I had an idea: I should publish my memoir on my blog. So that is what I am doing. If you want to start at the beginning, start with The Prologue. If you want the actual book, it’s available now on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Apple Books, Kobo, Scribd, Tolino, Baker & Taylor and Borrow Box.
“So you guys have season tickets?” I asked.
“Yes, we got them last year.” Nathan jumped to his feet. “What’s the flag for?! He wasn’t offside!” He sat back down and leaned closer to me. “When a player is offside, it means—”
“You can’t kick the ball to the guy playing offense if there’s no one from the other team between him and the goalie.”
“That’s right,” he said, turning to make eye contact. “I’m impressed.”
“I played soccer as a kid. Until eleventh grade.”
“Why did you stop?”
“I thought four AP classes and being editor of the lit mag would look better on college applications. When did you start playing soccer?”
“I never played. We didn’t have soccer in my town.”
Teddy had mentioned that Nathan grew up in rural Nebraska, but it had never occurred to me that a town could be too small for soccer.
We were not on a date. I was merely attending a soccer game with Nathan, his best friend Sean and my friend Teddy. Teddy and I had become friends during our first semester of law school when we bonded over a plate of french fries and a discussion of the cute boys in our section. This was her latest attempt to play matchmaker and end my dating drought, which was now on par with an Old Testament–style Egyptian famine.
Teddy had actually been trying to arrange this meeting for the past year and a half, ever since Nathan started working at her firm. She was a busy lawyer, Nathan was a busy lawyer, and I was a busy lawyer. Aligning our schedules was near impossible, especially since we all lived in different parts of Los Angeles County. During the time that Teddy had tried to arrange a date, Sean told Nathan, “If it turns out you guys actually are soul mates, you are going to be pissed that you missed out on having all this time together.”
But when I look back at it now, I’m not pissed. I’m grateful. If we had met any sooner, I would have subconsciously sabotaged any chance at a serious relationship. Don’t get me wrong. I wanted to find my soul mate, fall in love, and live happily ever after. Emotionally, though, I was not ready.
That’s why I was giving therapy another go, this time with a licensed clinical social worker named Sheila. In college, my hypochondria had been glaring enough for me to realize that I might benefit from a little therapy, but I had only dipped my toes into the tide pools of my issues. A couple of years after law school, my failure to ever venture beyond a second date had made me so desperate, I was willing to wade into the surf and splash around with my feelings. Now, after more than a year of talking about all of the reasons I avoided dating—my anxiety, fears of rejection, and avoidance of messy feelings—I was watching a soccer match with a man my friend insisted I was going to marry.
He wasn’t my type.
The four of us—Teddy, Nathan, Sean, and I—had met for dinner beforehand. As soon as I saw Nathan, I knew it would never work: I preferred my guys tall and lanky; Nathan was tall but built for football. At least I would get to cross “attend a professional soccer match” off my bucket list.
It seemed pointless to make conversation, but Teddy was paying attention and would ream me if I spent the entire game sulking. Also, I had told Sheila about this set-up, and she would want to hear what happened.
Under Sheila’s tutelage, I had ventured into the world of online dating. According to her, going on dates signaled to the universe that I was ready and willing to meet the right guy. More than a dozen times, I had exchanged witty emails with a guy who seemed promising online, but then, we would meet for coffee or drinks and the potential would fizzle. I was starting to feel like maybe my fear of rejection was winning. Maybe I had met Prince Charming a dozen times but convinced myself the chemistry was missing so I could stay home and knit another scarf. Knitting never made me cry.
“So . . .” I took a big sip of my soda. “I hear the Galaxy signed Beckham.”
“Yeah, he starts next week.”
“Do you think he’ll be a good thing for the team?”
“He better be, for all the money we are paying him.”
“Isn’t he one of the greatest players?”
“Was. He’s old now. He and Victoria probably just want to hobnob with all the Hollywood stars.”
“That’s right, he married a Spice Girl. I nearly got expelled over an incident involving a Spice Girl act in our high school talent show.”
Nathan turned away from the game. “This I have to hear.”
I was on student council and in charge of the activities that created school spirit. My friends wanted to dance to the song ‘Wannabe’ and I didn’t make them audition. They were, of course, the grand finale. Some girls from a junior high school were visiting and watching from the back of the auditorium. My friends danced the way people danced.
