by C. N. Garraway
Love can be a fairytale, a romance from a movie, or a reality far more complex. Some believe in love at first sight. Many dream of the perfect love—the kind that envelops you like a hurricane tearing through a town, devouring everything in its path. Women often search for love at every turn in their lives, hoping for the man of their dreams to sweep them off their feet. But does love like that really exist?
I sat on a bench in the park, scanning my surroundings. My eyes landed on an elderly couple. They sat half-turned toward each other, hands entwined, engaged in quiet conversation. The elderly gentleman leaned in, whispering something in his wife’s ear. She let out a heartfelt chuckle, and then they shared a kiss.
Could love be that pure? That everlasting? If so, why does it seem so rare? Why don’t more people share stories of that kind of love? Could young lovers really grow old together, like that couple on the park bench? Is there a difference between being in love and actually loving someone? Those were the questions I asked myself the first time I saw Randal Arlington.
He was in the parking lot of the new IHOP in Hamilton, New Jersey, off Route 33, sitting on his Harley-Davidson Softail and talking on his cell phone. He spoke sincerely—probably to his mother, I thought. Then he looked my way. Our eyes locked. My breath caught. He smiled briefly, then returned to his call.
I couldn’t look away. I was mesmerized. I’d never been the kind of girl who fell in love easily—or at all. Up until that point, I hadn’t believed in love. To me, it was just a word thrown around so often it had lost all meaning. Love was for children.
My father told my mother he loved her every day—right before or after he hit her. He told me he loved me, too—while his hand collided with my face. So really, what is love?
Is it something we say just to make the other person feel good? I think so. All the guys I dated told me they loved me. When I asked why, they couldn’t give me a real answer. I think they just wanted sex. Right after they said those three words, they’d start feeling me up. So, no—it’s no wonder I didn’t believe in love. It didn’t seem real to me.
But the autumn of 2011 changed everything. I fell in love for the first time. It was a feeling I couldn’t quite explain. My heart would race like a bass drum, then slow to a trickle, like a leaky faucet. I had always dreamed of a man loving me the way I wanted to love him—completely. It felt like the kind of love you see in movies or TV shows, the kind that lives in the space between dreams and desire. It scared me.
One morning, Randal walked into the kitchen of my mother’s house and dropped into a chair, his photography equipment clattering beside him. He huffed, clashing his hands together as he leaned forward. I paused mid-spoonful of Honey Nut Cheerios.
“I’m leaving,” Randal blurted out, leaning back in the chair.
I froze. Leaving? Was he breaking up with me?
“Where to?” I asked carefully.
“London. I want to study photography there.”
“London?” I stood, accidentally knocking over my chair.
“Calm down. I’ll be back in a year.”
“Are you breaking up with me?” My breathing picked up. How could he leave me after making me fall in love with him?
“Yes… and no.”
“What the heck does that mean? You’re just throwing away everything we have?”
“I’ve got plans.”
“What about us?” I crossed my arms, holding back tears. I wouldn’t let him see me cry. I loved him, but I needed to keep my dignity. I wouldn’t be that girl—sobbing, screaming, begging him to stay. I couldn’t.
“What do you mean, ‘what about us’?” he snapped.
“Our love.” My eyes burned, but I refused to let the tears fall. He couldn’t see how much I was hurting. I had given him something I’d never given anyone else—trust. I don’t trust anyone but my mother. And I trusted him. I took a chance by opening my heart.
“We’re too young. We both have our whole lives ahead of us. Dreams. We can’t throw that away.”
“We don’t have to. Do you love me?”
“Of course, I love you, Nancy. But don’t you think we’re giving up too much to be together?”
“Who says we’re giving up anything? But if you want to leave, I won’t stop you. I love you, and because I love you, I’ll let you live your life.”
Randal shook his head repeatedly, then looked up at me—his eyes filled with tears. That’s when my floodgates broke. I couldn’t stop the tears. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t understand why he was leaving. He said it was to chase his dream, but why didn’t he ask me to come with him?
“I didn’t know you loved me. You’ve never said it,” he whispered, wiping his eyes. “You’re so guarded sometimes… I didn’t think it would matter to you if I left. I didn’t think you felt the same way I did.”
“Well, I do. I love you, Randal. I don’t want you to go, but I won’t stand in your way. We’re young. The world is full of opportunities. If we’re meant to be, you’ll come back to me.”
He stood and walked over to me. He reached out and caressed my face. I closed my eyes. My body flushed hot, then cold. I felt like a cloud releasing rain—weightless and full. I was high on him. Then he kissed me, and I kissed him back like I would drown if I didn’t.
“Come with me,” he said softly as he pulled away.
“Is that what you want?” I asked, searching his eyes.
“Yes. Because now I know you love me. Do you want to come?”
“Yes. I’ll come. Maybe I can get one of those fashion designers to look at my portfolio.”
“That would be amazing. We can start our lives there. Our careers. We can grow—together.”
Randal picked up his photography equipment, and we stepped out onto the back patio. The air was cool, the sun high, birds singing, trees swaying. It felt refreshing. While he set up his camera, I sat at the table. When he finished, he walked over to the rosebush near the door and picked a single rose.
He joined me at the table, leaning in close. I mirrored him, raising my arms and resting my face on them. He held the rose to our noses. Just as I inhaled its scent, a gust of wind swept through my hair. I closed my eyes, a calm washing over me as our cheeks touched. The camera snapped—a captured moment in time.
Randal and I left for London soon after that photo was taken, each chasing our dreams. He submitted the photo to a contest—and won. It was displayed in a gallery. He called it:
“The Autumn of Love.”
C. N. Garraway 
Leave a comment