The One That Got Away

Well since I’ve finally admitted to myself that it’s deader than dead, it’s time to tell the (very sanitized) story of The One That Got Away. While it’s tempting to give out his full name, which might mean it would show up on a Google search and he might eventually find this blog, I’ll pass on that. We said all we had to say, most of it a long, long time ago, some of it more recently and no less painfully. Still, I’ll give you his first name, which to this day gives me a little shiver. Bret.

Bret wasn’t my first big crush; that happened in kindergarten with a boy named Jimmy. Bret wasn’t my first big fall-head-over-heels romantic feelings either. Bret wasn’t even my first boyfriend. But he was what I can honestly say was my first big love affair. He was older, and he was my idol. I was in youth theater when I was a teenager, and when I was fourteen and he was nineteen, Bret left our little group to make it big in Hollywood. At the time I had a huge crush on him, and he thought I was a real sweet kid. That’s as it should be; anything different woulda been kinda creepy. But. He came back when I was seventeen. Seventeen, much more confident, much more of a touchy-feely-huggy person… out of my braces, into contacts, and (though I didn’t realize it until later) fairly shapely as well. I was one of the few people in the group still left from his glory days, since I had been the baby of that bunch, and so our friendship renewed quickly. As did my secret crush, which of course I was sure he would never return. Well, several months later, I spent a Saturday morning at his house, with the intention of lecturing him on the big mistake he was making by being involved with his girlfriend at the time. I was saved the trouble of giving that lecture, however, when his ex-girlfriend called him while I was there and did it for me. Basically all I had to say was, “Yeah. What she said.” But then he wanted to know why I felt that way, and somewhere in the middle of telling him why she was so bad for him, I got a little emotional, my voice was escalating, and I told him that I loved him and didn’t want to see him hurt. Now, that’s not as dramatic a revelation as it sounds, because among our group we were as free with declarations of love as we were with hugs; I could easily pretend that I just meant the same friendly/sisterly love we bandied about on a regular basis. But I opened my arms to him for a big hug.

To this day, I will swear that he’s the one who kissed me, while he will swear that I kissed him. Whoever started it, we wound up first on the floor, then in his bedroom. We didn’t make love, not that day, not ever. We did, however, carry on a heated affair (I’m only sort of ashamed to admit, behind his girlfriend’s back) for a few months. First it was my fear and inexperience that kept us from crossing that line (though we crossed others – oh, did we ever!), then it was his realization that in a few months I would be moving to Texas and moving on with my future… a future he couldn’t see himself in, though I certainly saw him there quite easily. We said an awkward goodbye and that was it. Over the next few years we saw each other only once. Most of the details were hashed out over several letters, first angry and sarcastic as word of my newfound wild ways leaked back to him, then heartbreakingly honest as he and I finally revealed to each other everything that we had been thinking and feeling since the day he had walked back through the rehearsal room doors. It was star-crossed love at its best, and its worst. The last time I had spoken to him was when I was pregnant with my oldest. He called me up, we had a slightly awkward conversation, punctuated by my laughter as he sang a song to me, with the words slightly changed… “I try not to think about what might have been… ‘cause you’re knocked up…”

Over the years I sent the occasional letter and picture of the kids. I should have left it at that after the last letter I had written him was returned as undeliverable, “not at this address,” but I didn’t. Through a long convoluted process and a little bit of luck – good, bad, I’m not sure – I found him again last year. We exchanged letters and phone calls, flirting all the while, and I wound up taking a trip back home, ostensibly for a family reunion, but really to see him. And it all fell apart. I think the reason he gave me wasn’t the real reason, but that’s neither here nor there. That last little bit of fantasy-hope that I had been holding out all these years, that someday we’d be together again and this time we’d make it right… that hope is all but gone. Not lost completely, never lost completely, because the love I have for him is honest and true, and I believe he has the same kind of love for me as well… but I have a funny feeling if we do get another chance… well… it’s gonna be another 13 years before we get to it.