until one summer night when we were 19.
We’d both had terrible dates. Mine spent two hours talking about himself.
Jeffrey’s date left early after arguing with him
about a movie.
Losing my best friend.
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We met at our old high school football field afterward. The gates were open, so we climbed under the bleachers and sat on the grass.
Jeffrey leaned back against a metal support.
“We’re bad at this.”
“Dating?”
“Choosing people.”
I laughed.
“We’re bad at this.”
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, “What if we never get it right?”
“We’ll survive.”
“What if we’re both single forever?”
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I looked at him. Then Jeffrey held out his pinky.
“If we’re both single at 60, we’ll stop being idiots and find each other.”
I stared at his hand.
He wasn’t laughing anymore.
“Jeffrey.”
“I’m serious.”
“What if we never get it right?”
“Why 60?”
“Because if we haven’t figured things out by then, we obviously need help.”
I hooked my pinky around his.
“Deal.”
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He smiled.
“Deal.”
For one second,
neither of us moved.
I remember thinking I should say something. I didn’t.
Two months later, Jeffrey left for college three states away.
“We obviously need help.”
***
At first, we wrote constantly.
Long letters and birthday cards.
Jeffrey told me about his roommate who never cleaned anything. I told him about working at the library while taking classes.
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He complained about the cafeteria food. I complained about customers returning books with coffee stains.
We wrote constantly.
For the first year, I knew more about Jeffrey’s life than people living down his street.
Then the letters became less frequent. Every week became every other week. Every other week became once a month.
I thought college was changing him.
The truth was, my life was changing, too.
I knew more about Jeffrey’s life.
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I started training to become a teacher. I made new friends. I went on dates.
But every