Eight years ago this week, Tim kissed me for the first time.
It was a risk for us both: I asked him to be my date. He drove across two states.
It could have been the most awkward weekend of our lives. He didn’t know my friend who was getting married. He didn’t know my parents, who were also there.
The day of the wedding we decided to look for the beach. Pre-smartphone, we never found it. We just drove and drove and talked and laughed. The hours flew.
We ate burgers at a diner and before our first bite he asked if he could pray. He thanked God for friendship and prayed a sweet blessing over my friend’s marriage.
It sounds crazy, but in that moment I knew.
We danced all night, fueled by poppyseed cake and vodka tonics. We sang show tunes in the back of my parents’ car, and later, after more dancing and much laughter, he kissed me.
The next morning he drove back home in a snowstorm and I flew cross country to rainy Seattle. I waited and wondered what would become of us.
And then he sent me an instant message. And another. And another. And then an email with entire soundtrack we had danced to that night.
We waited to see what that kiss would become, and it became everything.