The Field House

We'd been together for two winter months. Before that, it was two summer months, spotted with long distance calls and staying out after curfew. And in-between, a couple other weekends seeing each other at school dances, when we were together, but not. 

For two people who'd only been seriously together for two months, there had already been enough prior drama. Calling him the wrong name, pretending we could have a "casual" relationship, managing to find someone else but still insert myself into his life far enough to make every other girl disappear. I did it all from my room, in my single-sex boarding school. Who needs typical high school when you can cause the same amount of chaos from your telephone, and never get caught?

As our senior year came to a close, my plans weren't clear from day to day, let alone for the summer and fall. How much can you factor in someone who, despite all the flaws and tics, you've actually come to rely on heavily. He might not have been The One, but he was my shoulder to lean on, and I was his.

The dance was at the Field House, but as the night wore on, we found ourselves outside in the grass. Under the Stars, on a picnic table with just ourselves, "I'm going to Florida," I said. 

I knew he was already going to Delaware. I didn't want to be cynical. I thought if the words came out of my mouth, I would believe them. "So what do you want to do?"

"We'll figure it out," he said. 

I knew we wouldn't, but we'd try. The onslaught of an entire year after that was torture. There was no fighting, but a passiveness settled in that would eventually kill any guilt I could ever amass from being a terrible girlfriend. But we didn't break up until the very end, with both of us still holding on to that one memory, outside the Field House, that made us seem like forever.