Today I Swore I Was A Time Traveler

About a year ago, I passed through the Atlanta airport less than 24 hours after surgery. I was traveling to Nashville, Tennessee to see Dylan Roth about a week after we made the decision to get back together following five years apart. I had a semester of college left, and I would move to be with him immediately following graduation. Which I did. It was the best stupid decision I'd made in my life.

In the meantime of our long distance, we had made plans to visit as often as possible. Which was why I had planned to drive to Nashville that weekend despite my post-surgery state. The problem was, I was still whacked out on anesthetic and wasn't allowed to drive. But, if you know me, I don't give up that easily. So alas, here I came - via plane - my body covered in bright orange high-power antiseptic, wrapped with a compression pack in a 10-foot ace bandage to keep my stitches clean and intact.

I know what you're thinking. And you're right.

I'm an absolute crackpot.

But I was a crackpot in love. So I'm sure my doctor had wanted to prohibit me from traveling altogether, but I really appreciate him giving me the antiseptic bandage because I was going to do it anyway. That's just kind of who I am as a person.

Last weekend, I was passing through that same airport again. Not visiting Nashville like I was so many months ago, but returning home. 

That's when I saw her. She was about 18. Maybe 19. Book shopping, with her dark brown hair in a long wavy ponytail and a Starbucks coffee practically sewn to her palm.

"It's a good book," I told her peering over her shoulder, "You should get it."

"Thanks!" she looked up and her blue eyes met mine, "I was deciding between these two." She pulled out another.

I shrugged. "Get both."

Her eyes widened. "You read my mind."

I smiled.

"Where are you headed?" she asked me.

"Home," I was thankful I could finally say, "To Nashville. You?"

"Chicago," she told me, "My boyfriend goes to school there."

I giggled to myself. "Long distance sucks, huh."

"Yeah," she said, "And it's expensive, too."

Darn right... I thought to myself. "Is the end in sight?" I asked her.

"Oh, yes. Thank goodness," she told me, "We're both freshmen. We dated in high school and broke up to go to different places. It wasn't worth it. I'm transferring there in the fall."

I stood dumbfounded - noting the hair. The eyes. The book. The coffee. The scenario. This girl was a younger me. A me who had forgiven faster. Got over her pain quicker. Reconnected within months, rather than years. An alternate universe Bethany, who was making the exact same future in a totally different way.

"I know it sounds stupid," she validated herself as I realized I hadn't responded yet, "I'm so not the girl who moves for a boy..."

"No, no, I get it," I interrupted her, "I'm not that girl either."

She waited for more.

"But I did it."

She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Really?!"

"Yep. Moved to Nashville less than a year ago for my high school sweetie. We didn't talk for five years. But we reconnected and felt it was worth another shot."

"And was it?!"

"Definitely."

"Woah. How long have you guys been together?"

"A little over a year now."

"Ahh!" she squealed as if we were suddenly best friends at a teenage sleepover, "That's so great. Think there's a ring in your future?"

I had to see that coming. That's always the next question in line.

"Not anytime soon," I laughed, "It's just not the most important thing right now."

"Is it not?"

At first I thought she was joking, but I looked more closely to find that she was really asking. As if she was waiting to find out what was the most important thing right now. Waiting to find out if she was about to do it wrong.

"I mean clearly you love him," she persisted.

"Oh clearly!" I reassured her, "But I just think the most important thing is loving life. Loving what you're doing. Where you're doing it. And who you're doing it with."

She nodded as if she understood.

"Do you like Chicago?"

"It's not my first choice," she shrugged, "But it's a good city. I like being there. There's lots to do."

I smiled again.

"I hope we end up like you guys," she told me.

I glanced back to the book in her hand. Milk & Honey by Rupi Kaur. My copy sat on my nightstand at home. Dog eared and weathered, spine practically crumpled, the pages stained with ink and tears. It was the ultimate self love book for a 20-something woman - full of poems about beauty and love despite hardship and trial.

"Something tells me you will," I told her.

I turned to return to my gate. "Hey," I called to her just before leaving. She paused to look up. "What are you majoring in?"

"Undecided!" she shouted to the door, "But I'm thinking about being a teacher."

