The Story of Us: Part I (aka “All the Write Moves”)

A little more than eight years ago, I started dating a great guy … and we lived happily ever after.

But that’s not where the story ends – or begins.

Reading the story of how a big-city girl became the Pioneer Woman got me inspired to write my own saga of how Lois Lane became a not-so-Desperate Housewife. Besides, it will give Collin something to read someday and think, “Wow … my parents are really … lame.”

Furthermore, this serves as a perfect test to see whether my dear husband actually reads my blog. Since he isn’t around to, uh, dispute anything I write, I guess I can say whatever I want and paint myself to be the hero/victim/damsel in distress.

No, no. I’m going to tell it like it is – the good, the bad, (the drunk) and the ugly.

So here we go …

This perfectly imperfect love story starts in the fall of 1996 in the hallowed classrooms of Clover Park High School. I was madly in love with Dean Cain. Chris was madly in love with the Seattle Sonics. He had black Nike shoes and I was a size four. Simpler times and all.

My desire to be Lois Lane started at age 12 and only intensified when I bet out several ninth-graders to be named editor of my junior-high newspaper, The Arrow. Ah, power. I had every intention of making my rein two terms when the school district announced that the high schools were going to become four-year institutions the following year. In short, the eighth-graders were getting screwed. We’d never get to rule the school. We were about to be lowly freshmen -- the scum in the pond of high school. I was horrified.

And then I saw the course catalog – and once again, all was right with the world. Under the English header were 10 beautiful letters:
J-o-u-r-n-a-l-i-s-m.

But following the description was a proverbial bitch-slap: grades 11-12; those in grade 10 must have instructor approval.

Wait, where was grade nine?!

Well, anyone who knows anything about Lois Lane knows that she never gives up – and I wasn’t going down without a fight. I got letters of recommendation from The Arrow’s advisor and another teacher and submitted them with my course-schedule form – a form that had Journalism 1 written down as my top elective. French was bien and all, but it just couldn’t compete.

I ended up lucking out – being in the gifted program in seventh and eighth grade exempted me from taking the mandatory-for-ninth-graders Pacific Northwest History, and I suddenly had room for an extra class.

And that is how I became the first freshman in school history to be on the “esteemed” staff of the Clover Leaves.

But don’t let the bravado fool you – I was scared to death. So much that I didn’t say a word the first few days of class aside from introducing myself when we went around the room. Yes, it’s true – there was a time when I was virtually silent. I figured if I kept my head down, no one would know I was *the* freshman.

What happened next should have been a dead giveaway: Late in the first week, I asked the guy next to me to borrow a pencil so I could get ahead on my math homework during our free time in class.

I’m sure he had no idea that eight years after the pencil would come a marriage proposal. I certainly didn’t.

After all, as the first quarter progressed, I developed crushes on several of the upperclassmen in the class – Jon, Jeremy, Jesse and Jeff, to be specific. Most important was Jesse, who was the editor, a senior and (sporadic acne aside) the closest thing to Clark Kent in Room 212. Note that nowhere on that list was Chris.

Sure, he was cute – and had a cache of freshly sharpened No. 2 pencils – but oh. my. god. All Chris talked about was sports – and the only sport I was interested in was marathon shopping. And even though my love affair with Nordstrom was more of a developing attraction back then, I had no doubt that a wardrobe that consisted entirely of Sonics, Seahawks and Mariners shirts (and black Nike sneakers; gag) was just. not. acceptable.

Shallow much? Of course – I was 14. What do you expect?

But here’s the thing – unlike 98 percent of the kids in our class (including the guy who thought journalism meant writing in journals every day), Chris actually wanted to be a journalist. To him, sixth period wasn’t just the hour before school was out. He took it as seriously as I did.

Hmm. Lois didn’t like Clark at first, either.

And then there was the fact that Chris was nice. Really nice. Most of the upperclassmen on the staff were hellbent on putting me in my place, and the fact that I could write circles around the vast majority of them didn't go over too well. But he didn't seem threatened -- if anything, he appeared to be impressed.

Enter February – and Tolo, the annual dance where girls invite boys (often leading to awkwardness and drama).

And to everyone’s surprise, my top choice for a date didn’t start with a J.

It started with a C.

To be continued . . .

The Story of Us: Part II (aka "That's what couples do")

To quote a certain infamous interview, no, THAT did not happen.

