Weekend Getaway

After my sophomore year in college, the love of my life left to visit her family in the Dominican Republic, a period I decided was far too long for me to go without seeing her. This was the time for something big: she was the girl I’d fallen for at first sight and pursued for over a year before anything happened. After nearly two years, we still hadn’t quite made it to boyfriend-girlfriend.

I decided I’d fly down and book the nicest hotel I could afford. She would sneak away from her family and spend three perfect, idyllic days with me. It was to be an unforgettable affair. We would frolic naked and feed each other fresh fruit.

Impetuous and in love, I had much less trouble convincing myself than I did convincing her, but I did it. She’d tell her parents that she was spending the weekend with some girlfriends who were vacationing nearby and then sneak off to meet me.

Things started to go wrong when her mother offered to drive her to the hotel. She said she was fine, and didn’t want her to go out of her way. Her mother insisted, she again refused, but her mother, like most mothers when they sense something’s up, was adamant.

At the hotel, she tried to say her goodbyes in the car, but her mother wanted to come inside and “meet these friends I’ve been hearing about." Flustered, my sort-of girlfriend struggled to come up with a believable reason for why that was impossible. Which, of course, made her mother insist.

I was waiting in the lobby, unaware and positively overcome with childlike excitement. The moment I spotted her I was sure there was nothing else in the world. It took most of my available mental capacity not to run over and tackle her.

I forced myself to walk over coolly, and luckily so; my feigned nonchalance bought me just enough time to notice the expression of terrified urgency on her face. She was furtively waving me away, trying to pretend that her friends were a no-show.

It went way too fast. I course-corrected, confused, and pretended not to know who she was. I brushed by her, my shoulder inches from hers, teasing but never touching. Then I sat in the lobby and watched as she pretended to be confused and annoyed, speaking to her mom. Then I watched her leave. I’d come 1,500 miles to miss her by five inches.

I spent the rest of the weekend sitting alone in my hotel room. She called eventually and apologized profusely. Despite everything, I forgave her.

That trip was neither the first nor the last in a long line of bad decisions inspired by my love for this girl. Four years and numerous grand gestures later, I’d like to tell you how it ended, but I’m still working on that. — Jude Gibson

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