The problem is that I could have married Baron. Not that I should have, but that I could have. And I could have just gone on believing that being in love is being possessed and that all bad the times can be buoyed by the good.
My parents were right, it turns out. They didn’t always dislike him, but I should have listened to them those last three years or so.
I fell in love with him when I was 15, maybe 14. He told me he loved me the first time on a folded sheet of notebook paper; we’d never even kissed. We got older. We had plans. We knew what we’d name our babies.
I thought I’d marry him. I thought I knew him.
I was wrong.
These days we don’t even talk. Soon he’s going to marry one of our high school friends. Baron lived with her while we were still together.
I’ll probably never quite know for sure how wrong I was.
The problem is that I could be wrong. That I can be wrong. That I might be wrong.
(this is a bonus happy snippet:
“So what did you do while I was away.”
“Man things. I licked a stripper, but only one.”
“Was she pretty?”
“Prettier than me?”