Love is a funny thing and if I ever pretend to understand it I will remember this and I will know that I am lying.
I entered this story into a contest earlier this year. And it won, although I’m not really sure it deserved to.
All people appearing in the essay are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A few years ago I was invited to a birthday dinner party at a huge farmhouse in Tennessee. The farm was at the end of one of those mountain roads that winds up and up and up and when you turn a corner you have to hold your breath because you feel like you might hit another car or just go straight off the edge. A clean drop. The house itself was the kind that you would see in a magazine. Probably on the cover. Ridiculously huge, the kind you could get lost in. I walked in the door and met my boyfriend’s aunt and uncle for the first time. Less than an hour after I was introduced, his uncle called me by the wrong name. I knew right away that it wasn’t a mistake. I remember the cold feeling of distrust washing over me as I realized he really knew my name.
The dinner was for a friend of my boyfriend’s family. Everyone was at least twice our age. We ate seven layer bean dip and carrots from a huge platter. We all ate standing around the island in the kitchen. There was a lot of drinking and talking. Wine bottles everywhere. Someone was always in the process of opening another. I talked to an old man about our mutual love of coupons. I talked to a woman about her bright red boots. I didn’t really know anyone, but I was having a good time. I forgot the strange interaction with my boyfriend’s uncle. Later on, I noticed my boyfriend and his aunt in animated conversation across the marble expanse of the island. Suddenly I heard my boyfriend’s aunt ask loudly, “Yeah, do you love her?!” And then she laughed. She wouldn’t stop laughing. My boyfriend looked away from his aunt, he looked down and said “I do NOT love her.” Then he took another drink. I remember feeling petrified, and understanding that they were talking about me. I remember smiling, and I remember pretending like I didn’t care.
Shortly after we left. We were both drunk. I drove. Down, down, down the winding mountain road.