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littlebitofearthWe met just weeks after I started college. It was 1996 and I was your typical American freshman, wide-eyed and tanned from a summer of working as a lifeguard, a plaid flannel shirt tied around my waist and Rum Raisin lipstick staining my mouth.
He was your average British exchange student, a rugby player from across the pond. His university was in Godalming, the same English town our college namesake - James Edward Oglethorpe - was born. He was here in the states for just 10 months on a Rotary Club scholarship.
Rarely does a photo exist of the exact moment you meet someone, but there is one of us in The Stormy Petrel Oglethorpe Annual of 96-97. We are standing on the stage in the Student Union cafe holding microphones. One of our close friends - Peter - is up there with us too but at that moment none of us had ever met. We'd shown up separately for karaoke night, one of the freshman orientation week events, and somehow gotten thrown on stage together to sing...what? I wish I could recall now. I am very obviously in the impassioned throes of belting out a song, while Peter is looking sideways at me with concern and Andy, the Brit, is grinning while trying to hide behind his microphone.
I wouldn't call it love at first sight but the chemistry was immediate. Just standing next to Andy onstage I was getting a pheromone high. I kept eyeing him as we made fools of ourselves to...was it "Come on Eileen?" I feel like it was "Come on Eileen."
We left the stage laughing. He was giving me shit for being ridiculous and when I said "Whatever!" he couldn't help but repeat my exclamation, straight out of Clueless, the hard R's rolling around his soft British tongue. "What-everrrr" he parroted back to me, a twinkle in his eye. It was on.
He was a musician - a drummer - who loved movies and talked to me about film and politics and music in a warm South England accent. He had some trauma that made him soulful and he was ambitious and loved to dance. Between that and the impish grin and that rugby body - God, I love a good ass - I fell hard.
Our relationship was tumultuous. We were both young and passionate and had strong feelings about where we were raised and how the world should work. We argued about colonialization and the Royal Family (Ridiculous!), about the IRA (My ancestors are Irish!), about the blasphemy of lemon in tea (I love it!). The conversations were good, the sex was great and our fights were spectacular.
We traveled together. My mom worked for Delta and I could get cheap tickets so on breaks I found rooms in youth hostels and we went to New York, New Orleans, Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon. It was one hell of a ride for an 18 year old. He asked me to be his girlfriend while reminding me daily that he had to go back to London at the end of the year - don't get too attached, don't fall too hard, just enjoy it for what it was. I tried to be that girl but my heart never had a chance.
Andy told me he loved me in the middle of a fight on Valentine's Day, running his hands through his hair and declaring, agonized, "I fucking love you, but you know I have to leave you. After what my dad did to my mum I swore I would never do that to any woman!" and then he dragged me to his chest and kissed me so hard he bruised my lip. I tried to soak up every dramatic, sensual, heated moment of that year, the expiration date just heightening the pleasure, knowing it would all crash to a halt in just a few months.
He was always honest about what came next, and once spring break ended, the finish line was in sight. I knew I had to extract myself from this carnival or I might never recover. In my mind, every day I took a small step backward, slowly weaning myself from this heady love. Slowly shutting the door to my heart. I've always been a master at compartmentalization.
The night before he left for England, after we made love one final, tear-streaked time, we knelt together on the bed in the basement of his host family's house and gave each other final presents, for him a photo collage of our year together, for me, his beloved Beatles tee shirt so I could smell him until the scent of his cologne no longer lingered. I stood to go get dressed and he dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face in my hips.
"I can't do it," he moaned. "How did I ever think I could leave you? I've been lying to you, lying to myself! I LOVE you. Come to England. Come be with me! Maybe you could get a scholarship..." His words were beseeching but he trailed off, head low. We both knew that wasn't to be. I stared down at him and ran my fingers through his hair, shocked, and pitying him deeply.
How could he do this now? He had told me he was leaving. He told me not to get too attached. I gave him exactly what he wanted. A year of fun and magic and passion like only this American girl could. Even as it had torn me apart with every kiss and every grin, I had honored his love by never expecting more of him than what he could give. And now, in the final hour, I could barely bring myself to lie and say we would figure it out, knowing that for me, this love was coming to its end.
Andy flew home the next day, and I stood at the window of his terminal, marveling at the aptness of that word and watching the plane until it was out of sight. Now alone at the empty gate, I allowed myself an ugly cry, then breathed deeply. It was over, just as he had planned, just as I had promised. Cheers, my love. I was already moving on.