But plenty of other things did.

Again, no. Come on, people, I was 14.

And in typical 14-year-old fashion, when it came time to find a date to tolo, I took the mature approach -- I begged a friend to ask the guy for me while I basically hid in the corner.

Apparently, the invitation caught Chris off guard, because he wasn't initially sure which of the two Jennifers in our journalism class was asking. Once he figured out it was the freshman who could write and not the junior who not only couldn't write but also was married, he said yes. HE SAID YES.

So he took me out, fed me chocolate cake, and I slammed a door in his face at the end of the night.

Wait ... no, that was Lois and Clark.

But I won't lie and say that the show didn't give me some preconcieved notions about how a date would be. After all, who wouldn't want to be romanced Metropolis style? But was this a date?

Well, not according to my mom, who drove me over to school that Saturday night before Valentine's Day, and apparently not according to Chris' dad, who met him at the door afterward. I'm still not exactly sure what they thought would happen if we were alone for more than two seconds, but I have a feeling I'll figure it out in 14 or 15 years, when Collin is the one talking about school dances.

Still, amid the uh, lavish surroundings of the Clover Park High School cafeteria, a high-school romance was born. When I arrived, Chris was already there, and I was so nervous that I couldn't even talk to him. Sure, I had danced with boys before, but this was different. He was my exclusive dance partner for the night. You know, my date. And I was wearing perfume and heels.

And there was my date, dressed up (as much as a 17-year-old boy dresses up for a school dance), in a short-sleeved, button-down patterned shirt, jeans and his ever-present black Nikes, standing near the student store, waiting for me.

Oh. my. god. That smile. I'm surprised I didn't melt.

In an attempt more to break the ice than to prove he had game, Chris asked me to dance. And not surprisingly, at first, we were so far apart that you could have parked a car between us. In my defense, Offspring's "Come Out and Play" is hardly the first song that comes to mind when thinking about getting down on the dance floor.

Still, it's the first song I ever danced to with my husband.

The next song was a slower R&B number, and with our drive-a-Honda-between-us tactic looking even more awkward, Alyssa, a savvy senior also on the newspaper staff, stepped in -- more specifically danced in -- to assist us. And suddenly, we found ourselves dancing close ... very close. So close, in fact, that I was still limping on Monday morning from the thirteen times he stepped on my feet.

Yes, I still remember how many times -- and so does Chris, given that I apparently held it over his head for years.

We danced most of the night -- only with each other -- and there was no denying the attraction between us. I found myself surprisingly comfortable around him -- talking and laughing as if I hadn't spent the ride over to the school contemplating jumping out of the car.

Had I found my Clark Kent?

I didn't have time to ponder this startling thought for long, though, because my friend Sarah came over, upset that she had lost her earring somewhere on the dance floor. Chris and I offered to help her look for it, and as we walked the perimeter of the cafeteria, I slipped my hand into his.

He looked at me, startled.

"We should hold hands," I said, "because that's what couples do."

Ahhh, something for him to hold over my head for the next fifty years.

To this day, I have no idea what possessed me to say that, but he clearly didn't mind, because our hands remained intertwined for the rest of the dance, all the way to the door, where we shared a hug before he walked away into the night.

I couldn't stop smiling -- but it didn't last long.

When Monday rolled around, I had no idea what the hell to do, save for a quick greeting as I took my seat in journalism. I liked him -- really liked him -- but I was scared to death. It's not like Lois had ever dealt with this -- she had Superman chasing after her. And making matters worse, when Chris casually suggested seeing a movie, I had to explain that hell was more likely to freeze over than my mom was to let me go.

To her, it was simple parental mathematics: 14-year-old girl +
17-year-old boy + dark theater = absolutely not.

To me, it was the breeding ground for utter mortification.

Had I blown it? And if I had, could I get away with blaming my mom for the rest of my life?

A few weeks after our enchanted evening -- and the ensuing awkwardness -- Chris came over to me in P.E. class and explained that he was planning to ask me to prom.

Prom? So I hadn't completely blown it?

But, he continued, he couldn't.

"I'm moving," he said.

To be continued ...

The Story of Us: Part III (aka “The Dock of Shame”)

Chris was gone – and I didn’t care.

Or, at least, that’s what I tried to tell myself.

It shouldn’t have mattered. He wasn’t my boyfriend or anything. There were other boys to subtly stare at during journalism – and even better, other boys to hold hands with on the way to the mall during a half day when I was late leaving school and didn’t want to walk over alone to meet my friends. (Scandalously, the guy with was in our Tolo photos with his date.)

It didn’t feel natural – not like it did on that February night.

But I needed to move on.

Chris was gone …

… or so I thought.

Six weeks later, I walked into the gym, and there he was, stretching against the wall as if he had never left.

I was floored – absolutely speechless.

Turns out his transfer to another local school didn’t work out, and he was back to run the mile, reclaim his place on The Clover Leaves’ staff – and ask me to prom.

Or would he? Had he changed his mind during our time apart? Out of sight, out of mind?

I decided to play it cool – be friendly, but not needy. I didn’t want him thinking his departure had affected me on any level.

But on a rainy afternoon not long after Chris’ return, I looked up from my stereotyping editorial to see him standing next to my desk.

He cleared his throat …

... opened his mouth …

... and the fire alarm went off.

Maybe it was the gods’ attempt to warn us of what was to come, but as soon as the fire drill was over, he nervously asked, and I nervously accepted.

I was going to prom.

With Chris.

Oh God.

But I didn’t have time to ponder the possibility of being likely the only freshman on the boat, because there was far, far more awkwardness to come.

Like how we would be getting there – or more specifically, how mortified I was that my mom was going to be driving me to the prom. I wasn’t exactly surprised, but it also wasn’t the ultra-sophisticated, Sweet Valley High-style scenario I had dreamt of, where Todd whisked Elizabeth away in a black limo.

But there was no reasoning with my mom, so I sought out a way to make the situation slightly more bearable. Melynda, a junior from our journalism class, and her friend Shanna, an annoying girl from P.E. who liked to watch Chris run – and not in admiration of his mile time, either – were going stag, and we decided that they would come to my house first and we would all ride together.

Then there was the touchy issue of finances. My mom was willing to pay for my dress and loan me her a solitaire-diamond necklace, but prom tickets were $35, and when you’re in high school, that’s a lot of money. You couldn’t really even make that on a Friday night babysitting. Chris had asked me to be his date, but how exactly was he interpreting the word date?

Well, one thing you should know about Chris is that back then, sports were his first love. So it should have come as no surprise whatsoever that he bought his prom ticket, a new baseball glove … and had no money left.

He didn’t actually tell me that I was on the hook for the ticket; more like danced around the issue entirely. I finally enlisted my sister, who also had P.E. at the same time, to ask him – and even though I had no clue about prom protocol, I wasn’t pleased when she reported back about his trip to The Sports Authority.

I’d never offered to pay for his Tolo ticket – but it was only $5. Still, had I set a precedent?

And more importantly, where the hell was I going to come up with $35?

Unfortunately, I was raised in a family where money was earned. I normally didn't mind working for extra money (case in point: my lucrative little venture the summer of '95, when my mom hired me to mow the lawn every weekend and even paid me the time I mulched one of her patio rugs), but this was different.

My mom said she would give me the money – if I dug her a mini-ditch for a pole for her new clothesline.

It was a big.freakin.hole.

Well, never let it be said that I lack initiative, because after school, out to the backyard I went, shovel in hand. And I think it was about 15 years before I came back in the house. I'm not sure if I am a) weak; b) extremely slow, no thanks to my frequent stopping to rewind/fast forward on my Walkman; c) naive to think a huge hole would take less than an hour to dig; or d) all of the above, but seriously, dinner was ready and I was still out there, digging away.

By the time I was done, I was ready to beat my mom with the shovel if she commented one more time about the smell of “summer fresh” sheets. Well, if I'd had any energy left.

Luckily, the blisters healed by prom night, and there we were on the night of June 6, 1997, headed to downtown Tacoma to board the Argosy Cruise – one nervous freshman in a forest-green satin dress and black sandals with a heel high enough to not look like a little kid but low enough that I could still walk, and two extras from a Cyndi Lauper video. I’m not sure what issue of Seventeen Prom those two read, but I am betting it was one from before I could do long division.

At least I wouldn’t be competing with them for Chris’ attention.

If he ever arrived, that is.

My mom and my godmother hung around just long enough to annoy me, but fortunately not long enough to meet Chris, like they were hoping to.

Where was he?