****************************************************************

I didn't ask for her name. I knew I'd be scared out of my wits if it turned out to be Bethany, and I also didn't want it to ruin the idea that I might be in a younger parallel universe if it was something else. So I left it there. No name, no number, no email - no way to ever get in touch again.

But I wish you the best, little one. You are crazy for moving for a boy. But you're also very happy. I can tell.

P.S. - I'm sure you'll make an awesome teacher. Have you ever thought about starting a blog?

What Teachers Really Do During A Lockdown When A Gunman Is On The Loose

Whatever the hell they have to. 

There. I said it. 

Sorry for the frankness. 

Pardon the language. 

But not really. Cause that's the truth. 

Whatever. The hell. We have to. 

*All student names have been changed for confidentiality.*

I feed on compliments. It's just my nature. So when multiple people in the building had told me they had no idea I was a first year teacher, it fueled me. I was jumping, dancing, and throwing deuces while rapping our Count To 100 song with my kindergarteners when the announcement came on.

"Teachers we are on lockdown. Clear the hallways."

This was a couple weeks prior to the Florida shooting, and I actually rolled my eyes. Took my sweet time. Turned off the smart board. Shut off the lights.

We did these all the time. We'd only done one lockdown drill last semester and I was pretty sure we were supposed to have at least two, so we were probably just catching up this semester to meet district requirements. I scoffed. We must have been so desperate to get these drills done that they hadn't even bothered to tell the teachers about this one in advance. So I leisurely strolled to the door, reached for the window cover...

And the principals, crisis team, and resource officers came running at full speed down the hallway.

My breath caught in my throat. I fumbled clumsily for my keys but my words came out calm and crisp. "Line up. Now."

My wide eyed five-year-old students sensed the urgency.

"Miss Harper," a little boy whispered, "I don't think we're supposed to go outside."

"We aren't," I reassured him, "and we won't. Michael, lead the line around to the back of the cubby wall."

Scared little Michael straightened his posture and rolled his shoulders backwards. "Yes ma'am," he told me, and the entire line followed suit quietly.

My Apple Watch buzzed. A message from my co-worker Kelly:

Lock your doors and close your windows. Police have been called. 

I grabbed our red emergency bag and ran behind the wall to seat them. "Sit down. Sit down. Sit down. Closer together. Criss cross. Sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. Be quiet. Sit down. You are silent."

My watch buzzed. 2 minutes. An update from Kelly:

Shooting in the neighborhood.

Once they had been huddled behind the wall criss cross, I returned into the classroom to turn off lamps, retrieve rosters, etc. I took roll on the clipboard and returned to my students to wait. But when I rounded the corner, the light touched more than half of my kinders.

No word on whether the gunman had entered the building. But the shooting had happened in the neighborhood, meaning chances were high he was close to the school. Close enough to see in windows.

My stomach dropped. That stupid window. How many times had I put a work order in to fix those blinds? No one had ever come to fix it. But if my students could see the windows...if the light from the window was touching them...then anyone on the other side of the windows could see my students.

How fast could I fix this? What did I have that could cover a window? Some fabric... Dark bulletin board paper... But nothing big enough to cover an eight-foot window. How was I even supposed to reach the top of it without a ladder or causing a big ruckus by pushing tables over? Impossible.

"Ryan. Nathan. Seth. Stand up."

They did.

"Come here," I whispered, and cut a piece of fabric to cover the (smaller) bathroom window. I unlocked the window and put a step stool underneath. "You guys are brave and strong. I need you to hide in here, and if anything happens outside, kneel down as far as you can directly underneath the window. No one will be able to see you. If you hear anything in the classroom, I want you all three to push open the window, and run. Okay?"

They nodded. I was just about to close the door when Ryan whispered, "Miss Harper... What's going on?"

My heart sank. All my fight or flight was wasted in that moment. I chose Ryan to go in because he was always the most lively. The most daring. The fastest on the playground. The strongest punch I had. I knew. I knew because he'd been known to punch people when he defended himself or another student.

And yet, staring back at me were the eyes of a scared little Ryan, huddled in the corner of a 3'x3' bathroom, hugging his knees and blinking back tears from his eyes. And he wanted to know. Miss Harper... What's going on?  

I knelt down quietly. How much was too much for a little one to understand? How much would be necessary for them to understand if someone was in the building?

"Remember how you sometimes play on the playground at recess, Ryan?" I tried, "How there are bad guys and we're the good guys and we have to use our head to catch them because we can't use weapons at school?"

Ryan nodded.

"Well there can be real bad guys in the world. And they don't always just use their heads."

"They have guns?!" little Jackie, a sweet girl from behind me whispered.

"I hope not," I included the rest of the class in the conversation, "but we don't have any guns do we?"

They all shook their heads silently.

"We don't even know if anyone is in here," I whispered to them, "We don't know if they have a gun. We might be doing all of this for nothing. But if there is a bad guy, and he does have a gun... All we have is our head to make decisions, and our feet to run." I turned back to the boys in the bathroom. "So if you hear something inside, punch the window. Get out. And run."

The boys nodded. I glanced at my watch. 8 minutes. No update.

"Olivia. Melissa. Angel. Stand up."

They did.

"Come here."

They did.

"I want you to huddle very close together in this closet."

These were my quietest, most competitive girls. "It is very important that you do not make a sound the entire time you are in here. Not if you hear something. Not if you hear nothing. I want to see which one of you can stay quietest the longest. Okay?"

They nodded. "What happens if we're the quietest?" Olivia, the most competitive asked.

"Shhh," I reminded her, "I'll come back to get you as soon as the lockdown is over, give the quietest a treat." I was pretty sure I had still had some cookie crisp in the back from our subtraction lesson.

They nodded eagerly but fearfully and let me close the door. I locked them inside and hid the closet key in the curriculum case behind my desk. If anyone gunned me down and took my lanyard, they would be unable to get the closet open and the girls would be safe.

"Miss Harper..." a quiet whisper came from Jamie, "I'm about to pee on myself."

I glanced at my watch again. 13 minutes. "I know sweetie, but we can't leave. Can you wait?"

"I think so."

"Okay. Everyone scoot in closer."

I leaned down close. "Sit tight. You're doing great. I'm going to go back out and make sure everything is alright." The children nodded.

I walked back out, farthest away from the cubby wall where my students were hiding, but stayed glued to the wall with the windows in case I might be seen. "Text Dylan," I whispered to my watch. What do you want to say? it flashed back at me. "On lockdown," I whispered again, "Prayer please. Police have been called."

Anything else? my watch asked silently.

"I love you," I added.

Sending now. Can I do anything else? 

"Text my emergency contacts." This would go to my parents, my honorary aunt, and Dylan.

What do you want to say?

"Hey we're all okay," I typed to spare my children the truth, "but someone was shot in the school's neighborhood so we're on lockdown. Prayers would be awesome."

Anything else? my watch asked.

"No."

I returned to my students and sat down on the floor with them, criss cross. 16 minutes. And about 15 of them were spent in silent prayer.

"Miss Harper..." another whisper came from behind me. I glanced back to find a little boy trying his absolute best not to cry, "I want to go home."

I refused to lie to these kids. "You know what David?" I whispered back, "Me too. But we are ten times safer here than if we were to get out now to go home. So we have to stay silent okay?"

"But Miss Harper..." little Jamie protested to remind me, "I'm about to pee on myself!"

I put a finger to my mouth. "And you'll be the first to go when this is over. But until then... Silent, okay?"

My students nodded.

23 minutes.

I texted Kelly. "Any word?"

My watch buzzed. "Helicopters are searching."

And it was as if they'd been cued. Either that, or I just hadn't heard the sound before I knew what it was. And thank god, was all I could think, that means the police don't think he's in the building. 

And then... Don't be relieved yet, Bethany. If you can hear the helicopters, they think he's close. 

I peeked around the corner from the cubby wall. One helicopter was circling outside. Two were floating stationary, almost directly above the school. Deep breath. Deep breath. 

"Miss Harper," I heard Kristen, a quiet girl who'd come in late, "I'm getting really hungry..."

