The One That Got Away

(Left: Brent as Richard Nixon in an elementary school skit.)


It will soon be October. I open my calendar and notice some penciled-in scribbles in my little pink organizer. They are reminders for me-- an engagement party on Saturday, Sassy's dance competition toward the middle of the month, a note to change the vent filters. Then, I see it -- a full weekend blocked off toward the end of the month. I promised to make a trip to southern Maryland that weekend in October to visit my old friend. But, he's not just any old friend. He's the one that got away.

The story of Brent and I began in the 4th grade, Mrs. Boitnott's class. We were casual acquaintances back then; I'd occasionally kick him in the shins to show just how much I liked him. One time in return, he punched me in the nose-- a move of self defense.

Our grade school antics continued into the 6th grade, Ms. Theed's class. We mingled with our close clique of friends including Becky, Lynn, Mike, and Steve, discussing the latest Saturday Night Live episodes or seeing who could do the best Gilda Radner or Steve Martin impression. Brent, even as a kid, was bright and sophisticated in his humor. And though I had a huge crush on his two older twin brothers, Brent was someone I liked very much. He made me smile.


(Right: Brent and I on the bus in 6th grade.)


It wasn't until after high school that Brent became my romantic interest. Our old 6th grade buddy, Mike, now a volunteer firefighter, died in an accident. I received the news on a Friday night, left my father's restaurant where I'd been working, and headed directly to Brent's house. We watched the 11pm news report of the accident on television, cried a little, and reminisced about those days and the companions, once so close to us but now fond and very distant memories. We attended Mike's funeral together, and stood holding hands at his grave.

For someone only in his late teens, Brent was quite the entrepreneur. He pulled together the necessary capital and went into a video rental business with my mother. Videos had just hit the home market in the mid-1980s. My mother and Brent would drive hundreds of miles through the Virginia countryside, stocking little stores and convenient marts with video players and tapes. Eventually, I worked in place of my mother. The time we spent driving through the Blue Ridge only brought us closer together.

But as much as I liked him, I felt I could never really be with Brent. We practiced different religious faiths and I feared that I was betraying God and my family by being with him. I knew my family would never accept us because of those differences, and didn't have the courage to go public with our romantic relationship. We eventually abandoned our romance, and I married someone else thereafter. Brent attended the wedding. Five years later, the story repeated itself. After my divorce, Brent and I tried again, with the same results. I married, moved away, but this time I didn't speak to him for years. It was just too painful to be in his company.

During those years apart, Brent married and started his own family. I'd hear updates about his life through friends and family, but we still didn't communicate directly. Finally, a couple of years ago we reconnected. Since then, I've visited him and his family. I've met his wife and son. When we are together, inevitably we reminisce about the good old days. He still does a dead-on Steve Martin impersonation.

During a private moment, we finally talked about the reasons we didn't end up together.

"Looking back, do you really think God would care who you dated or who you'd marry?" Brent asked.
"No, I don't think He'd care," I replied quietly.

We stayed silent-- our minds drifting to the what-ifs that never would be. We found ourselves in different places in life. I was single. My strict adherence to rules and credence had long faded. I was no longer captive to my family's approval. But it was too late.

"I always thought you'd be the one," he said.
"I'm sorry." What else could I say? There was no changing the past.

Brent took my hand in a move of reassurance and friendship. He will always be the one that got away, even though he isn't going anywhere. He is my old, dear friend. He is my touchstone. And years from now when we are old and gray, he straddled with a few grandkids and I straddled with a few cats, we will sit in rockers, reminisce about the good old days, any maybe do a few Steve Martin impersonations.

And even God will laugh and smile in approval.