always took ourselves seriously, our gaze toward Music, Art, Love even in radio tunes, novels and movies. Raised in different limbs of the Christian church, Lutheran, Evangelical, we’d been dealt serious things from an early age and it upped the ante all around. And both firstborns, every time someone said something was important we believed them. By 18, we’d each already gathered a long list of to-do’s and a high wall of expectations: hers about the value of the present, process, beauty, relationship; mine about the planning of the future, standard, outcome, truth.
“I just don’t know what’s a challenge and what’s a sign,” I continued. “I’ve said I love him, and I do. I’m just beginning to wonder about the difference between loving someone and being in love with them. What’s the proof someone really loves you? What’s the proof you really love them?”
I had been dating Brian since my sophomore year, growing up with him in the relationship. We’d been different in the same surroundings, but now that I was going off to college and he was floating around a tech school, the differences were starting to crescendo. In high school it was fine I sang chamber music while he played guitar with a garage band—we surprised teachers as a pair, but it made us both well-rounded. Now, away from lockers and lunch periods, different pastimes meant different lifestyles. But I loved him. I said I loved him, and that carried some kind of bond.
The nature of love was one of Betsy’s specialties, the thread that bound her favorite novels—The Scarlet Letter, Tess of the D’Urbervilles, My Antonia—and the topic on which she always had an opinion. We moved to another cluster of pots and I sat on a stray concrete block in front of a wide collection of purple. The spent flowers in it were curled and wet, liable to rot rather than dry. Different risks for different species. I asked for instructions.
Betsy wiped her fingertips on her cut-off shorts and looked at my pot. Her slight frame always made the pockets on the back of her pants seem too big. I wondered if mine looked that way too. She nodded for me to do the same with these pots as the last, her wrist still rocking back over the buds, her fingers moving the leaves as if sorting it, searching for hidden huddles of petals.
“What are these called?” I started pulling the wet twists and dropping them through the plant.
“Petunias—double wave.”
We worked for a moment in a strange pause. Even in small things we weren’t quite accustomed to her owning the information and experience. She’d always known flowers, but our relationship functioned on the cogs of another machinery. Between us, I was always the one giving advice, introducing the system, functioning like a world-wise older sister. I’m not sure either of us ever wanted that, but when we met she’d walked into a group of people I already knew and the role of presenter had stuck with me and become familiar to us both. She broke the silence, speaking thoughtfully.
“I’m not sure there is a difference, between loving someone and being in love with them.”
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