The question was weighing on me – and not doing much for my mood, especially since I refused to wear a coat and early June nights in Washington aren’t exactly cause to turn on the air conditioning.

Oh no. I had NOT put on an extremely uncomfortable strapless bra and dug that hole to get stood up.

By the time Chris sauntered down the gangplank with a friend and his date (who apparently drove them there in his truck with no license after a fine-dining experience at Denny’s, which I found out about later), the boat was close to departing – and, knowing how anal I am about, well, everything, he should have known that he was dead man walking.

A hot dead man walking, in a black tuxedo with a green cummerbund that matched my dress, but a dead man walking, no less.

I told him that he looked nice … and he didn’t reply. I don’t know if he was nervous, or he didn’t hear me, but I was furious, and the evening went downhill from there.

He brought me a beautiful corsage – but it was the wrong color.

We had discussed white – and this was red, and therefore didn’t match the white boutonniere I had, in a panic, sent my mom out to get that morning. Never mind that both matched the “Sea of Roses” decor nicely.

He brought me a plate of food – but it had too many strawberries on it. I like my cantaloupe.

He was cordial as ever, chatting with everyone in our group – but he talked to Shanna and Melynda a little too much for my personal preference. And in fairness to him, I’m sure he would say that I used the group setting to avoid being alone with him. I had no problem with someone sitting between us. What can I say; I was fourteen.

We took the requisite pictures, and shared one slow dance, but things were getting rockier with each passing hour – and it wasn’t just the current on Puget Sound.

It all came to a head when he finally got me alone for a moment.

We sat down and he leaned in close.

Was he about to … ?!?

“I was wondering,” he said in a low voice, “if you wanted to have a serious relationship?”

WHAT?!?!

I was panicked enough at the idea of a kiss, and now he wanted to actually DATE me?!

So I said the first logical thing that came to mind.

“With Dean Cain.”

True? Yes.

Bitchy? Absolutely.

Chris recoiled.

I stood up and fled to the bathroom.

And that was that.

When the boat docked, I walked out into the chilly darkness alone, pissed off … and stumbled going up the gangplank.

An older woman steadied me, warning me to, “be careful, dear.”

Talk about adding insult to injury.

As the car pulled out of the parking lot, I heard myself trying to inject some enthusiasm into my voice as I answered my mom’s questions. It was a lot of fun. Of course we danced. Yes, Chris looked handsome.

Chris.

What had I done?

The entire ride home – and for the rest of the night – our conversation replayed in my mind like a No. 1 song that you hate but can’t escape every time you turn on the radio. I felt that my answer was totally justified, given that he had put me on the spot. The entire debacle was his fault.

But at the same time, I knew that I was lying to myself.

Regardless, it was over. So over.

And I’d never have to see him again.

Until Monday, that is …

To be continued …

The Story of Us: Part IV (aka “Notes On a Scandal”)

Hello, awkwardness.

One advantage of being the only freshman on a newspaper staff of upperclassmen was that I didn’t have to deal with any of them until the end of the day – and none of my other friends knew what happened aboard the cruise to hell. I could conjugate French verbs and perfect the art of the thesis paragraph in peace.

And then came sixth period, and I had to face what I had done – and the guy I had done it to.

If Lois and Clark could keep the peace in The Planet’s newsroom during their rocky periods, Chris and I certainly could stay professional in Room 214. After all, it wasn’t like we had broken up – we were never technically together, right?

I tried to pretend that Tolo never happened. That we didn’t dance all night. That we didn’t hold hands in the darkness.

“That’s what couples do.”

Easier said than done.

To his credit, Chris didn’t say much about what had transpired at the prom. I don’t know if he was stunned, embarrassed or angry – or maybe all three – so we kept a polite distance as we worked on The Clover Leaves’ senior issue. I had a front-page story – and renewed confidence that I was in this to become an award-winning journalist, not someone’s girlfriend.

Regardless, that didn’t stop everyone else from talking about the state of our relationship. Even high-school journalists have an insatiable desire to be up in everyone’s business and report every salacious detail.

And for the first time in my school-going life, I couldn’t wait for the year to end.

But it wasn’t over yet.

Before I get into this, I should explain that at our high school, there were three P.E. classes going on at the same time each period, and each class spent a third of the semester in the pool and two thirds in the gym. I was in the first of the third-period classes to swim, so, in theory, I should have been rid of Chris not long after prom. Well, unfortunately, his previous high school in Everett did not require swimming, so he got to join the incoming class when his headed off to the pool.

