When You Fall in Love With Someone You Can’t Have
A story about unrequited love. Or maybe not
What was typical about Gary? He was, at the time this happened, a young man exploring life. Taking a break after freshman year of college and living on his own. I’d find him in one of three places:
1) a low-paying retail job that at least brought in some money 2) skateboarding, and really really trying hard to learn some tricks 3) back against a tree, reading — from Kierkegaard to Philip Roth to Spider-man
And what about girls? Gary got a pained look on his face.
“I like girls,” he said. “But I don’t get them. And I don’t vibe with them. I just…can’t.”
I knew where he was coming from — from an all-boys high school. The social skills hadn’t developed. They didn’t even have a senior prom, because the girls at the all-girls high school across town thought the guys in his school were all dorks. Somehow he hadn’t advanced much, socially, in that first year of college…
And he was a good-looking guy! Gary was tall and loose-limbed with a big thatch of dark hair, and a haunted, intellectual look on his face. Usually that was girl-bait. But he hardly knew any.
And then he fell. No, not for a girl; off his skateboard.
Fractured an arm in a couple of places. Once it had healed enough, the Dr. sent him to physical therapy.
Where he fell again. This time, for a girl. His therapist.
“Just look at her,” he whispered to me. Gary had dragged me to a coffee shop positioned across the street from his PT clinic. We sat and waited until Esti came out.
She was cute. Bouncing pony tail, bright, light-color eyes, an easy smile, an athletic stride. Gary was gripping my arm so tightly I had to disengage his hand.
“Have you asked her out?”
“How can I do that?”
“What do you mean? How can you not? You clearly know what time she gets off work.”
“No, I mean, how? What do I say?”
“What is this, Cyrano? I can’t give you the words. Just say something nice and inviting.”
And as I watched her walk along the block, I saw her do something, and I had a serious change of heart.
“No — never mind. Gary, don’t ask her. Just don’t.”
He was staring me down with a wounded expression, flexing his other arm — the fractured one.
Just before Esti had moved beyond visual range, I saw her take something out of a pocket and slip it on her left hand. I couldn’t be certain from the distance, but it sure looked like a ring.
I told Gary.
“No,” he said. “Why would she hide that?”
“Very probably because she didn’t want it to get caught on a piece of equipment. There are a lot of machines in the rehab center, right?”
“NO.”
“No? Really??”
“All right, yeah, maybe.”
“So ask her casually if she’s married. The very question conveys interest on your part.”
“I can’t.”
“What? Why not?”
“I can’t take the pain if she is.”
“Oh for — look, man, she’s A girl. She may not be THE girl. You have a lot of experiences still to have in that department.”
Our coffee date ended shortly thereafter.
A few weeks went by, and I knew Gary’s PT prescription was coming to an end. I went to his place and asked him point blank.
“Whatever happened with Esti?”
He shuffled around with his head down, like he had lost a contact lens or was searching for ants. Finally he said, “Yeah, it’s a ring.”
“What kind?”
“I don’t know, I think wedding. Or engagement.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? What did she SAY?”
More shuffling. “I never asked her. I used binoculars. It looked sparkly.”
“Oh. My. God. You stalked her. With binoculars. You out of your mind?”
“She’s so beautiful.”
“Gary…”
But I still remember his face at that moment. He looked too miserable for a lecture, so I let it go. And that’s what I told him: let it go.
Looking back on all this now, it seems funny and charming and certainly heartfelt. But so much drama! I think I was most surprised at what happened next, a few weeks later.
I went by the skate park to see if Gary was back on his board. He was. And there was a girl sitting there watching, clearly focused on him. It was Esti.
“Hey man,” he said, skating to a smooth stop and shaking out his hair. “How are you doing?”
Esti was smiling up at me. “I’m good,” I said. “Introduce me to your friend, is this — ”
Gary cut me off quickly. “This is Shanna. Shanna, meet my buddy Loren.”
“Hi,” she said. “We both have weird names.”
“Yeah,” I said. “At least yours isn’t unisex.”
She laughed. “Everybody in my family has a weird name. My sister is Esti.”
“Wow,” I said, but it was directed at Gary.
What’s the moral of this story — stalking can pay off? Fate will take care of you? One day he was working the register at his retail gig when Esti and her clone sister Shanna got on his line to checkout. Shanna flirted with him, the way Gary tells it, and knowing his skill set, I believed him.
They were together for a few years; Gary even transferred to Shanna’s college, which may have extended their time, but ultimately they both moved on. As Gary tells it, it was first love for him — I might modify that to surrogate first love — and it was second or third for Shanna. Of course: flirts do better than wallflowers.
But life has its way. Gary didn’t lose faith when his first love ended; fortunately few of us do. And he called me recently to tell me that one of his kids had won an award, and seeing as how I was the godfather, would I come to the ceremony?
Yes. I would love to. His old buddy Kierkegaard has a famous quote:
Purity of heart is to will one thing.
And Gary had willed himself to find love, just as I had willed him to find it, too.
I hope by now you’ve discovered Kim Petersen — as fierce a warrior woman as anyone I’ve read. This is just a starter:
