Simple Truth, Biggest Mystery

Tomorrow evening I have an appointment with a lovely friend from Montana who we will call Goose. That’s always been his nickname for some strange reason involving the story of a small child, but I’ve always called him by his real name. In my world, nicknames are reserved for friends who are privy to the story of origination (probably because they were there), and I never quite understood. I’ve come to realize in the years I have known this dear boy, however, that it doesn’t matter to him. The name has followed him everywhere. I still can’t bring myself to use the nickname, though, and he has mentioned to me in the past that he actually kind of appreciates it. “It’s nice to be called by my actual name once in awhile,” he said. Even his parents have taken to calling him Goose. In light of all this, I suppose calling him by his real name might make the whole situation a bit more discreet, considering he has a fairly common name, and I know about eight other people who share that name. But… I’ve already made the decision. We’re calling him Goose.

I have known Goose since sophomore year of high school. That means I’ve known him for quite some time, compared with many of the people I now consider best friends. He was home-schooled, and didn’t even live in the same town I did… but we had the same voice teacher. I met him one night when about ten girls were gathered in my voice teacher’s living room, waiting to rehearse an ensemble song we were going to perform at that year’s music festival. He and his sister were also hanging out in the living room, waiting for his cousin and another friend to finish their duet rehearsal. I was immediately taken with his scrawny blond self. He was incredibly dynamic, yet extremely bashful about the attention all of us girls were giving him. My best friend M. was also present in the group, and noticed my sudden attraction. We whispered back and forth, and when the night was over, I professed my love for him to her once and for all.

I had an ex-boyfriend, C., who was desperately trying to get rid of me. Both of us insisted that we remain friends (as musicians in a small music program, we really didn’t have a choice), but that friendship was more than volatile. I wanted more from him than he was willing to give. I was constantly looking for a way out of the feelings for him I couldn’t control, and for whatever reason, felt the need to keep him updated on my foolish attempts. This boy was no exception. The night after our initial meeting, I found C. and told him all about it. Being willing to do just about anything to help me move on with my life so he and I could go back to being meaningless flirts, he thought for a moment and then booted up one of the computers the music kids had access to in the band room. He did a search through his email, pulled up an address, and emailed it to me. “There you go,” he said. “Go get yourself a man.”

I stared at him. “You know him?”
“Went to Bible camp with him,” C. stated. “Tell him I gave you the address so he doesn’t think you’re a stalker, ok?”

I did. But it turned out, the address didn’t belong to the boy C. thought it did. Either that, or C. thought I was talking about someone else. Good news though? The guy’s address I did get happened to be extremely willing to help, and considering that he turned out to be Goose’s best friend, his help was very useful.

Funny how all of that works out, isn’t it?

I was given Goose’s email address, and I emailed him once or twice. We continued to see him once a week at the voice studio. One day, M. approached me at school. “Can I have Goose’s email address?”

I didn’t mind giving it to her, so I agreed. But of course I asked why.

“Well. I’m pretty sure he likes me. And, well, if it’s ok with you… well, see I kind of like him too, so…”

And that was the end of it. He liked her and if she liked him, I wasn’t going to fight. It wouldn’t do any of us any good. And the crush wasn’t that serious anyway. C. certainly wasn’t going to be happy about it. But in my head, I still had him, kind of, and I truly wasn’t very heartbroken.

They were “dating” about a week later.
They continued to “date” for about three months.
I quote the word “date” because as far as I know, they never actually went on a real date (I said we didn’t live in the same town, and that was mostly the reason. They did see each other now and then… just no real dates.). And also, and I say this with absolute certainty, they never kissed. Once. Not once. And knowing Goose I guess it wasn’t terribly surprising, but knowing M., it really was.

He and I continued to email, talk on MSN, see each other at the voice studio. I was aware of the ways he happened to spend his time while his sister was in her voice lesson, and I “accidentally bumped into him” more than once at the Pamida across the street and down the alley from my house (big city living, right there). On one particular night, we spent nearly forty-five minutes wandering around, saying ridiculously silly things to each other, looking at the expensive CDs and the cheap jewelry, and laughing harder than I had laughed in a very long time. We built a fairly strong friendship.

Our senior year, we ended up doing a recital together. It was fitting, since we had met through the voice studio and wouldn’t have a real graduation together. We sang separately, did a duet together at the end, and called it good. We still saw each other a few times after that night, but it really was our closure.

I went to school just three hours from home. He went to school in St. Paul. I was pretty much convinced I’d never see him again, and when my parents left town, I was even more sure.

For more than a year, we didn’t see each other. We said hello on MSN messenger every now and then, but seemed to run out of things to say quickly. We were at different point in our lives. We were busy. We were separated by a daunting distance.

One weekend during my sophomore year in college, I planned a trip home to do an audition in St. Paul, which was about forty minutes from my parents’ new house. One night in the computer lab, not long before that trip, Goose’s name popped up on my messenger. And it hit me. He was in St. Paul. I was on my way to St. Paul. “I’m coming this weekend,” I said. “Wanna hang out?”

His answer? A resounding, “YES!”

We made plans, exchanged phone numbers, and when I made it home and called him to confirm, I heard his voice for the first time in two years. It was an incredible familiarity, yet felt so far away. I met him on a Sunday night in mid-March. We found each other at a restaurant half-way between my house and the cities and had a few sodas (both of us barely 20 years old, though it wouldn’t have mattered, because since turning 21, we have stuck to the sodas and milkshakes while in each other’s company). He had changed in an incredible way. He wasn’t a skinny blond kid anymore. His eyes were still an incredible blue, but he was bigger, taller. Solid. His sense of humor was the same, more developed perhaps, but ever unique and full of vocabulary. We were comfortable with each other. It was as if a lifetime had gone by, and simultaneously as if no time had gone by at all.

After, we went driving in search of a movie theater. We got into his car, and he pulled the scarf from around his neck. Jokingly, he tossed it at me and said, “Here. Hold this.” I spun it around my neck, flipping the last bit of length over my shoulder.

“Oh my.” He gasped. “You look, simply… fetching.”

I didn’t know the area because my parents had barely just moved and I’d never really lived there. He didn’t know the area because he went to school in the city and we were in the ‘burbs. We never found a theater (you wouldn’t think it would be so hard…) but somehow ended up back in St. Paul. It was almost as if he’d planned it, though his terrible navigational skills proved otherwise. There we were, in a snow-covered park with lamp-lit paths, patterned bricks, and an early 20th century carousel (I immediately thought of Mary Poppins in the chalk painting), completely restored, enclosed in a big glass building. The sky was clear, we could see our breath.

It had been lovely weather for an entire week, and so I’d made the mistake of coming home for the weekend without my coat. I was in a sweatshirt, and to add to the cold discomfort of the Minnesota night, my brand new tattoo required that I wear flip flops, not shoes.

We walked. We circled each other. We meandered. The space between us closed. He offered me his coat, which I was stubborn enough to refuse. He slipped his arm around my waist and pulled me close instead. We continued to walk, and talk, until finally my shaking mandated our return to the car. We simply sat for what seemed like hours. We both knew what we wanted, and neither of us was really sure it was okay to make the first move.

I was still wearing his scarf. One of the fringed edges had fallen, and so I flipped it back over my shoulder.

“You have to stop doing that,” he sighed.
Giggling, I taunted, “Doing what?” I flipped the scarf again. “This?”
“You know?” he teased. “Your hands look cold. Give them to me.” He reached across my lap and laced his fingers through mine.
I glanced at him sideways. “You just don’t want me to flip this scarf at you anymore.”
“Au contraire,” he shot back. “I can’t handle you flipping that scarf at me anymore. I might do something I shouldn’t do.”
I took my free hand and flipped the scarf at him.
He leaned in and kissed me.
It was possibly the most perfect, natural, romantic moment I have ever experienced.

No, not possibly. It was.

Nothing ever came of that night. We continued to sporadically speak to each other, but after that night, it took at least a month and a half to have that first conversation. We decided that we wouldn’t be able to be in a relationship (distance. Such a shitty excuse) and so it didn’t even seem like such a big deal. I went back to Montana the next summer to see my grandmother and my friends, and he and I met up for a night together. We tried too hard to recreate it. It wasn’t the same. And at that point, I think we both decided on our own that we hadn’t actually missed out on what we kept convincing ourselves we had. It was a unique moment. It was a moment I would keep with me forever, but not a moment that could have ever lived on.

Still, we remained casual friends.

The last time I was home, I gave him a call. We met up at the same restaurant. We hugged the way we had the first time. We hopped in his car and drove off to (inevitably) get lost. We ended up at another beautiful place in St. Paul, made especially lovely by the chill and the mist hanging in the air.

The feelings were building up again.
He dropped me off early.

When I got home, I called M. to tell her about it.
“Is he still dating that Helen* girl?” she asked.
“I asked about the girl situation…” I answered. “He didn’t say anything.”
“Hmm,” she answered.
“Hmm,” I thought.

I hadn’t known about a girlfriend. He had told M., but he had never mentioned it to me. The next time we talked online, I asked. I said, simply, “Can I ask you something?” and he completely spilled. He felt so guilty about keeping her from me, but issues had been going on and he hadn’t wanted to talk about it at all. With anyone. And he told me I deserved to know, because he could feel what was going on that night, and that’s why he dropped me off earlier than seemed normal for two 21 year old kids, and he felt weird about not explaining… The explanation went on. I wasn’t mad. I could never be mad at this kid. I was disappointed, but the rational side of me knew nothing had changed anyway… It didn’t matter.

And even though I’m assuming that he and Helen are still together (I have to, the last time I asked he told me they were. It was quite awhile ago, but this girl seems to have some longevity with him…) I can’t help but feel a little bit of excitement and hope for our meeting tomorrow night. Of course I’ll ask first, and if he is still in a relationship, I will most certainly keep the behavior friendly and platonic.

But a part of me has always wanted him.
Maybe a part of me always will.

I don’t have a picture of the two of us, unless you count one taken while we were in high school. I’m going to take my camera along with me tomorrow night… hopefully I can convince him to take a picture… he’s never been a fan of cameras. If I do get that one, I’ll post both– four years ago, and now. If I don’t, I probably won’t post the one I have. I refuse to do high school pictures if I don’t have corresponding current ones. How embarrassing…

I feel like a story this epic (right? wow…) deserves an eloquent ending. But there isn’t one. At one point, I was sure the Goose chapter in my life was closed. But as long as he continues to go to school in St. Paul and as long as I come home to visit, it never truly will be.

But do you know what that means? We’re seniors again. This situation won’t last forever.
He is going to Nashville next weekend.
Maybe he’ll end up there like I’m hoping to.
I would SO love God for that.