Blast from the Past

"You look absolutely gorgeous in all of your shots from S's graduation. I can't wait to take you places come fall so that others will think I did something admirable to have you next to me."

Meet B.

We held hands through middle school hallways and fought when high school came around. I asked him to Sadie Hawkins my junior year. He invited me to his school play. B- the last boy I kissed before I packed up my bags for New York.

Flash forward four years, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, senior year of college. Our eyes locked across the bar, and the room disappeared. We separated from the crowd and grinned over a drink. What followed was a delirious bit of youthful indiscretion better known as a serious make-out session in the parking lot. I still laugh at the thought of it. And I kick myself.

I call him Flaky B to his face, because he is both impossibly charming and unbelievably frustrating. He distances himself when you take interest, making plans but never following through. He reasons it's one part selfishness, one part insecurity, one part unconcern, one part genuine forgetfulness. It's beyond inexcusable but... we have history, on top of the little fact that I actually like the kid, and so I forgive him each and every time, even when I put up a fight.

Two sentences from him (sent from continents away, I should add) make me giddy, and I love and hate him for it. It just might be masochism, knowingly setting myself up for disappointment, but after ten years, ruefully, I don't know any other way.