Nutcracker

“I don’t know if I love you anymore.”

Gulp. My stomach couldn’t have tightened anymore if he’d reached through the phone and physically punched me in the gut. I sat in stunned silence. Thanksgiving had just passed and while I was counting down the days until he’d be home for Christmas break, apparently he’d been counting the costs of having a “ball and chain” back home.

While the declaration itself was a direct hit out of nowhere, it wasn’t as though it had been all sunshine and roses. As I said before, it was tough. Trying to share each others lives through telephone lines was hard enough coupled with battling jealousies over the people and places that defined our greatly separate spheres of relationship. Throw in occasional weekend visits that were strained with the demands on Tim’s time coming from friends, family, and myself.

“So, what does this mean?” I was finally able to ask.

We had already purchased tickets to the Nutcracker Ballet in Atlanta. Tim suggested that we keep that date but not see or phone each other in the meantime. It would give him time to think about his “feelings” and then by the end of that date, he would tell me whether or not our relationship would continue.

Allow me to interject. Having two daughters of my own, I see this situation in an entirely different light. If one of my two girls were dating a young man who offered such a ridiculous proposition, I would encourage her to dump him, dump him, dump him! But being young and stupid, plus that whole sovereignty of God thing, I agreed to this arrangement and hung in limbo for two weeks.

I held up my end of the bargain and fought off repeated urges to dial his number, 478-2942, which as a matter of trivia sounds like The Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy. Go ahead. Try it. Just hang up after you dial since I have no idea who owns that number now.

I picked out a dress and tested out some new hair styles. I wasn’t sure what about that night would help him make up his mind but I figured looking great couldn’t hurt my chances. Two days before the big date, I’m in my room (which was in the basement of my grandparents house) straightening up and such when down the stairs walks none other than Mr. Let’s-Not-See-Each-Other.

“Hi.” I offered a bit puzzled. “I think you’re breaking the rules.”

He looked sheepish and then moved to hug me. “I missed you.”

I hugged back while grasping to balance my emotions. The one part of me wanted to wrestle him to the ground and pin him there until he confessed that I was the one and the only one for him; the other part working to maintain a safe distance in case the end was near.

“I like your hair.”

It was one of my test looks. Note to self: hairstyle –check.

We discussed a few details, what time he’d pick me up, dinner before or after, etc. The entire visit lasted no more than ten minutes. The time I spent on my bed racked with sobs after he was gone was at least twice that. I hated what he was doing to me; hated feeling so powerless. I was just waiting for some epiphany to drop from the sky and hoping I wouldn’t do or say the wrong thing, if there even was a right or wrong thing. Excruciating.

He picked me up that Saturday afternoon and my mom insisted on taking pictures of us all dressed up. Smiling is not so easy when your stomach is in your throat. I wondered if those pictures would forever document our last date. Grim, but realistic. I don’t remember what we had for dinner or if we said two words to each other, but on the way to the ballet he pulled a tape out of the glove compartment and said that he wanted us to listen to it together.

A mix tape. Yes! It was a mix tape. Go on. Roll your eyes and shake your head. I know how silly it is but it was the early ninety’s for heaven’s sake and a mix tape was a vital component for every thriving couple, so there. You know you had one.

Every song earmarked a moment in our relationship from the theme song off of Andy Griffith –Tim’s parents had taken to calling me “Opie” thanks to my summer time freckling—to “More Than Words” the aforementioned ballad of put out or get out. We got a little more than halfway through the tape when we arrived at the Civic Center.

The ballet was beautiful and while things were still uncertain, it did seem like some of the tension was lifted. Every now and then Tim would lean over and say things to make me laugh. “I don’t even have to read the cast notes. Those white tights tell me more about that guy than I ever wanted to know.” Then a few minutes later… “When are they going to start singing?” I would stifle my laughter so not to disturb the ballet patrons who, as it turns out, are a very serious lot. Fortunately, we made it through the production without being escorted out.

Back in Tim’s red Ford Ranger, we played the rest of the tape and listened quietly. When the first side ended, he switched it over and played the last song. It was the clincher. “Somewhere” from West Side Story. Our West Side Story. The place where it all began.

As soon as we pulled into the driveway we fell into each other’s arms and Tim kissed me like crazy. Long, deep kisses full of assurance; soft pecks with whispered apologies; and strong, firm kisses that promised, “Never again.”