Holding Hands to Konstantine

"I just lip-raped your roommate."

That is not what you want to hear the girl of your dreams tell you on a hot July night.

It was freshman year of college and I was on top of the world. Two months out of high school and I was in Provo, Utah, surrounded by more beautiful women than my phone contact list could hold. But one stood out: Anna Hawkins. I met her standing in line at Brigham Young University's Cannon Center Sunday afternoon and she blew me away. Her dyed pixie hair bespoke her rejection of cultural norms and the fact that she played bass in a band called Origami Freeway just made her cooler. She was not your average Mormon girl.  Plus, she loved Something Corporate, one of my favorite bands. I was pretty sure I knew how everything was going to play out. We become fast friends, I'd serve a mission and she'd write me faithfully, and afterwards, we'd go to the temple and be sealed as husband and wife for ever, roll credits.

                          

In chucks, there is love. 

As the youngest of my parents' nine kids--all of whom went to BYU as well--I'd read the script enough to know how these things worked. After all, each of my siblings had gone off to the Y and fallen in love with wonderful people who were now their respective spouses.

The only problem was that while Anna was the first girl to catch my eye, the first guy to catch her eye was my roommate. And she was as hopelessly in love with him as I was twitterpaited for her. And the thing that drove me nuts was he had zero interest in her. It was just like that time when the kid who didn't like pizza won the pizza party in 4th grade. What a waste.

So we all chased each other. I'd call her to do something and she'd say "Sure thing, invite your roommate!" Balls. And we'd all hang out and I'd try to build a relationship with her and she kept pairing off with my roommate. We were all good friends and even had a band--or the idea of one--for a little while. They were both my best friends. I felt like Ron Weasley in Book IV.

One night, I got a call from Anna. Her and my roomie had been off on their own. I answered and was immediately greeted with "I just lip-raped your roommate." There must have been a burning orphanage nearby, because I found myself getting uncomfortable and hot and angry. With a few more details, I pieced together that she had gone to drop him off and finally moved in and kissed him. And without reacting in any way, he had turned and gone inside.

She was hurt, she was rejected. She needed a friendly shoulder, so she turned to friend-zoned Nate. In hindsight, I'm flattered. In the moment, I was anguished. That was supposed to be my kiss! I think I kept my replies somewhere between pissy and consolatory.

Life went on. Me and my roommate went on missions. Anna traveled the world making costumes for BYU's Young Ambassadors. Although I was thoroughly friend-zoned, she kept her promise to me and wrote me a couple of letters soaked in perfume to show my companion I had game. We kept the friendship going. She even admitted she really had feelings for me once after I got home...only to explain a few days later "I think I just really missed you. But, friends?"  

A few years down the road, we both wound up back in Provo and it so happened, Something Corporate was playing in Salt Lake City. Their last show in Utah of their last tour. Ever. We HAD to go. Besides, girl+boy+going to an event. It was, like, a date. We spent the day on the roof of the library and visiting an LGBT thrift shop, where we tried on butch vests and leather pants.    

                

That night, deep in The Depot in downtown SLC, we sweated and screamed along with Andrew MacMahon and his boys. It was everything a concert was supposed to be. New friends, our favorite band, loud music, and a beautiful girl next to me, a girl who I'd been building up feelings for for five years.    

And then, they played Konstantine. Anna's favorite song. Heck, this was SoCo's song. The one the die-hard fans used to distinguish themselves from the fans who became fans after the band was big.



And she grabbed my hand and held it.

Fingers entwined and everything. We stood in sweaty awe of Andrew playing his piano and blissed out, and I took in the lights, the sounds, and the feel of her fingers in mine.

When the concert ended, we ran down the street, ecstatic in post-rock glory. And we screamed in overload. And we sang out songs for Salt Lake. And we bought a gallon of water and took turns chugging it on the way to my car.

And you know what? It was enough. Years of wanting to hold her, kiss her, share life and a last name, and after all that angsty college love, holding hands to Konstantine was enough.

It's been four years since the concert. I stood in line and cheered when Anna and her awesome husband made their honeymoon getaway. I went to their homewarming party and stood around awkwardly. And it was fine.

       

                                                                 That's me with the arm. 

 Eight years after I met this cute punk-rock girl from Reno, we're still friends. We went on Space Mountain together last week, and shared a Monte Cristo sandwich and complained about calories. And we were happy. Not every relationship has to be a romance.

I come from a culture of true love and romantic happily-ever-afters. The stories of how my grandfather romanced my grandmother, how my dad wooed my mom, and how my bevy of brothers and sisters ended up with their mates would make even the hardest heart soften and swoon. I had been taught to head West and find The One. With all that, I thought I needed a soulmate. And I'm sure she's out there somewhere. But along the way, I made fast friends with a girl who's exactly what I need: a buddy.

In Anna, I found a true friend.

                           
And that is wonderful.