Eighteen years ago I was a high school freshman. This cute boy in my drama club asked for my phone number. Shy me thought nothing of it, but my mother caught the exchange and teased me that the boy liked me. A few days later he called and we talked on the phone for three hours, until my mother told me to hang up and go to bed.
This man is now my husband. I’ve known him, been involved with him, for over half my life and his. We’ve grown, we’ve changed, we’ve fought, we’ve loved. We’ve stayed together, broken up and helped each other through some dark times.
As a romance writer I believe in young love and won’t ever forget that teenagers can and do fall in love. I have someone I can turn to and ask, “what was I really like at sixteen?” Even if I may not want the answer. I know love is universal, it grows with a person, with a couple, if they continue to work together.
But, eighteen years. It’s mind boggling. I mean, our relationship can vote, pretty cool. There’s comfort in the years, but comfort doesn’t mean settling. At least not yet. Ask me in another ten years or so.