I'm 14 and attending some friends' school talent show with a boy named Michael, his mom, and both our siblings. We've piled in their white van, our siblings in the back and the two of us in the middle. We aren't dating, but he likes me and I think I like him. It's dark in the van and it's a 25 minute ride back home. Physical anything had been, at maximum, a touch of the arms while riding side-by-side or maybe a side hug. Maybe. I'm nervous just sitting that close to him in a two-person bench seat. I'm sitting with both my hands kind of tucked under my legs. I can tell he wants to hold my hand because his right hand is on the seat between us, close to my left. He's usually a fidgeter. My heart is beating faster and faster. We aren't talking, we can't see each other, really. I feel his pinky slide over onto mine. Before I know it, a few of his fingers are intertwined with mine. Our teenage hands dance for a few minutes before I turn my palm over and surrender. I like the way his hand is bigger and kind of envelops mine. My heart feels butterflies the rest of the way home.
|Spring 2007, (18 years old)|
Eight years later, I married this boy named Michael. Our love story is an interesting one. I love telling people I married my high-school sweetheart. He's still my sweetheart and always will be. Those same butterflies show up even now when he walks in the room or is holding our baby boy.
|July 2011, Our Wedding Day|
Today just happens to be his birthday. Happy Birthday, love. I celebrate you today and the fact that God saw fit that you come into the world, and then my world, and make it that much better.