Valentine's Day Anniversary

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A special anniversary present.
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It was Valentine's Day. Actually, it was Valentine's evening, as most of the day had already slipped by. It was our 5th wedding anniversary, which seemed a hopelessly romantic idea at the time, having a wedding on Valentine's Day, surrounded by all the red hearts and little cupids and rose bouquets, and especially in light of our long history with the holiday I couldn't imagine it being on any other day, although in retrospect it really meant that reservations for our anniversary dinner would have to be made at least a year in advance in hope of having any chance of getting a table. Damn Hallmark holiday.

**********

Jen and I had been together, as a couple, since high school. We started out as next door neighbors. Best friends since grade school. First loves. First lovers. The first time we made love we lost our virginity to one another. She was only 6 months older than me, and loved to tease me that she was the "older woman". Her parents had gone out of town, it was Valentine's Day weekend and they'd headed out for a romantic getaway, leaving us alone to our own devices. We spent most the day "playing house", pretending what life would be like when we were older and married and had a house of our own, and in the early evening, while listening to music and laying together on her bed, without even talking about what we were doing and what was happening, we kissed and we held and slowly the passion built.

Our clothes began to be removed, piece by piece, all without speaking but nervously knowing what path we were headed down. I lay down on the bed, on my back, and she lay atop me, still kissing me, always kissing me, and I was lost in the warmness of her mouth and the feeling of her tongue dancing with mine, and her legs straddled mine as my cock pressed snuggly against her. I didn't move, not knowing what to do, well, knowing what to do but I'd heard the first time could be painful for girls and in that regard I didn't know what to do but I knew I didn't want to hurt her. So I let her control the pace, let her press herself against me, slowly pushing me inside her, and I held back with all I could for being a inexperienced boy full of raging hormones. If she felt pain, she didn't let on. We moved slowly, and I could swear I held my breath for minutes, forgetting to breathe as she began to pick up the pace. After I finally exhaled and breathed back in my hips had taken on a mind of their own and began meeting her hips thrust for thrust. We never stopped kissing each other, not once, not until her body started trembling and she started panting, and she raised her head up from mine and began to moan soft little moans that turned into soft little cries that turned in a much longer, extended groan. I felt my world turn upside down and my cock exploded inside her as she milked me in her waves. Then, still buried inside her, we kissed again, and laughed and smiled and held each other so tight. It was almost perfect. Almost, but not completely, because of the fact that I still had to leave her, alone in her bed, alone in her house, since I still had a curfew to abide by with no negotiation. But I think we both realized after that day, after a day of pretending to be husband and wife in almost every sense of the word, that it might not get any better than that but then again it just might.

Early on in our relationship, before we had even started going out, I was 12 at the time I think, I had started keeping a journal on Jen's suggestion, as she had always kept one and swore by it. Initially, I used it to write down my dreams. You know, the ones that wake you in the middle of the night, the ones you always forget by morning leaving yourself cursing the fact you didn't write them down in the first place. But before long I was writing in it daily. Mostly, I wrote about Jen. Looking back, even though at the time we were just "best friends", I could read the signs that our relationship was leading up to much more. I wrote copious pages detailing our first date. Which was on Valentine's Day, of course. I was 14, and she had asked me to go with her to the "Turnabout Dance" at the high school as her date. Turnabout is the event where boys are relieved of the duty of garnering up enough courage to ask out a girl while full of nervous ticks, sweaty palms and raging hormones, and instead the tables are turned on the girls.

They had to be the ones to do the asking. And Jen asked me. I wasn't too surprised, I was technically the "easy" choice, but I was still elated. We were freshman. I remember picking her up for the dance, wearing an ill-fitting suit with mismatched tie, and when her mother opened the door and invited me in I saw her standing there in a pale blue dress that matched her eyes, her long blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail, her lips glossed in light pink, and at that moment I don't think I'd ever felt more nervous. I danced on air with her the entire evening. And then later that night we shared our first real kiss. We'd kissed before, just testing the waters in our youth, trying to figure out what the big deal was all about, but those prior kisses paled in comparison to the one we shared on her front porch that night after I'd walked her home and was about to say goodbye. That kiss was slow, tinged with nervousness, and it meant something much more. To both of us. It was a turning point. A turning point at Turnabout. I hadn't thought of it that way before.