I bet. I thought, We've eaten up 12 minutes of our lunchtime. And then it occurred to me that not only were we missing our chance to eat, but Julie had come in the classroom at 8:30, only twenty minutes after the rest of us had eaten breakfast. I teach in an at-risk school and she was on the top-priority list. The girl probably hadn't had anything to eat since lunch the day before.

"I know, sweetie. Just hold on a little longer," I whispered.

"Will we get to eat?!" Michael asked.

"Shhh!" I reminded them, "Yes. Even if I have to go get a box of sack lunches and we eat in here, I'll make sure you get food."

"And then bathroom?" Jamie, the girl in desperate need of a bathroom break asked, "I'm about to pee on myself."

There was a noise in the hallway. My students gasped.

"Shhh!" I said again, as if the reminder was any quieter than the gasping. My arms wrapped around the nearest four students and gripped tightly. No one made a sound. We didn't hear anything else.

I was starting to get light headed. Good god, how long had I been holding my breath? I exhaled quietly.

31 minutes.

I peeked around the corner again. Now there were five helicopters floating and two circling. Sharp shooters hung out the doorways in the sky. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the wall, out of the view of the window.

"Miss Harper..." Jamie said, "What's going on? I'm about to pee on myself..."

"I know, honey." I hadn't forgotten. She'd probably whispered it twelve times.

"And I'm hungry," Kristen reminded me.

"Me too." "Me too." "Me too." It was as if every kindergartener in that room had suddenly realized they were hungry.

"Listen," I said a little too loudly, and arguably too harshly, "I'm just going to be honest with you guys. Can I talk to you like adults."

They nodded excitedly. That was every kid's dream right? To be treated like an adult?

"This is not a drill," I said frankly. Their smiles vanished. "Someone is out there that we need to hide from. I don't know who. And I don't know where. Usually, our job at this time of day is to go for a bathroom break. And then to lunch. But right now, our job is to stay safe. Do you understand?"

"Yes ma'am..." a chorus of scared little whispers came from the darkness.

"Miss Harper..." a quiet voice came from the back. My head snapped to find it. "I'm so sorry I'm still talking... But are we going to die...?"

The question threw me. Suddenly, I wasn't a teacher in go-mode. I was a social worker. A policeman. And a feeling just shy of motherhood welled up inside me.

I wasn't looking at students anymore. I was looking at quiet, five-year-old boys and girls with tears running down their cheeks, wondering if they woke up that morning for the last time. Five. Years. Old.

I glanced back out to my classroom. Because you forget. The carpet is small. The chairs are small. The tables are small. So the kids themselves don't look that way.

But they are. They are so small.

Their feet still dangle at lunch because they share the same tables with fourth graders.

Their fingers are so small I had to teach them to hold a pencil with fat expo markers on the first day of school.

Their clothes are just now being bought out of the toddler section.

Their shoes can't even fit on my hand.

They are so young. They are so small. And they are so innocent. 

53 minutes.

Way too long for a five year old to sit. To be quiet. To listen up. Way longer than I've ever expected them to.

And all to make sure they got on the bus still breathing that afternoon.

My watched buzzed. A message from Kelly: Gunman taken into custody. 

The intercom buzzed on. It was the loudest thing we'd heard in an hour. We all jumped.

"Students and teachers, thank you for your cooperation. The lockdown has been lifted."

My students jumped up. Chaos erupted. And still, I could not feel relief just yet. There was too much to do. I brought my boys out from the bathroom. I retrieved my key from the curriculum case and unlocked the girls to let them out of the closet. Each of them were given their cookie crisp, as promised. Jamie ran to the bathroom. Kristen became the line leader as we lined up for lunch.

The lunch hour was completely over. We marched down to the cafeteria for a 15 minute lunch; half of what they normally get, but better than nothing. The cafeteria had to make sure everyone got to eat something before dismissal.

The kids were quick to remind me they missed recess also. So we went outside to play for quite a while after that, while my coworkers and I sat on the playground bench filling out head counts, submitting emergency rosters, and returning phone calls to parents who had tried to contact us in the middle of the crisis to make sure their babies were okay.

And after that, it was time for specials. You know, the time where students go to art, P.E., music, etc. for an hour and teachers get their planning time.

I dropped them off at the regular time as if the whole day had been normal.