I could feel myself getting angry at the memory. “It’s not like they were doing a strip tease but they were moving their hips, and the dean of students was scandalized.”
“Why? Did the guys get rowdy?”
“I went to an all-girls Catholic school.”
“Oh, so you were supposed to be prudish and virginal?”
“Exactly.”
As I continued the tale of how the dean thought I had ruined the school’s reputation, Nathan listened intently, ignoring the game on the field. This was refreshing. Every time I had gone on a date, the guy had just wanted to blather on about himself. Nathan and I were actually having a conversation.
While Nathan was distracted by Sean, Teddy whispered, “So? It’s going well?”
I blushed. Was it going well? I had never had such an easy time talking to a guy, but that was probably because Nathan wasn’t my type. I didn’t feel any pressure to flirt. Still, I liked the way I felt sitting next to him. I could so easily lean against him . . . But no, Teddy was just an overeager matchmaker. Nathan and I did not have that essential “spark.”
During the second half, a few players started elbowing each other as they scrambled for the ball.
“Woo hoo hoo.” Nathan clapped. “Things are getting chippy now.”
“‘Chippy’? What does that mean?”
“It means the players are getting a bit belligerent.”
“Huh.” I dunked a chip into fluorescent nacho cheese. “‘Chippy’ is such a fun, cheerful word. It should mean something good.”
“Yes, like, ‘This ice cream is very chippy.’”
“Exactly!”
We had our first in-joke.
A blob of the luminescent cheese dripped onto the cuff of my grey sweater.
Nathan pointed. “That stuff is probably toxic. You’ll have to burn the sweater.”
“Then you shouldn’t have spilled the cheese all over me.”
“Me?” Nathan feigned shock. “That was all you!”
“I’m sure you caused some sort of disturbance in the atmosphere that caused me to drip it on my sleeve.”
“So you admit it was you!”
What was happening? It was as if we were flint and steel, striking against each other, creating a shower of sparks. If this soccer match lasted much longer, a flame was going to ignite.
***
“This is Guitar Hero,” Nathan said.
“The guitar is the controller?”
“Pretty awesome, right?”
“Suuuuuure.” In college, one of my friends had had the original NES system with all my favorite childhood games. We spent as many Saturday nights playing Super Mario Bros. 3 as we did going to frat parties (probably more). The new video games, however, seemed too testosterone-driven for my taste. I avoided them at all costs, but Nathan and I had been dating for about two months now, and it was becoming more and more clear that Teddy was right. This man was my soulmate. For Nathan’s sake, I was willing to feign a little excitement as he jammed colored buttons in time with the colors flashing on the screen.
He handed me the big plastic guitar and showed me how to position my fingers. I sighed. How long did I have to pretend I liked this game before I could propose an ice cream outing?
The song started. The screen lit up with colorful circles and I pushed a button. My fingers were nimble on a keyboard when I was composing angry missives to opposing counsel and tapping out emails on my Blackberry, but now they felt slow and awkward.
“Don’t pay attention to the score,” Nathan said. “I was even worse my first time.”
“How can I pay attention to the score when I can’t even pay attention to the song?”
“Stop talking, just play. You’ve got this.”
I kept jamming the buttons, praying the song would end, but then I got into the groove. My head bobbed along with the music, and I got lost in the game.
I had forgotten how much I loved to play.
In my last year of college, when my anxiety was bursting to the surface through bouts of hypochondria, I still had fun. My friends and I went to bowling alleys and truck-stop diners; played whiffle ball, Frisbee, and board games; and went sledding on the golf course at midnight, wearing trash bags and flinging ourselves down the hill.
During law school, though, I forgot to have fun. Instead of hypochondria, I channeled my anxiety into studying and getting the best grades possible. When I took a study break, it was to watch a movie or log a few miles on the treadmill—relaxing, perhaps, but not the sort of fun I’d had in New Hampshire.
The song finished. I sat for a moment, savoring the tingling feeling in my chest, arms, and neck.
“What did you think?”
I leaned toward Nathan and gave him a kiss. “Can I play one more song?”
“Of course!”
***
One Tuesday morning in July, Nathan casually suggested a trip to our favorite botanical gardens. We had been dating for two years and fifty-one weeks. (Nathan gets defensive if I round up to three years.)