In the journal I wrote about our first fight. Not quarrel. Every couple quarrels, mostly about silly things that if they really thought long and hard about they'd realize how silly those things were to quarrel about in the first place. I was talking about a real fight. The angry, mean, hateful type of argument that can threaten the very foundation of a relationship. Our first fight was a bad one. Our first fight also involved heavy usage of alcohol, which is an incendiary component to start off an argument with in the first place. We were at a high school party our junior year, one of those stereotypical parties at a huge home where the parents are gone but left a fully stocked liquor bar for the benefit of half the school's population. Jen and I really didn't drink often, probably more out of lack of opportunity than anything else, but that night we got wasted. No better word to describe it. And we made mistakes. In the alcohol induced haze I was stumbling around in, I found Jen in the arms of another guy. Dancing. And kissing.

Nothing really too scandalous, and I'd had my own share of dancing and kissing with others that evening, but as I stood there watching them something changed in me. Something really bad, something that I didn't much like at all came pouring forth from me and I pulled her away from the guy, pulled her outside, and not making much sense in the least I proceeded to tear her down. As it turned out, she had seen me kissing other girls that night, and she was also hurt, and she was using the other guy to take it out on me. Turnabout is fair play. And there's that word again. Funny I hadn't noticed it before. Anyway, after many angry words were exchanged, words not truly meant and subsequently apologized for over and over again, we spent the night walking through the neighborhood together. As the alcohol burned off, and we realized what we'd done, not only with others but to each other, we held each other tight with a melancholy sadness and promised we'd never fight like that again. We'd never say those kinds of things to one another. Ever again.

I kept the journal up through college, where we attended the same University (how could we stay apart?) Jen studied law, I studied economics. After graduation, hers with honors, we moved into our first apartment together. A tiny studio, in a suspect but growing area of the city, with little or no furniture to speak of like most young couples out of school. She started at a small law firm in the city, and I began work as an analyst at a financial brokerage house. Everyone was working out so well for us. And then finally, after a year of living together, on one cold February 14th - Valentine's Day, the very same day we'd celebrated for so many other significant events in our lives, I asked her to marry me. It was probably the very best day of my life up to that point. I think that one of the ways you can tell how much in love you are with someone is when you realize that every day that you spend with them has the potential to be the very best day of your life. Each day of my life with Jen always had that potential, and rarely ever disappointed. All the best days I could remember in my life included Jen. Bar none.

**********

So it was on our third anniversary that we'd decided ourselves to be sick of the crowds and the hassle of the Valentine's Day holiday, and we made the monumental move to not go out. We'd stay in and celebrate at home. I'd cook, due to the fact I loved to cook and was quite good at it, and then that allowed Jen the rare luxury of a long, hot bubble bath while I prepared the multiple course meal. It all went spectacularly well. We had soft music, good food, candlelit table... and no crowds. It was just the two of us. Now, just a couple of years later, we wouldn't ever think of doing it any other way. And this year was our fifth anniversary. I had an incredible meal planned, the ingredients bought, and was just starting the preparations when Jen came home.

"Hi, honey!" I wiped my hands clean on a washcloth and went into the living room to greet her.

"Hi. What's that smell?" She was crinkling her nose and sniffing the air. Not a positive sign.

"Um, I'm making dinner. Sautéing the garlic and mushrooms. It's our anniversary dinner, remember?"

