I Think I'm Gonna Stay with You...

In short, the attraction was strong and mutual, and I wanted to see where it might lead. "I can't date both of you," I said to Connie on that bench all those years ago. "Which means, I guess, that we might have to part for a while. I'm sorry."

She began to cry, and this time when I reached out, she let me hold her. "Please don't hate me," I said.

She told me she didn't hate me. "You have to follow your arrow wherever it will lead, and I have to let you. I'm hurt, for sure, but I'm also strong. Us Powhatan Mills girls usually are." Then, when she brushed away the last of her tears, she said, "You said we have to part for a while. My feeling, Marc, is that we'll never get back together. That this is it for us. Good luck with Elana."

She got up and walked away, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I was missing dinner. No great loss; my appetite was shot. That night, I got a surprise call from Elana on the dorm pay phone (pay phones were installed on every floor). The surprise wasn't her call but what she told me—that Connie had come to her room and informed her of our breakup. "She showed loads of class in the way she told me," Elana said. "Many girls in her position would have spit in my face. She was so gracious, even though she was upset."

*****

Long story short. Elana and I dated for the remainder of freshman year. Connie proved me right about other guys taking an interest in her, for not long after our breakup, I saw her on the mall walking hand-in-hand with a guy she had met in Anthropology 101. We kept in touch on and off though college, even comparing notes on our dating life. Then, as is typical when people move on after graduation, we lost touch.

Connie stayed on my memory radar, fading in and out through the years. Then, when I first heard Kacey Musgraves' Country hit, Follow Your Arrow, a giant blip appeared. I could still hear Connie telling me that, and it prompted me to go on Facebook. There was a Connie Waggoner, Boutwell in parentheses. That had to be her, I surmised, and her photos proved me right. It wasn't the same old Connie, of course, but it wasn't an old old Connie either. Her blondish-grayish hair was even longer than she wore it in college. Good for her, I thought, because long hair can look good on certain older women, and Connie appeared to be one of them.

Reading further, we had a few things in common. We were both divorced and retired, she from the cosmetics industry, me from engineering for private industry and state government. We both had kids, though no grand-kids. I couldn't resist sending her a private message. "You once told me to follow my arrow," I wrote. "Well, I have and it led me to you." I included my email, cell number and even my home address (we still lived in the same general geographic area).

A week went by. No Connie. No problem; my expectations for a response were low at best. Another week went by. Then, one late Sunday morning, just after working out in my home gym, the doorbell rang in my suburban townhouse. When I opened the door, I stood slack-jawed, at a loss for words. "Maybe I should have called first," she said, "but MY arrow took over and, well, here I am. I hope you don't have company."

"Um, no, I don't," I said. "Please come in." When she stepped inside, I said, "I'd love to hug you but I'm all sweaty."

She laughed. "We've hugged before when you—and me—were all sweaty. Of course, we were usually naked then." Afterward, she said, "You know, Marc, you might have lost some hair, but your scent hasn't changed. I remember it well. Fondly."

"Speaking of hair," I said, "longer hair becomes you." She had it tied into a long braid. Stepping back, I lowered my eyes. She wore a colorful dress hemmed just above her knees. "Your legs still look great. Firm and shapely."

She did a half turn. "A few extra pounds, but not bad for a gal in her sixties, I guess. And speaking of not bad for sixty-something, you've managed to keep your waistline slim, I see. No potbelly on this guy." She rubbed her hand over my tight T-shirt.

After I fixed a pot of coffee, we sat at my kitchen table, talking about everything from our kids to the Obama presidency. We also talked about our past, wistfully at times as people do when they share memories. "I can still see that cute, sexy girl with the blond shag sitting across the room inside the firehouse," I said.

"And I can still see that brave preppie boy from Dorchester Park, standing up to Bobby Dyer and Henry Stivers." She placed her hand over mine. "We had fun, didn't we?"

I nodded. "We sure did." I paused to think of times that weren't so good. "Maybe I shouldn't bring this up, but I'm still sorry I hurt you."

She shook her head and frowned. "Don't be, because as you know, Elena and I became friendly after that. And then I met Patrick, the guy from my Anthro class. It all worked out."

"We followed our arrow."

"Yes, and here we are, and I'm hoping that your arrow and mine are pointing in the same direction. Because, Marc Sean Kamins, I don't want this to be a one-time visit. If you know what I mean."

I showed her that I knew what she meant by leaning closer until our lips met. Then she joined me for a brief duet:

"How it makes me quiver. How it makes me smile. With all the love I have to give you. Guess I'm gonna stay with you awhile..."

We put those words into action. A week later, we slept together, something we hadn't done since Nixon was president. Less than a year later, we were married. F. Scott Fitzgerald famously said "there are no second acts in American lives." Well, in this era of Covid-19 and insane protest, Constance and Marc Kamins must respectfully disagree.