He was your average British exchange student, a rugby player from across the pond. His university was in Godalming, the same English town our college namesake - James Edward Oglethorpe - was born. He was here in the states for just 10 months on a Rotary Club scholarship.
Rarely does a photo exist of the exact moment you meet someone, but there is one of us in The Stormy Petrel Oglethorpe Annual of 96-97. We are standing on the stage in the Student Union cafe holding microphones. One of our close friends - Peter - is up there with us too but at that moment none of us had ever met. We'd shown up separately for karaoke night, one of the freshman orientation week events, and somehow gotten thrown on stage together to sing...what? I wish I could recall now. I am very obviously in the impassioned throes of belting out a song, while Peter is looking sideways at me with concern and Andy, the Brit, is grinning while trying to hide behind his microphone.
I wouldn't call it love at first sight but the chemistry was immediate. Just standing next to Andy onstage I was getting a pheromone high. I kept eyeing him as we made fools of ourselves to...was it "Come on Eileen?" I feel like it was "Come on Eileen."
We left the stage laughing. He was giving me shit for being ridiculous and when I said "Whatever!" he couldn't help but repeat my exclamation, straight out of Clueless, the hard R's rolling around his soft British tongue. "What-everrrr" he parroted back to me, a twinkle in his eye. It was on.
He was a musician - a drummer - who loved movies and talked to me about film and politics and music in a warm South England accent. He had some trauma that made him soulful and he was ambitious and loved to dance. Between that and the impish grin and that rugby body - God, I love a good ass - I fell hard.
Our relationship was tumultuous. We were both young and passionate and had strong feelings about where we were raised and how the world should work. We argued about colonialization and the Royal Family (Ridiculous!), about the IRA (My ancestors are Irish!), about the blasphemy of lemon in tea (I love it!). The conversations were good, the sex was great and our fights were spectacular.
We traveled together. My mom worked for Delta and I could get cheap tickets so on breaks I found rooms in youth hostels and we went to New York, New Orleans, Las Vegas and the Grand Canyon. It was one hell of a ride for an 18 year old. He asked me to be his girlfriend while reminding me daily that he had to go back to London at the end of the year - don't get too attached, don't fall too hard, just enjoy it for what it was. I tried to be that girl but my heart never had a chance.
Andy told me he loved me in the middle of a fight on Valentine's Day, running his hands through his hair and declaring, agonized, "I fucking love you, but you know I have to leave you. After what my dad did to my mum I swore I would never do that to any woman!" and then he dragged me to his chest and kissed me so hard he bruised my lip. I tried to soak up every dramatic, sensual, heated moment of that year, the expiration date just heightening the pleasure, knowing it would all crash to a halt in just a few months.
He was always honest about what came next, and once spring break ended, the finish line was in sight. I knew I had to extract myself from this carnival or I might never recover. In my mind, every day I took a small step backward, slowly weaning myself from this heady love. Slowly shutting the door to my heart. I've always been a master at compartmentalization.
The night before he left for England, after we made love one final, tear-streaked time, we knelt together on the bed in the basement of his host family's house and gave each other final presents, for him a photo collage of our year together, for me, his beloved Beatles tee shirt so I could smell him until the scent of his cologne no longer lingered. I stood to go get dressed and he dropped to his knees, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face in my hips.
"I can't do it," he moaned. "How did I ever think I could leave you? I've been lying to you, lying to myself! I LOVE you. Come to England. Come be with me! Maybe you could get a scholarship..." His words were beseeching but he trailed off, head low. We both knew that wasn't to be. I stared down at him and ran my fingers through his hair, shocked, and pitying him deeply.
How could he do this now? He had told me he was leaving. He told me not to get too attached. I gave him exactly what he wanted. A year of fun and magic and passion like only this American girl could. Even as it had torn me apart with every kiss and every grin, I had honored his love by never expecting more of him than what he could give. And now, in the final hour, I could barely bring myself to lie and say we would figure it out, knowing that for me, this love was coming to its end.
Andy flew home the next day, and I stood at the window of his terminal, marveling at the aptness of that word and watching the plane until it was out of sight. Now alone at the empty gate, I allowed myself an ugly cry, then breathed deeply. It was over, just as he had planned, just as I had promised. Cheers, my love. I was already moving on.