"Oh shit. That's right." She paused for a moment, and then she shook her head. "I'm sorry Peter, I really am, but tonight I've got a boatload of work to do before tomorrow morning. It definitely needs to be finished, I wasn't given another option, and I doubt I'll even have time to take a break. I'm not even sure when I'll get a chance to sleep." She looked at me, waiting for that sympathetic nod that said 'Sure, go ahead honey, I understand...' but that nod was not forthcoming. It seemed to be the norm over the past several months now that her life revolved around her work. Of course, she was doing exceptionally well, and was moving on to better cases and higher pay, and I really couldn't knock her for that. That was her dream. But I really missed her, missed being with her, and this was our anniversary. Our five year anniversary. We were supposed to be together. Sensing my disapproval and not wanting to push things, she sighed and turned off into the den to work. But I didn't let her go. I wasn't finished. I grabbed her by the arm and pulled her around.

"Wait a minute, Jen! C'mon, you've been working non-stop for months now! I've barely gotten to see you, and I've supported you up to now. But I'm sure you can take one night off - on your anniversary no less - to spend with your husband." I was trying to keep my calm, suppress the anger and frustration I felt welling up inside me, yet at the same time defying her to argue. Given the amount of stress I already knew her to be under at work that probably wasn't the best decision.

"Don't grab me! You know how difficult it's been at work lately. We're busier than we've ever been, and until we hire more people I'm doing the work of at least three! I need to finish this work tonight. I don't have a choice. I'll make it up to you later." She pulled her arm back away from me, and turned away again to head into the den. I felt my blood boil.

"Don't bother." I put on my best sneer and glared, daggers shooting from my eyes. She turned slowly back around.

"Oh, that's really mature, Peter." She sneered right back. My hands clenched into tight fists, my fingernails digging into the flesh of my palms. Bile bubbled up from my stomach, ready to spew forth. I couldn't stop it.

"Fuck you." I knew it was a mistake as soon as the words left my mouth. I had never sworn at her. Ever. It was the absolute worst possible thing I could think of to say to her, and I had said it to her with meaning and conviction. I saw her eyes immediately begin to water, in a way I hadn't seen since that night in high school when we'd had our first fight. Now I had broken my promise I made that night. Shit. "Wait..." I wanted to explain, to apologize, to somehow take it back. But it was too late.

"Fuck yourself!" She pushed past me, not even looking at me, bolting out the front door then slamming it behind her. I stood and watched from the front window as she started the car and pulled away, speeding off into the night. The smell of burning garlic wafted through the air.

*********

I'd stayed up that night, sitting by that same window I'd watched her leave from, just waiting for her to come back home. I assumed she had gone to her mother's, since she really didn't have anywhere else to go, not that I knew of at least, but I never thought that she might be gone all night. I felt miserable. Like a fucking idiot. I wanted to call her, but didn't know what to say. Like I said, a fucking idiot. I just wanted her back home. I felt could explain everything away when she got back home. At least, I'd hoped I could.

At 4am, my eyes red and eyelids heavy, the phone rang. Thank god, I thought. She was calling me. But it wasn't Jen on the other line. It was the highway patrol. And they told me, very formally and diagnostically, that my wife had gotten into a serious car accident traveling north on Hwy 14. I realized that she must have been heading home from her mother's house at the time. The accident was very serious sir, the highway patrolman explained to me, and he was sorry to inform me that there were no survivors. He said other things, I know he did because somewhere in the back of my head I remember he talking on and on, and I also remember responding to his questions but when I think back on it I don't have a clue what they were. None of it really mattered.

Jen was dead.

*********

And just like that, she was gone from my life. At first, I didn't know what to think, or do, or say to other people. I didn't attend the funeral. Thank God her mother was there to make the arrangements. I imagine it must have been very beautiful. But I couldn't bring myself to go, to see her lying there, and to see her put down deep in the ground. It was all too new to me, too fresh in my mind, and I couldn't accept what had happened to her or my role in the events. What I did know was that she shouldn't have ever gone out that night. She should have stayed at home liked she had planned. Working. She was tired, and upset, and I pushed her out the door. Into the car. Into the void. To cope, I locked myself in, turned off the phone, never answering the door despite the doorbell ringing and the knocking of concerned family and friends, and I cried and I cried and I cried until my eyes stung and burned with the salt of my tears that eventually ran dry. And all I had left after that was the hurt.

