Our first date was on a cold and blistery winter’s night.
It was a cold, winter’s night in December of 2005. I had just moved to North Carolina in June. I settled into the new life surrounding me and laid my cares and burdens down to pick up another day.
I ran away from Georgia the first chance I got. I was always running away from something, someone, or somewhere back then. Ran from Georgia to the Bronx. From the Bronx to Long Island. From Long Island back to Georgia, and then . . . the final marathon saw me running from Georgia to North Carolina.
And this is where I have been since 2005. And although I’ve lived in two different cities, I haven’t found the gumption to speed away again. Not yet.
The first few months in my new home were magical. It seemed as though this life was designed for me. At that time, the woman in my body loved everything she had to offer and yearned for others to see it, too.
I met him online. Facebook, to be exact. It was wild how we connected, clicked, and cautiously approached each other for digital conversation and the goings-on of getting to know one another.
My best friend was my roommate at the time. She was great “company to keep”, but I wanted more. And he was the more I was seeking.
After a few weeks of shooting the shit, we decided to meet in person for our first date.
Which brings me back to that cold, winter’s night. I do not remember the time we agreed on nor do I truly remember what we did. My bones tell me we planned to do movies and then dinner. So, let’s say we did exactly that.
When he arrived at my apartment building’s front entrance, I smiled at the sight of him. I walked outside to our stoop because he called to tell me he was turning the corner and would be at my place shortly.
He was a perfect gentleman. He ran up to me, scooped me up, and hugged me as tightly as he could. It was a full embrace –a Grandpa Hug. I melted in his arms.
To this day, whenever I see him, I say, “You give the best hugs.”
It was lip-biting cold and we were freezing our asses off, so we decided to get into the truck and escape the monotony of the night. He guided me to the passenger side, peeled back the door, and held it with one hand while he led me inside with the other. Once I was seated, he had to summon the strength of The Hulk to close the door with both hands.
This truck was old. Nah, it wasn’t just old . . . it was ancient. It made a loud, clanking sound while we rode up and down the hills of Winston-Salem. I panicked the entire ride. The heat worked. It sputtered and coughed and he had to tap the dashboard every few minutes to keep it from going cold.
I sat in my seat and prayed we would not get stranded anywhere in this still new-to-me city. He reassured me, “It gets me everywhere I need to go.” While I thought to myself, “Yeah, but how safe is this vehicle, really?!”
He was the best date I had since an old high school-to-college love of mine. He was respectful, a lover of music and writing, the eldest of four children, and was soaking in the newness of recently burying his father.
Something in me cried for him. We dated off and on for about nine years–breaking up and getting back together. Finally, I told him, “We are so good to each other but we are not good for each other.”
Because no matter what we did, our schedules failed us. His grief failed us. My intent on writing, connecting, and running to other people failed us.
He traded in that clunker of a truck for a Jeep Cherokee one year after it finally died on one of our major highways. He traded in the recklessness of who I was for a lovely sweetheart of a woman who knows how to stay put.
We had an amazing life together. We just weren’t amazing together. You sit with that for a while. It’ll come to you.
Every time I think about my first winter in North Carolina, I think about him and that old clunker of a truck, and the strength it took for him to close the door to his broken down and beat-up vehicle, and the heart it took for him to finally walk away from me.
And honestly, I smile. Because really, everything was perfect but the truck.
A Cornered Gurl 
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