Debacle

I told my mom that I thought I should stay as far away from Patrick as I could, but when he showed up early in the week to say that Peter Pan, the film was playing Friday night and asked if I would like to come with him to see it, I welcomed the idea.  What would one more night, hurt?  It was nice to have a new friend after all and maybe that's all he thought of me anyway.

Friday evening, there was an activity in a large lecture hall of the business school for all of the students in our church congregation.  We planned to go to the movie from there, but when I met Patrick after the activity in a lobby, he regretfully told me that Peter Pan had been prematurely removed from the theater's showing list.  I remember thinking that I should just leave it at that.  "Thanks for the invitation," I pretended to say.  "It would have been fun. See you around."  I would have merrily returned home and gotten back to the regularly scheduled programming.

My mouth, however, couldn't muster a goodbye.  Instead, it exclaimed another grand scheme just like the mountaineering suggestion the week before.  "Let's go to Utah Lake."

I had never been there and neither had he.  Neither of us knew how to get there or what we would find when we arrived.  It was already past dark, the first week of March.  We weren't dressed for gallivanting around a lakeshore in late winter and we didn't have flashlights, but he was once again willing.

We drove in the westward direction, knowing that if we traveled that way for long enough, we would end up at the lake.  We did eventually and found a public park on the shore.  A man-made peninsula jutted out about a quater of a mile into the water.  Large boulders acted as a retaining wall on both sides holding back the earth, on top of which ran a paved path.  Our way was lit dimly by the moon and we felt oddly warm as we hopped from boulder to boulder, talking and laughing as we went.  We sat at the end of the peninsula for two or more hours.  It was quiet out there, removed from the city, the air fresh, the lapping of waves on the rocks peaceful.  Ducks paddled through the frigid water while we continued talking.  I don't remember the content of our discourse, only the feelings of ease and trust.

And then cold.  It came suddenly and completely with the shift in wind or a lull in conversation.  Everything immediately seemed less comfortable and we determined to head back down the length of the peninsula, this time opting for the path up above.  We walked briskly, intent on getting out of the cold.  I could see his car in the near distance when he next spoke.

"Would it surprise you to know that I've wanted to hold your hand for most of the night?"

This is where the lovely background music abruptly ends and pervasive silence fills every nook and cranny imaginable.

"I guess not," I muttered while thinking Thank goodness for these mittens.  The silence got into the car and followed us back to Provo.  It wasn't until we were driving through the city center that one of us spoke again.

He asked, "Would it make you uncomfortable if I held your hand?"  ---You know, just in case things weren't awkward enough already.

I answered simply, "Yes."  And then wondered if I should offer an explanation or let the awkwardness reign in silence.  I chose silence.  What would be my explanation anyway?  I like you, but not that much?  Um, actually my "friend" in Ukraine is really my boyfriend?  I don't like holding hands?  I'm nervous and not ready for this? I felt honesty ran a high risk of scaring him away. On the other hand, I was certain I had just accomplished ending our short lived relationship, so why make it worse? Thus, silence seemed the best option.

He apologized for asking and I apologized for being weird.

More silence.

Needless to say, we were both feeling the hot sting of humiliation and welcomed the relief of parting ways that night.  I spent Saturday dreading the prospect of seeing him in church the next day or anywhere ever again, in fact.