Stupid Snohomish County.

But Chris’ presence ended up being the least of my problems.

Enter Alythya.

(I want to take a moment to say that at one point I thought about changing names to protect the innocent parties in this story … and then realized there are none.)

Alythya was a year ahead of me and a year behind Chris, and our families went to the same church. I didn’t know her well – we went to different junior highs – but she came across as friendly but quiet – maybe even a little shy.

Boy, was I wrong. When Alythya wanted something, she made no secret of it.

And her hair wasn’t even dry from the pool when she decided she wanted Chris.

Imagine his surprise to go from someone who said she would rather date Superman than him to someone who was brazen enough to attempt to peek down his shorts during P.E. and then announce, “impressive.” I almost wish I had witnessed this, if for nothing else but to see the look on his face. Years later, he still looks slightly horrified when it’s mentioned. Oh, the things you miss while working on your mile time.

Still, there’s something to be said for normalcy (even if it comes with a side of bitchiness), because before long, there was Chris, hitting tennis balls to me and acting as if prom hadn’t been as successful as the Titanic’s maiden voyage. I think the remote location of the tennis court appealed far more than the prospect of me as a doubles partner, but nevertheless, it was clear he had no interest in Alythya being anywhere near his balls – tennis or otherwise.

I felt oddly satisfied. Had I won? Had I ruined him for other women?

Turns out my smugness wasn’t so far off.

A few days later, he handed me a folded note as I headed into French class.

Ahh, the note. Anyone who remembers high school knows that at least 90 percent of the time, a note leads to no good. And this was no exception.

Admittedly, I don’t remember exactly what his carefully-penned prose said, but when I asked Chris for clarification a couple nights ago (while he was brushing his teeth, no less), he said he was testing the waters – and, if nothing else, hoping that we could at least be friends.

All I remember is that I was furious. I didn’t want Chris, and while I didn’t want him wanting anyone else, I certainly didn’t want him wanting me.

So I replied. And I mean replied.

Two days later, I was handed another note – more tersely this time – that addressed what he felt were baseless accusations. No, he said, he was not trying to usurp the incoming editor; he merely would talk to our adviser about ways to make the paper better. No, he wasn’t only interested in sports, and, in fact, felt that watching grass grow was more interesting than tennis.

And, as I had suspected, he didn’t like Alythya, and that her attention made him uncomfortable – but not for the reason I had expected. He wasn’t interested in her because he was still interested in me. He hoped we could be friends, but that since that didn’t seem realistic at this point, that we could at least not have any animosity toward each other. In his eyes, I wasn’t “just another freshman,” which I admit gave me pause. I had fought so had to establish a name for myself on the Clover Leaves staff, and, as much as I didn’t want to admit it, his approval meant something. After all, he had journalistic legitimacy – or at least as much as you can have when you’re not even old enough to vote.

And, ever classy, he wished me well on swim team the following year, and added that I should smile more because I have beautiful teeth. (As an adult, I admit this is one of the best compliments I have ever received. It’s nice to know someone noticed how seriously I take my oral health.)

I vacillated between being touched and being livid, and, being a typical hormonal teenager, the latter won out. I couldn’t believe he had the audacity to insult tennis (not that I played) or to try and convince me that he hadn’t hatched some nefarious plot to steal the editor position out from under its heir apparent, who, in the wake of Promgate, had reclaimed the title of my No. 1 crush.

My lack of response was a low blow – but Chris dealt me one right back.

Within a week, he walked into the gym, ready to run, in the same shirt … same shorts … and holding hands with Shanna.

I’m pretty sure my heart stopped beating.

Talk about playing dirty. He knew I didn’t like Shanna, and he knew I would be ballistic.

And I was. I think I dropped about 10 minutes off my mile time that day, just to keep as far away from Shanna as possible. Not that it took much – she was about as athletic as a rock.

A flute-playing rock with 80s hair and stretch pants. How … could he have gone … from me … to her?!?

Not surprisingly, it didn’t last more than a few days – Chris swears they never even went on a date – but he had gotten to me, which I’m sure is exactly what he wanted.

And the last couple weeks of the semester were extremely awkward.

I vented. I glared. I stomped. And I had mercifully blocked this out, but Chris reminded me a few years ago that when we were passing around yearbooks in journalism, I grabbed mine and told him that I didn’t want him to sign it.