Then I went back to my classroom and cried for the full 55 remaining minutes.

****************************************************************

This is not a post about mental health vs. guns. I'm not saying we need / don't need mental health support. I'm not saying we need / don't need gun control. I'm not saying teachers need guns. I'm not saying they don't. I'm not even saying I have an answer, a solution, or even an idea about how to fix all this madness.

All I'm saying, is that for all of you out there who are leading this debate right now - those of you making laws and enforcing policies and slamming the gavel down to punish the shooters - you have never once sat behind the cubby wall. You have never hid your five year olds in closets. You have never texted your family and boyfriend that you love them, and then walked right back in case you had to lay down your life without saying goodbye to any of them.

You've never done it.

So I'm here to tell you, as someone who has done it... 

If there was more mental health training in my professional development I would've used it.

If there was more social-emotional education in my curriculum I would've taught it.

If I'd had a gun, I would've used it.

If I didn't, I would've used something else.

A baseball bat. My teacher pointer. Maybe a P.E. parachute to strap all my kinders to my body and jump out the window.

I would've used whatever. The hell. I had to. We would not have gone down without a fight. Because if a dedicated lunatic wants to get a gun and shoot up school, they'll find a way to get a gun and shoot up a school - no matter what. So we have to find a way to stay safe and alive.

Fortunately, I didn't have to. It didn't come to that for me.

Unfortunately, for my fellow educators and their kiddos in Florida - they were not so lucky.

So all of you up there in government. In law enforcement. In policy making. All you "so much more important" than teachers. We are paying you to govern. To enforce the law. To make policies.

So please, I don't care what you do. Give me a gun. Don't give me a gun. Update my safety plan. Put more social emotional learning in my daily schedule. Cancel school for a day to give me mental health professional development. Whatever.

Just do something. 

It may not work. And I'm not asking for it to. But the sooner we find out some things that don't work, the sooner we'll find out what will.

We aren't paying you to fix this immediately. That demand is a little high for your salary. But we are paying you to try.

Cause guess what? I'm getting paid to teach. Not to lay down my life. Personally, I feel that demand would be a little high for my salary. Wouldn't you agree?

My family deserves to know that I'll be alive when I come home from school each day. My students' families deserve the same.

Wouldn't you want to be certain your baby's life wouldn't be taken while they were trying to learn and grow into a strong, beautiful person?

Then please. I don't care what. Just try something. 

A Year With The Music Man

I suppose you could say the madness of it all started five and a half years ago, when his high school graduation cap flew in the air.

I did not partake in the graduation parties with all of our friends, because I was not graduating. I was a year younger than him...and a year younger than everyone we hung out with. They all ran off to one another's houses to enjoy cake and games and parties.

I, however, cried all the way home, listening to every CD I had of his music. It reminded me of our trip to my favorite city, New York, where he first played his music for me. It reminded me of Christmas, driving around and listening to him sing in the car. It reminded me of spring, laying on a blanket at the park with his guitar.

I was basking in a pool neck deep in nostalgia. It was clearly the beginning of the end.

He had announced that he would attend Belmont University in Nashville, TN, in pursuit of music business and audio engineering. His guitar echoed through my parked car. He was already so good at it. And I knew that however he wanted to pursue this, with or without me, I would absolutely have to support.

He had told me a few days prior that the decision had been hard to make because he loved me. I didn't believe a lot of things men said. But I believed him. And he assured me that while it would likely have to be over at the end of the summer because "long distance never worked," that we would soak up every last bit of our time together.

It wasn't three weeks later before he decided he should benefit from some time being single before moving to Nashville, and he took me on to a nice date at a Japanese Steakhouse. He spent the dinner re-capping everything I would want for my senior year of high school, and then telling me how he would be ruining that by sticking around. He told me that he didn't know if he'd be able to come back for homecomings and proms and graduations... As if I'd somehow rather go with some random guy I had no connection to than go in a group of friends knowing that I had a wonderful guy in another state who tried his absolute best but just couldn't make it. According to him, we still fit together, but the futures we both wanted did not.

He didn't present the chance for me to counter his argument, and I'd seen Legally Blonde enough times to know how this would end.

