Giving Out The Password - Love Story Pt.2

I first saw Creighton across the lobby after church one Sunday.  Our congregation, on the outskirts of Washington D.C., was made up of nearly 500 single twenty and thirty-somethings- a veritable meat market. Those few minutes post meetings were golden for seizing opportunity.  At one point, I looked up to see someone coming toward me.  "Uh oh," I thought, "Here we go..."  

He was looking for directions to a meeting that night.  I cordially rattled off what I knew about the event and turned back to continue a conversation with my friend-- only to notice out of the corner of my eye that he headed directly from me to one of my roommates (he didn't know we were roommates) and proceeded to quiz her for the same directions. Neither of us took the bait. 

It couldn't have been more than one or two weeks later when we met up again at a mingle after church.  We talked for a few minutes- he suggested we get together sometime- and I smiled and responded in some non-committal way, only to be saved moments later by a friend alerting me to my departing ride.  Creighton walked me to the car and just as I was about to get in, he asked my for my number. The password...

It's funny how that is.  All is safe and well until the numbers roll out of your mouth.  In that moment, I knew I'd opened a door to something more and I hoped I wouldn't regret it.

I'd never been much of a dater in High School, beyond school dances and proms.  And during the first two years of college my calendar didn't fill in much more.  But something happened after my mission- really I could date it from the moment I arrived in D.C.-- the fishing floodgates opened- my sea was full to brimming.  My parents called one night when I was out and a roommate informed them that they had become my dating call center.  It's interesting to me that of all the boys I met there- of all the boys I gave my password to- I resisted Creighton the most. I can't recall a single second of how I met most of the others, but that moment giving Creighton my phone number and the ensuing sense of subtle trepidation is etched in my memory.  Somehow I sensed from that moment that I would either have to give him my heart, or break his.  And I didn't have a heart to give.  I hoped he wouldn't call.

He called.

We met at the front steps of the U.S. Capitol.  He had planned a perfect evening. A little music, a little food, a little wandering. The U.S. Army Navy Band was playing on the Capitol steps. We listened for a while and then made our way over to Union Station for some Italian food.  I don't remember much about the food, but I do remember the dialogue-- commiserating over shared heartbreaks, his as fresh and brutal as mine.  You might say it's a horrible thing to talk about on a first date, but somehow it worked for us.  That topic simply ushered us into more shared thoughts and ideas.  And before we knew it, we were so lost in conversation the entire restaurant had cleared out.  We took our cue and left.

It was a perfect summer night.  Walking under the street lamps back to The Capitol, I found myself asking "Is he for real?!"  We had so many common interests, I couldn't help but wonder in that moment if he was making it all up. I couldn't be sure.  We found a spot on the lawn with that massive, glowing dome before us and he proceeded to pepper me with questions about my recent experiences studying in Israel and serving a mission.  I was overflowing with tales to tell and thoughts to share - things that were very close to my heart. And he listened with rapt attention. Fully engaged. With no pretense.  There was a moment in there, after gushing on an on and on, where I stopped and looked at him and thought to myself:  "Wow. He actually cares about what I have to say. He sincerely wants to know me."  But even more than that, I had the feeling that he understood me.  There was something different about him in that respect.  Something different about his heart.  It was so soothing to mine.

But I snapped out of it quickly enough.  We took a little walk around the building and my defensive instincts perked right up inside: "I can't marry this guy.  He's just not what I'm looking for.  So nice.  So thoughtful.  But this just isn't him..."

I had a problem.  At some point when I was younger, I had created this image of the man I was going to marry- an actual, visual image of what he would look like, act like, be like.  And I clung to that image as a representation of everything I was looking for.  Anything else was off-course and confusing for me.  I ran into this problem with the boy from the first love story.  On the outside, he was nothing like the man I envisioned marrying-- and on the heels of my youth, this was perplexing for me- and the cause of much undue over-analysis and hyper-sensitivity on my part.  I just didn't want to screw things up!  You know...fate!  Destiny!  It didn't matter that I was in love with a really great person- he didn't fit the description!  What if he was the wrong person?? 

That was my problem.  And it was rearing it's insane head yet again on this lovely walk with this lovely boy named Creighton.  And it wiped out everything that had just transpired on the lawn, where I knew in my heart that there was something wonderful about this boy, too. 

We got together a couple more times before the end of the summer.  Once to go country dancing and then to a concert at the Kennedy Center.  Uncharacteristically, I called him to go dancing.  My cousin was in town and Creighton was the only person I could think of that I felt comfortable enough calling to take us to a good place to dance.  I will always remember pulling out my planner where he had written in his name and number, staring at the words and thinking "Creighton... Petrey...........Nope- doesn't ring a bell.  He's not the one."  And then I dialed his number.

He was a really good dancer.
We had a really good time.
But my mind was made up. 
He just wasn't for me. 

I finished up my work at The National Archives and moved back to Utah to finish school.  The week before classes started I got a phone call from Creighton.  He was in town for a conference on campus at BYU and was wondering if I was going-- and could I get a ticket for him.  I agreed to pick up a ticket for him and we arranged to meet at my parents' home in Salt Lake City so he could get it.  His visit lasted all of five minutes.  My dad answered the door and they met.  I gave him the ticket, put a hot cookie in his fist, and sent him on his way. (I'm ruthless.)  When the door closed, my dad smiled and said "Now there's a nice, good looking guy!"  I couldn't disagree.  There was something about the way Creighton wore a cap that day that turned my head a little, too.

But only just a very little...

Creighton and I, the summer we met. 
Washington, D.C., 1995.