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I thought I was surprising my husband with an anniversary gift. Instead, I came home early and overheard a phone call that shattered a lifetime of memories with one sentence. The worst part wasn’t what he said. It was realizing our entire love story suddenly had another version.
I married my best friend.
That’s not just something people say about us. Matthew and I were friends before we were anything else, long before either of us understood what “anything else” even meant.
I married my best friend.
Our mothers became friends when we were toddlers, and our families lived next door to each other.
Some of my earliest memories have Matthew beside me.
Preschool.
Science fairs.
Birthday parties.
He was the kid who shared his crayons when mine broke.
I was the kid who saved him a seat at lunch.
He was the kid who shared his crayons when mine broke.
When someone made fun of my oversized glasses in fourth grade, Matthew shoved the boy into the dirt.
“I don’t care if I get detention,” he muttered afterward. “Nobody gets to make you cry, Ashley.”
That was Matthew.
Protective. Patient. Steady.
Everyone adored him.
Especially me.
“Nobody gets to make you cry, Ashley.”
I wasn’t nearly as fearless.
If a teacher asked for volunteers, I stared at my desk.
If someone complimented me, I assumed they were just being nice.
My father loved me more than anything, but he had a habit of rescuing me before I ever had the chance to struggle.
If I hesitated over a decision, he made it for me.
If I doubted myself, he’d rush in with the answer.
I wasn’t nearly as fearless.
Everybody called it love.
Eventually, I called it proof.
Proof that other people trusted themselves more than they trusted me.
Then I got good at almost.
I almost ran for student council.
I almost auditioned for the school play.
I almost applied to the college I secretly wanted.
Matthew was the only person who ever noticed the pattern.
Everybody called it love.
“You always stop yourself right before something good happens,” he told me one afternoon during sophomore year.
I laughed.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He only smiled.
“Someday you’ll realize I do.”
By high school, everyone expected us to end up together.
They were right.
“Someday you’ll realize I do.”
***
One Friday night after football practice, Matthew walked me home beneath the streetlights.
“I’ve been pretending we’re just friends,” he admitted.
“So have I,” I whispered.
He kissed me before I could lose my nerve.
College only made us stronger.
The day we graduated, he got down on one knee outside the little diner where we’d spent years studying together.
“I don’t want to imagine another chapter without you,” he said. “Will you…”