My first kiss was at a pool party in grade 6. Soaking wet and sitting on the lap of my friend, I was kissed on the cheek just after putting a few potato chips in my mouth. I was chewing with my mouth closed, but I turned to smile at him. He closed-mouth smiled, too. We “went out” and played soccer until I had to go to Canada later in the summer.
I was tricked into loving the first time. I was watching out for it, but somehow it still happened. I had seen him in other relationships and he either just didn’t get it, or wasn’t a very considerate person. I’ve since decided it’s both. He was two years older than me, and we dated for two years. We’d drive out to his family’s lake house late at night or share a spot in the recliner watching Netflix DVDs. He had an internship 4th Block, and would bring me a surprise lunch most days. On days I had away games, he’d travel (and bring a caravan of my friends) to watch me play soccer. He was into computers more than the average bear, and would take pictures of our beach vacations and inlay messages with his handwriting on them when I went to Africa (example picture, name and face blurred). Oh, and he wrote me every day. I was close with his family, and it was a pretty comfortable relationship. It wasn’t wild and crazy, but I had those relationships in time. I broke up with him when he moved to college, because I thought that’s no way for him to start college, and I was not going to be a ball and chain. He’s the only one of my former boyfriends with whom I’m not still friends, and it’s not without trying. Our meetings are pleasant until he tells me he still cares for me, and then I think he thinks it’s okay to start being a jerk again, but now he’s a defensive jerk.