“Ooh, yes. The gardens are open until eight. You know I’ve been wanting to go.”
When I got home from work, it was a balmy ninety degrees in Pasadena. I assumed we would scrap the garden outing for something involving air-conditioning, but Nathan was still dressed nicely in his work clothes and eager to go.
An accident had turned the freeway into a parking lot. I touched my palm against the hot window. “Maybe we should go another night.”
Nathan gunned the car toward the off-ramp. “We can take surface streets!”
I leaned back and hummed along to the music. Life was good. A couple of months earlier, I had quit my job with a big law firm (about seven hundred lawyers throughout the country) and joined a firm of less than a dozen attorneys. I was willing to accept the smaller salary for a better quality of life. I still had my apartment in Brentwood but almost never went there. My mail was forwarded to Nathan’s house in Pasadena, and I had told my landlord that he could use my apartment to practice his electric guitar. It was a win-win: his wife got some peace and quiet; and I did not have to worry that vagrants had turned my apartment into a meth lab.
My car’s fuel light clicked on a few miles away from the garden.
“Oops, I forgot about that.” My stomach rumbled. “Maybe we should get gas and dinner.”
Nathan gritted his teeth. “We can get gas after the garden.”
I thought Nathan’s resolve to get to the garden was a bit out-of-character. He was the sort of guy who wanted to watch television and maybe float in the pool after work. I, however, did not pursue the thought for more than a second. Maybe my subconscious was trying to keep the rest of me in the dark so I could be surprised by what was about to happen.
The garden was unusually busy. Kids were screaming and running around as a band played music on the main lawn.
Nathan seemed concerned. “I had no idea it would be so crowded. I wonder if we can find anywhere private.”
“It doesn’t matter.” I clasped his hand in mine. “I just love being here.”
We walked over an orange bridge in the Japanese gardens. As we climbed up a steep hill in a wooded area, the din of the children’s concert faded to silence. We had the back half of the garden all to ourselves.
“I love this place,” I said, “it’s so magical.”
For the most part, our relationship was easy. I once knew a couple who took unicycle lessons together because they had nothing in common. Nathan and I did not need unicycle lessons. If anything, we enjoyed too many of the same activities, from wine tasting in Santa Barbara to gardening at home.
We loved to make each other happy. I cooked Nathan’s favorite meals and listened to his complaints about the Huskers. (My next book should be called So You Married A Nebraskan: How To Be A Supportive Wife During College Football Season.) Nathan was willing to try any restaurant that struck my fancy (unless it was sushi) and fully supported my move to the small firm.
We had talked about the future (usually while floating around the backyard pool) and knew we wanted to spend our lives together. Marriage, though, was still an open issue. I had been ready to get married since our first anniversary of dating. Nathan was moving a little more slowly on that front. I thought I was fine waiting, but one month ago, I had started crying hysterically while getting ready for work and ended up in Nathan’s lap, arms around his neck, sobbing that I could not take the uncertainty anymore. Nathan had already made up his mind to propose and had no idea I thought we might not get married.
Walking around the garden, I was no longer worried about our future. Crying on Nathan’s lap had made me feel a lot better. If Nathan needed a little more time to get his mind around the commitment of marriage, I could wait. He was certainly worth it.
Nathan steered me toward a spot that overlooked acres and acres of forest and, beyond that, the mountains. Looking back, I can see he was a little nervous, but at that moment, I was too content to think anything of it. He took my hand in his and started talking.
“Courtney, the past three years have been wonderful. You make me a better man. You are so sweet and beautiful but so strong. I never thought it was possible to find such an amazing woman.”
I smiled and nodded, touched but utterly oblivious to what was about to happen.
Nathan got down on one knee.
“Courtney, I can’t imagine living my life without you. Will you marry me?”
For a few seconds, I was speechless. Of course my answer was yes . I did not have to think about that, but I seemed to have lost the ability to speak. When I finally could, I stammered,“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes! Yes, yes, of course, yes!”
Standing over the gardens, I felt as if I had reached my “happily ever after.” The second round of therapy with Sheila had surely resolved all my issues. From here on out, with Nathan at my side, everything would be easy.
My adventures, though, had not even started.
You can continue reading Chapter Three right here. Or just buy the damn book already on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Apple Books, Kobo, Scribd, Tolino, Baker & Taylor and Borrow Box.
