I was 16 years old and I was fooling around with Eli Elliott, my then boyfriend. We were so magically youthfully in love that we were like rabbits, doing it everywhere imaginable. He would take me home from school in his white K car with the burgundy interior (and I lived far! God forbid it rained or else we had to pull over because good ole K didn’t run well in the rain) and, since my mom worked until 7ish, we would go at it. I’m not ashamed because Eli and I loved each other. I didn’t feel like I was trying to confirm my sexual identity or bow to peer pressure. He really thought he was going to sell his K car and buy me an engagement ring. Now, maybe there wasn’t going to be a stone in it and maybe it might bend under pressure but it was the thought that counted. That is not however, the love I am talking about.
One day, my dad came to our house and caught me coming down the stairs, buttoning my shirt while Eli was headed for the door. Yes, catastrophe. Dad kicked Eli out and told me he’d be back. I was devestated. I called all my friends and I told them I loved them and slowly declared my prized possessions to each. I was sure I was going to die. Even my mother set aside her anger and gave me some sympathy on my impending death. Thanks, mom.
Later, my dad came and picked me up without a word. We drove and I was sure I was about to be left in a field with an ax in my head. Little did my dad know that each time Eli and I had sex, I MADE him put water in the condom just to be sure no babies made a little surprise performance. I was having a bad enough time with Physics. As we continued to drive in the darkness, I started to cry, quietly. Then we pulled up to Cracker Barrel and I was thankful for light because light means maybe no murder but broke legs. Then we got seated. And we ordered. Silence. Then he says to me, very calmly, “If you get pregnant, you will break my heart.”
And I bawled like a woman going to the electric chair.
You see, if you love somebody, they don’t really need to hoop and holler like a bad gospel play. All they really need to do is tell you the truth about how you are to them and you’ll feel it. So whenever I get hit with sincerity from someone I love about a sticky situation, I always think back to my dad and how he didn’t murder me but told me the truth about what he thought, and I feel all at once, loved/humbled/eager to do the right thing/mad I did something wrong/unable to breathe/constantly take deep breaths/heart pounding/heart stopping/dry skin/sweaty hands…you get it.
This is for Scott.
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