Love in Strange Places. Anonymous

her with me, be her mom. And, despite the goofy relationship we’ve had, I, too, have grown to love you and feel as if she is your child, as well. Maybe that’s because you have, from the very start, acted like her father. Yes, I’d be most happy and proud to marry you, Luke Jameson.”

      Such a flood of relief and absolute joy wreathed his face—and mine, too. For the first time since I’d discovered I was pregnant, I knew without a grain of doubt that I had made the correct choice, finally done a complete right.

      I grinned up at him.

      A heartbeat later, Luke eased down the bed rail and carefully sat on the edge of my hospital bed.

      With a tenderness and generosity I had come to cherish in him, he wrapped his arms around me, let his adoration caress away my every hurt. Our tentative kiss soon deepened and made honeyed promises for our future ahead. We giggled and dreamed, and then tore the adoption papers into a million shreds. Hand in hand, we ambled toward the nursery to say hello to “our” baby daughter. . . .

      I cannot describe the sheer, sweet fulfillment that holding her close and touching her tiny features gave me that first time. I doubt any mother could. I only know that it was the single greatest blessing of my existence, and ultimately became worth every trauma and emotion I’d wrestled with.

      Although marrying Luke, keeping my baby, and moving to Michigan was my saving grace, I know that it would not have worked for every teenage mother. Not every man is as forgiving and compassionate as my husband is; not every man is as devoted and good. Nonetheless, through perseverance, dedication, and unselfish love, Luke and I have forged a strong, lyrical union. Our daughter, Sabrina, is at its center, the sunshine of our lives.

      We’ve been married three years now and have recently moved into a little brick bungalow on the outskirts of Lansing. Luke’s family members are regular guests and they are enchanted by their granddaughter. Even my parents have yielded and visit on occasion. Ours is a bountiful life.

      In a few weeks, on my twenty-first birthday, Luke and I are leaving Sabrina with his folks while we spend our honeymoon in Aruba. There, if my good luck prevails, I should be able to come by his twenty-ninth birthday gift—we are hoping for a boy this time. Not that it really matters; we just want another beautiful collaboration to love and cherish. THE END

THE LADY-KILLER AND THE MAN-EATER

       They were the perfect match—if they could only stand the heat!

      Brendan and I split up—again—two days before the auditions for Oklahoma at Heaven’s Hollow Community Theatre. I’d been trying to terminate this relationship for the past three weeks, but he kept pleading with me to continue going out with him, and I kept stupidly agreeing. This latest get-it-over-with conversation was not the most scintillating discussion I’ve ever had.

      Let’s be honest: It was trite.

      “Belinda, what’s with you? We’ve been dating for two months. I didn’t even know there was anything wrong and you turn around and dump me just in time for auditions for a show bound to have lots of guys in it. What’s the matter?”

      “Brendan. We have never been exclusive. We went out. We had a good time. I’m not ready for anything else. We’ve been in the process of breaking up for three weeks now. Get a grip.”

      “Please, Belinda. Just one more chance? Have I done something wrong?”

      “No. Look, I’m just not great at long-term.”

      I looked at his miserable face and relented, slightly.

      “I mean, it’s not like we’re never going to see each other again. You know Corky’s gonna cast you in the show. We’ll be at rehearsals together. Okay?”

      I knew it wasn’t going anywhere. Brendan was a wimp who let me do anything I pleased. There’s something about a man begging that’s a serious turnoff for me.

      I’m not proud of what is undoubtedly a lacking in my character, but I find weak men boring. Neanderthal Man isn’t my ideal, either, but I at least want someone who won’t give in on every issue with me. After all, I’m not right all of the time, much as I might pretend to be!

      And so, Brendan joined the list of last year’s castoffs, which included Jeremy, Todd, Fenton, and Rick.

      Jeremy: Mr. “Marry me, Belinda, or we’re through.”

      “I don’t think so, Jeremy—I’ve known you for a whopping two weeks.”

      Todd: “My mother’s not going to be pleased with me dating a dancer.”

      “Fine, Todd. Date your mother.”

      Fenton: “But, Belinda, the enormity of this issue is life shattering! This legislation has to pass! By the way, I don’t think Chow and Chat is the best restaurant to be eating at. Didn’t I see a report on Channel 7 about them? No, wait—that was the report Fox News did about the congressman who’s in league with the meat packing industry.”

      “Aargh! Enough with the politics and debates, Fenton! Let’s have one evening that doesn’t resemble a documentary or a commentary!”

      Rick: “Why do you laugh, Belinda? What’s so funny about a man dressed up as a shark ringing apartment doors and hissing, ‘Land Shark’ at the people inside?”

      “Rick, Rick, you gorgeous, blond, steely-blue-eyed, muscles-to-rival-Arnold, stud muffin. Why do you possess not an ounce of humor, along with not an ounce of fat? Does one cancel out the other? How can you watch originals of Saturday Night Live with Bill Murray, Chevy Chase, et al and not crack a smile? ‘Bye, Rick.”

      Now, it actually felt nice to be unattached. I figured I might stay in that state for a while, actually.

      At least a day or two longer.

      As I sat waiting my turn to sing at the auditions, though, I found that I was musing about Rick, wondering if the old I Love Lucy tapes my mom had made the week she had insomnia might help him learn how to smile. Imagining his mouth muscles twitching as much as his biceps was making me a little weak in the knees. Alas, my daydreams were rudely interrupted by the heated conversation coming from a couple standing in the aisle two rows down from me.

      She was a knockout. The kind of face and body I’ve always wanted—and would never have without ten years of plastic surgery and implants and a meat cleaver. Maybe five-one, with perfect blond curls, crystal blue eyes, a turned-up nose—she was a porcelain doll. My exact opposite. I’m five-nine, with straight brown hair and hazel eyes, and a jazz dancer’s body—basically, straight up and down.

      The man she was arguing with reminded me a lot of my Irish setter, named Kooky for obvious reasons. He—the man, not the dog—looked familiar. He was well over six feet tall, with arms and legs that looked like they weren’t following where the rest of the body was leading. He had light brown hair and freckles splattered over a crooked nose. He was wearing an obnoxiously loud, yellow, Hawaiian-print shirt that clashed with his hair, faded jeans, and tan Hush Puppies with holes in the toes. The man’s sense of style was apparently rooted in comfort.

      He and the mannequin were arguing. At least, she was. He didn’t even really appear to be listening to her. The attitude between them was, to one who’d been there, that of breaker with breakee at the beginning of the breakup. He was definitely the breaker. Her whole posture oozed: I’ll do anything for you. As her voice grew louder, I quickly realized that all of my observations had been correct.

      “Finn! This is just not fair! We’ve been seeing each other for two months