We broke up in the parking lot of that beautiful Japanese Steakhouse. It was "mutual." Not only did I almost have a wreck driving home in my emotionally compromised state like that female teenage all-state commercial, but I didn't step foot back in that restaurant for two years.

And I kept waiting. Waiting for him to call and say it was a mistake. Waiting for him to come back to our hometown and say that he wanted to try again. Try long distance. Or at least tell me that he missed me.

Every time he came back into town, I met with him. Lunches. Coffee. Frozen yogurt. Each time I had been decked out, dressed to the nines, ready for him to cave at any moment. And he never did such a thing. He never even told me that he missed me.

And so I decided that I couldn't keep doing it anymore. I was hurt. I was angry. And I was tired. He had made it very clear that he didn't want me to be a part of this next chapter of his life by my side, so why were we still meeting up when he came home like I had any real significance in this new life of his? He had never given it a chance. I never said we would've succeeded (in fact, I realized that we might have miserably failed), but I wanted the chance. I wanted to know. And he hadn't even wanted to give us that.

So I swore him off. Made up excuses when he called for coffee. Kept myself busy when he was in town so we wouldn't run into one another. And eventually, I stopped answering calls and texts altogether. The way I saw it... When he broke up with me, he got a whole new life. In a new town, at a new school, doing a totally new thing. Following his dream, really. And I had been stuck, in the same town, in the same school, doing the same things...without him. It was clear that I was still far more invested in him than I should've been, and it was holding me back.

I had no way of knowing that he would carry our prom photo in his wallet for three years after we last spoke.

A year went by. I started dating a guy from our hometown within my first semester of college. And while the relationship wasn't everything it should've been (heavily flawed on both sides), my vengeful self was extremely happy because I discovered for myself that long distance did, in fact, work...if both parties were willing to put forth the effort. I'd hoped my high school sweetheart had noticed that.

A few more years went by, and while I had broken up with my long distance guy, I had started talking to guys at college in Springfield. None of it worked. And so, my knees hit the floor.

"Hey God, it's me again down here... You're supposed to really find yourself in college, and they say a lot of people find their other half. Or they're at least supposed to successfully date a little... So if you could... Could you please send Dylan back into my life? Or at least a guy just like him?"

That was the night my roommate and I lay in bed flustered about boys after eating way too many donuts. "Sounds like you and your high school sweetheart had it the best I've ever heard of."

"Yeah..." I told her, "But that was years ago. He could be a completely different person now."

She sat up in the dark. "Only one way to find out."

The lights flicked back on and we huddled on the bed around a computer, ready to do what any millennial ex-girlfriend would do...full fledged social media stalking.

He had phases where he was active on twitter but his instagram was practically deserted. And while he wasn't half as active on facebook as he had been in high school, it was quickly becoming clear that the red-head frequenting his photos was a little more than a friend.

I shrugged. Alright God, I whispered, I guess my answer's no this time. 

I suppose I was disappointed in the way you get when your ex is happier and more involved in a relationship than you are, but the logical part of me was still somewhat indifferent. I hadn't talked to him in years. I definitely wasn't still waiting. And I was walking back to my side of the room, when the "oh no" escaped my roommate's mouth.

"What?"

"Get over here."

She had ventured away from his facebook page and was now on the red-head girl's from his photos. That's when the anger and jealousy welled up inside of me.

This red-headed girl didn't just have him... She had him in a long distance relationship (which we all remember he said would never work) and she lived in New York City!!! This pixie cut musician girl I didn't even know had everything I'd ever dreamed of, and I was not okay with it.

My roommate huffed. "Well," she said, "Promise me that if he ever comes back for you that you'll give it another go?"

"No," I shook my head, tired of being held back and breaking every last possibility of rekindling a romance with Dylan Roth, "I'm moving to New York."

Her eyes widened but she knew better than to try to stop me. And frankly, so did everyone else. I researched neighborhoods. Cost of living. Jobs. School districts. Transportation. Apartments. I contacted friends who had moved there. I contacted family who'd lived there previously. And I had a plan. I would spend my final year of college preparing for my move to New York City. And I fully believed that if I were to ever see Dylan Roth's face again, it would be on the streets of New York while he was with her.

