Nevertheless, a few days before that first Sunday in May, I flew home to the Jersey suburbs for a visit with my mother, planning to head into the city for the weekend. I vaguely knew of his whereabouts from mutual friends, but this was before cellphones, the internet and email, a bygone era where you could actually lose touch with people and not know how to contact them even if you wanted to. As for Howard and me, we hadn’t spoken or communicated at all for a couple of years. I was in a relationship that had been staggering along for months. I also told my mother, which was a mistake.Īt the five-year mark, I was living in Minneapolis. She thought the plan was creative (but felt bad for the guy I was seeing at the time). In any case, most of my interactions with men, whether short or long-lasting, only strengthened my sense that Howard probably was The One and that I had been prudent to arrange our second chance.Ī part of our agreement that didn’t make it onto the dollar bill was that we would tell no one, a rule I promptly forgot. With a few of those men, I wondered, “Is he The One?” For various reasons, the answer was never “Yes.” Might it have been “Yes” if Howard and I didn’t have our date planned? We had three and a half years before our meeting. (I started seeing someone else, he found out, and that was that.) It wasn’t until the next semester, when he took a leave of absence and lived in Manhattan, that our relationship finally ended. In fact, we stayed together that summer and through the whole next school year.
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