“So, you’re alright with taking me home today,” I asked her.
“Yeah, of course! I’m just paying the favor forward,” Julia responded.
The parking lot was moistened by the showers of September, and our shoes sloshed while we walked over the wet asphalt. The clouds blotted out the sun and foretold a night of torrential rain. We reached the light blue vehicle; wet pine straw was scattered over the windshield and hood. After quickly clearing that off, we climbed into the car. She put her keys into the ignition and cranked the car up. A cacophony of beeps and roaring emanated from the console and engine of the car. The warm, leather seats provided me a sense of comfort that I needed on such a chilly day. Julia looked at me and smiled, her white teeth making the day a little less gray.
That was the first time Julia drove me home. And over time, her taking me home became less of a thing I asked for and more of a daily ritual we took part in. I tried to get to know her more during those times, as it was only right that I offered something to her as compensation.
“What’s your favorite thing to eat? Anything in particular that you just really love,” I asked her one day.
“French fries. I love French fries, especially the ones Five Guys,” she responded.
As we spent more time together, she also made me a few things: a playlist of songs she thought I’d like, a few brownies, and some other cute trinkets.
Around September 20th, I realized what she was doing.
On September 25th, I asked Julia out. She said yes.
Admittedly, I was extremely hesitant to do anything involving relationships. I knew from the jump that we would attend separate colleges, go our own ways, and eventually we’d have to leave each other. And yet, none of that mattered.
Time passed quickly, much too quickly for my taste, and we grew emotional over the possibility of being apart from one another. No snow fell in December, but the Bradford Pears in my yard shed all their leaves for the preparation of the next year. We sat out in her car again, alone in the darkness of the night with only an orange streetlight illuminating us. The tears on her face glinted orange in the light, and her shoulders shook from her sobs. This would be the last time that I would see her until January; she had to go to Pennsylvania for a Christmas visit. It would be the first real time we spent away from each other. I can’t recall how long we sat there. All I remember is what I said to her. I had tried to say it multiple times, but it never came out. It was never the right time to say it, it seemed too soon. Three months was too quick for us to say we love each other. It was as if my throat was allergic to the words because it seemed to swell up and close whenever the words came close to passing through my lips. A lump formed at the base of my esophagus, and for a brief moment I felt like I was suffocating. I ran a hand through my hair and swept it to the right, then back to the left, then back to the right. My hands beaded with sweat as I spoke up.
“I love you.”
Her sobs stopped. I held my breath and looked at the dark figure of my pecan tree. It stood unmoved by my words, and held no sympathy for my plight. Perhaps she would accept it as me stuttering? Maybe she could accept it as another instance of me mumbling, she knows I stutter a lot and she always teases me about it-
“I love you too.”
That works as well. I reached over and wrapped my arms around her. The engine of the Passat, still running, kept us warm during the cool night of winter. And perhaps it brought us together in the first place.
Musicals and The Iron Giant: How I Found My Better Half 