So I didn't go completely solo that next year of college. I dabbled in the dating world and talked to a couple of guys. But my eyes were set on the city, so I never took anything too seriously.

And so it was late October of 2016 when I was sitting in class, half my laptop screen open to lesson plan notes and half open to a New York apartment finder when my phone buzzed and Snapchat lit up. Which was weird, because everyone I knew had stopped sending me Snapchats because I never answered them. I could text and instagram all day, but something about Snapchat was just not my forte.

Dylan Roth has added you as a friend!

I felt like I might throw up. 

I clicked accept and slid open the chat window to take care of this quickly. "Hey good to hear from you!" I typed, "Just so you know, I'm really bad about responding to snapchats so I'll probably open them and not respond a lot." 

"It's nothing personal," I decided to add. Because in the past I had meant for my silence to feel extremely personal. 

But that vengeful side of me kicked in fast, and I suddenly had the urge to tell him how wonderful I was doing on my own. How I was in my last year of college and was graduating earlier than I thought I would and how my guard team had made finals and world championships nearly every year I'd been there and how I was moving to New York City. And so I just...did...and proceeded to respond to every single one of his snapchats until our messages got too long and we had to switch to text. 

Good job Bethany. 

A month went by of this constant texting and I was on my way home for Thanksgiving break when he said, "We should grab coffee while we're in town for the holiday!" And we set a date. 

I met him for the most awkward initial reunion of my life in a local coffee shop downtown. But once the awkwardness was (mostly) out of the way, we proceeded to talk. And talk. And talk. And then go for a walk. And we walked. And walked. And walked. And we sat down on the ramp of the town's performing art's facility. And talked and talked and talked some more. The red-head was nowhere in sight, and he explained that she hadn't been a part of his life for awhile. 

So I accidentally let six hours go by. 

And finally he had to go because he was meeting his family for a football game, but he was acting as though he didn't really want to leave. We set a date to hang out again at Christmas before we'd even left. I glanced at my phone. I had three texts from my mom asking when on earth I would be done so we could go and get dinner. Yikes. I'd been so busy talking I hadn't even noticed I was hungry. 

But it had been nice...to let him in again. And I had this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach...that my plans for New York had just gotten a lot more complicated. That God's answer to my prayer for Dylan so many years ago hadn't been a clear "no," but rather a quiet whisper, "Not yet." 

And so, I willed myself to realize that God's plan for me was not a move to New York City. And the time between that moment and that Christmas would be solely dedicated to me deciding whether or not I was going to listen. 

When Christmas rolled around, I still hadn't decided. He hadn't come right out and said it, but a few talks until 2am led me to believe that we were becoming more than friends more than quickly. We met for another multi-hour coffee session around Christmas, where it was finally vocalized. That he had feelings for me again, and he didn't know what to do about it because I was moving to New York. And I realized we had gone five years without seeing one another, only to be right back where we started. Where I was now moving to pursue my dream, and didn't know if I wanted to chance being held back. 

I kissed him anyway. That was a mistake. 

I spent the entire next day looking at jobs and apartments in Nashville. Was it enough like New York for me to be happy? Would I still be able to work at the type of at-risk urban school I wanted to? Would I be able to afford a place to live? Yes, yes, yes, it seemed. Check, check, check. 

We met up that night to see the movie La La Land, and I truly believe he expected it to be our last night together. Until the movie had a frighteningly paralleled ending to the conflict we were facing, and we kept putting off the conversation. We drove around. We went for drinks. We even drove back to the movie theatre parking lot and sat in silence for fifteen minutes before I looked up and saw that same dreaded Japanese Steakhouse that we had ended it at so many years ago.

I presented my case instantly. That I would move to Nashville for us to be together. And it scared the living daylights out of him. 

"No. No, no, no, absolutely not," he told me, "You've wanted to live in New York since we dated the first time. I could never take that away from you. You'd always regret it. You'd never be as happy in Nashville as you would in New York, and..." 

He was starting to make me mad, so I cut him off. "Will you quit telling me what I want for myself, as if you know?!" 

He stared at me dumbfounded. I don't think he'd ever heard me raise my voice in his life. 

