Prologue

PROLOGUE

STEPHANIE

T he second you said "yes," I think part of me knew that you were different. Not because of the way you said it, nor the fact that you said it at all . . . but because of my reaction to it. I'm an organized person, with a plan for every plan, wrapped within another plan. So having every single thought leave my head was a new experience for me.

A date. Where would I take you? What could we do? Where would we go? I felt like all I needed was to be in your company, and then surely the world would spin the other way. But actually, no plan of mine seemed worthy of your time. So I googled, read blogs, and tried to picture our ideal first date. Unfortunately, every scene I imagined seemed to lack what I craved the most: unfiltered, uninterrupted time with you. Simplicity was the only way I could see forward until I had a terrible thought: what if you didn't feel the same?

It had been so long since I had even considered letting anyone in in that way.

But you had said, "Yes." Still, I was afraid to really be seen by you. I knew that going with you to the movies, having a drink at the bar, or eating dinner in a crowded room would give me the space to fade into the background. It would offer me a protection that something simpler wouldn't—although being one-on-one would give me unfiltered access to you.

But if I arranged things that way, you would have that much of me as well. Could I take the rejection? I wondered. And yet, could I live without giving myself that chance? As my fingertips smoothed out the edges of my worn, checkered blanket, I marvelled at the feel of the new, spring grass beneath them. I realized that my heart had decided the answer. Asking so many questions was not the way of the heart, but was instead the result of a planner's mind in overdrive. What if you couldn't find the place? I had asked myself. What if you didn't like the food I'd brought? What if the ice cream melted? What if my skirt split from sitting on the floor? What if it rained? What if we ran out of things to say? What if I was suddenly awkward, or could only whisper? What if you didn't want to kiss me? But what if . . . you did?

These questions were countered by happy dreams about how things might go. I call those thoughts about you my "wonders." For example, I wondered how you'd smile when you first found me and the picnic I'd set out for you. I wondered how your head might tip when I fed you a strawberry. I wondered how melted ice cream tasted from your fingers and I wondered how you'd touch the split of my skirt— right up the inside of my thighs? I wondered how rain on my blushing cheeks would feel. I wondered how I'd breathe in the silence as you looked at me, and how you might smile at my awkwardness. I wondered how you'd smell when you leaned in toward me. And most of all, I wondered how your kiss would feel on my lips.

Questions and wonders became . . . my story of you.