I went out later that week, late at night in a cold winter's rain, to the cemetery where she was buried. Jen had a spot next to her father, who had died just a few years before, so I remembered the location. I looked down to see the lines criss-crossing in the freshly cut sod that lay across her grave. I had brought her a rose. She loved roses so much. They were part and parcel of the whole Valentine's Day/Anniversary festivities we shared. I had bought her five dozen for our fifth anniversary that night, and then had hidden them in our bedroom for later that evening, where she had never gotten to so had never seen them. So I brought one single rose from that group with me.

As I stood over her grave I thought again about what my life would be without her, as I had done all week. We were only in our twenties, and we had had so much life to share still in front of us. Now her life had been cut down. Just like the rose I held. It was still beautiful in death, as I'm sure she still was. But in a few more days the petals on the rose would be withered and brown, and with that thought I couldn't bear to imagine what would happen to Jen as the days wore on. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. I dropped the rose on her tombstone, and as if on cue a petal fell from bloom.

"I'm so sorry, Jen..." Those were the only words I spoke as the tears fell again from my eyes, mingling with the rain, and I turned and ran away. I went back home, and saw my journals sitting out that I had used to pour my heart and soul into all week, and suddenly I couldn't imagine writing in them ever again. I put them away forever. That chapter was finished.

*********

Three years later I met Meghan.

I wasn't looking for anyone, really. In fact, I hadn't had a serious relationship with anyone else since Jen. Couldn't fathom it. Especially around the winter holidays, when I usually holed myself inside and buried my days and nights in work trying to avoid any references to Valentine's Day, but knowing that was well nigh impossible, especially since they seemed to start the advertising machine just days after Christmas.

This was late summer though, Labor Day, sunny and warm and far removed from the winter months. I was at a co-worker's Labor Day picnic and Meghan was one of his wife's friends. I saw her first, I think. She had short brown hair with a light curliness about it, tall and lean with big dark chestnut brown eyes, and she had this great throaty laugh that caught my attention all the way from the other side of the patio. As I slowly drank my beer I watched her, with her full lips, bright smile, and animated hand movements, until she noticed me looking and before I realized I was staring right at her and could avert my eyes I saw her cock her head as if trying to place my face, and she smiled back at me and winked. It dawned on me then that I had been smiling at her too.

Without warning, as if on cue, Dan came up to me from behind, patting me on the back and handing me another beer.

"Pete, drink up. It's a party." I worked with Dan. He was closest person I had to a best friend. He was single, but unlike me had never married. Never wanted to either. He wasn't really a "player" by the typical definition, but he absolutely liked to think of himself as such. He was a funny guy, which usually won him points, but his lack of commitment always killed his relationships. And it didn't help he was so blatant in proclaiming it.

"Hey, Dan. Thanks. How are things?"

"Not bad, Petey. Not bad at all. I was walking by and noticed someone had piqued your interest over there." He motioned his head very discreetly towards the girl with the short brown hair and the throaty laugh and I blushed. I don't know why I did, but Dan picked up on it instantly.

"Why, Pete! I've never seen you turn red before!" He laughed out loud, too loud, and I turned to head back inside. He pulled me back.

"Wait, wait, wait. I'm sorry, Pete. My bad. You know her?" I shook my head. "Well, you're in luck then. I do." I looked at him suspiciously. "No, no, not that way. I never slept with her. She turned me down flat. Said something about my reputation... can you believe that? Anyway, her name is Meghan. Here, let me introduce you..."

And that's how Meghan and I met. On a holiday. But not a Hallmark holiday.

I fell in love almost instantly. Our courtship was fast and furious and intense, and we had so much in common it initially scared me. It was like we thought the same thoughts at the same times, felt the same feelings, shared the same dreams. For the first time in three years I actually felt alive again, like something inside me that had long been asleep was waking up, and black and white days turned to color. Jen was always in the back of my mind, but they were stretches of time now where I only thought of Meghan and how happy I was to have met her. And she felt the same way about me.

12