"You laid down the law five years ago!" I spat, "You just told me the way it was gonna be because you'd made up your mind. Well now it's my turn. And you don't get to sit there and tell me that I would be happier in New York than I would be with you because you don't know that. You have no idea where my head has been all this time. And you have no idea how hurt, and how angry, I was at you for never giving us a chance. Well it's been five freaking years Dylan!! And we have another chance! And if you can honestly sit there and tell me that you don't want to try, then fine. We won't. But the way I see it? There's no harm in trying. You know me. If I move to Nasvhille, and we don't work out, then fine. I'll throw my middle finger up at you, pack my bags, and go right on to New York City. At least we'll know. Because for the past five years, I haven't known. In fact, I've wondered. Every. Single. Day." 

He proceeded carefully. "And what if we do work out?" he whispered, "And you never get to live in New York?" 

I had no hesitations. "Then you're just going to have to trust that I'll be happy enough to not care."

We sat in silence for a good while, and I honestly thought he was still going to say no. And I wasn't sure what I'd do then. Because if me screaming a monologue in his face didn't work, I didn't know what would. He was leaving tomorrow. I would have to think fast. I would have to do something quick. I would have to...

"Let's do it." 

My mouth hung open. "...what?" 

The corners of his mouth curled upwards. He threw his head back and let out a laugh. "Let's do it!" 

He left town the next day and I booked a plane ticket to Nashville to see him again before my last semester of school started. Telling my parents was next, and my mom wasn't surprised in the slightest. She'd always loved Dylan, and I, after all, was just like her. I was repeating her love story with my father first hand. 

My dad, on the other hand? Blind-sighted. The only way to possibly give him the news was to give it to him straight and blunt. 

"How's Dylan doing?" he asked, "I'm so glad you have a friend to go do stuff with when you come back into town." 

"Yeah dad, about that..." I took a breath, "He and I actually got back together so I'm moving to Nashville when I graduate. Also, I'm going to see him in a week." 

He just stared at me. 

"...what do you think about that...?" I asked him. 

"I think I need a beer." 

I feel the need to pause here and make something clear. He always loved Dylan, too. But far more than he loved Dylan...he loved Nashville. So he was fully in support of this decision. As was my mother, because Nashville was a heck of a lot closer to home than New York City. 

Long distance did suck, but it did work. We made it through my last semester of college, FaceTiming every night and visiting one another every six weeks. Not even a full week after my college graduation cap went in the air, I loaded up my car and moved to Nashville. I had nothing but a duffel bag and excitement. I'd pick up the keys to my apartment in three days. The moving truck would come the following week. I'd have a job teaching kindergarten at an at-risk urban school within the month. I'd even be offered the position at the end of the first interview. 

A year ago today, we met up one night to see the movie La La Land, and Dylan truly expected it to be our last night together. 

It turned out to be the first of many. 

Since then, we've spent an awful lot of nights dressed up at weddings and parties and music networking events. We've spent even more nights in our sweatpants eating pizza. But no matter what, we're making memories one day at a time. 

People wait until I'm alone before they ask... "Do you ever regret it? Do you ever wish you'd moved to New York?" 

I had no hesitations the night I yelled at Dylan to quit deciding what I wanted for me, and I have no hesitations answering these questions a year later. 

Not in the slightest. I wouldn't trade this for anything. 

My Dylan, we celebrate today. A year of adventure. A year of uncertainty. A year of new jobs, new beginnings, and crazy spontaneous decisions that led to one of the best years of my life. A year of midnight donut runs and a year of goodnight kisses. A year of "I still love you." 

Thanks for giving me the best life I could've wished for, straight out of college. New York would've been pretty cool. It would've been loud and busy and adventurous and everything I'd ever wanted. But I can't help but think about what it would've been like after I was in for the night, in my sweatpants, eating pizza alone, looking out my apartment window and wondering what you were up to. 

I'm so glad I don't have to wonder. Thanks for inspiring a home for me in Nashville, where it is still loud and busy and adventurous. Thanks for letting me back in and allowing me to be a part of your dream. Thanks for giving me a completely new dream. And thanks for taking a chance with me this time...

It was always you.