Yes, I know. Very mature.

Somehow, we made it to the last day with no bloodshed, and as 11:30 neared on the classroom clock, everyone gathered near the door, ready to be free of deadlines and drama until September. When the bell rang, several of our classmates hugged each other, knowing it was the last time they would ever work together on The Clover Leaves’ staff.

Chris and I weren’t that lucky.

We looked at each other – and then looked away.

The year was over.

To be continued …

The Story of Us: Part V (aka “What Goes Around, Comes Around”)

A new day had come.

Specifically, the first day of my sophomore year.

I rocked my black floral shirt and slacks through the first three periods of the day – and then came my fourth and last class of the day: Journalism.

Things were going to be different this year on The Clover Leaves staff. The senior mafia was gone, hot!Jeff was now editor, and more importantly, Chris wasn’t editor.

For long, that was.

It didn’t take long for Jeff’s shady side to show itself, and he was fired as editor shortly before the first issue was even published. I was shocked. Hot!Jeff had seemed so talented, so dedicated … it was largely what attracted me to him in the first place. (Well, that and his blue eyes.)

What I didn’t know at the time was that Jeff’s rope had been fraying quickly (including not showing up for a mandatory production session when the rest of dragged ourselves in on a Saturday morning), and the straw that had broken the camel’s back was him and our adviser having to finish the inaugural issue until 2 a.m. on the night before it was due to the printer. Time is money, after all.

But they weren’t alone in good old Room 214.

And it paid off in spades for Chris, who stayed up all night, too, and was named Jeff’s successor faster than a speeding byline.

Chris. Chris.

I couldn’t believe Chris was about to be editor of The Clover Leaves – and my boss. I suddenly knew how Clark Kent had felt when Lex Luthor bought The Daily Planet.

And on some days, I would have been happier if someone had blown up our “newsroom,” too.

The idea of Chris in power was unnerving. Things weren’t great between us even before he was named editor. My blatant adoration of Jeff had clearly annoyed him, and that, in turn, annoyed me. And my friends’ continual derision of Chris didn’t help the situation. Peer pressure is a powerful thing, and they fed my ego. I got bitchy, he got sullen, and things got VERY tense. Not that I noticed from atop my high horse, though.

Even so, once he took over, Chris appointed four page editors to lay out and oversee a quarter of the paper each – three seniors and me. I have to give him some credit for his willingness to give me such responsibility, and not just because of our personal issues. I was one of the few returning staff members, but I was still just a sophomore, and hadn’t done anything except write the previous year. I think he felt he was doing the right thing, and boy did it make him smug – that obnoxiously quiet form of smug that has never quite disappeared over the years.

In retrospect, I think he was just waiting to see if I’d fall on my face. It would be the perfect comeuppance for what had happened the previous spring. Little Jennifer, thinking she’s so high and mighty … If only he had known that I was waiting to see if HE would fall on HIS face. What did a sports freak know about running a NEWSpaper? This wasn’t Sports Illustrated, buddy.

I approached my new role with all the tenacity of Lois Lane circa Season 1, but it didn’t take long to realize that it wasn’t easy balancing being a page editor with my tough academic load and swim team. I would stay after school to work on the paper, but then have to leave early so I could go to swim practice late, where I would nearly kill myself trying to catch up on workouts, and then go home to hours of essay-writing and conjugating French verbs. My dedication to swimming surprised everyone – including me. But at the same time, I was far more passionate about winning a Pulitzer than Olympic gold.

I’ve always been good at multitasking, but I have a hard time believing any 15-year-old could deftly juggle so many things. Especially one so Type-A -- one that was determined to be the best at everything.

But here’s the thing: I wasn’t. I was spread too thin. My breaststroke was shaky, and my layouts were even shakier. And taking orders from Chris was really pissing me off. I was beginning to think he was flagging things on my pages for his own personal entertainment, and he certainly had no sympathy for my newfound dual role as journalist/athlete. After all, he was running cross-country during the same time. Never mind that swimming requires a lot more of a time commitment – and he didn’t have his sights set on making districts, at least as far as I knew. (I mean, come on, he never even picked up his letter.)

I felt that his expectations were unrealistic, and he clearly felt I was being unreasonable. I thought he was ungrateful about the time I was putting in, and he thought I should be more grateful for the promotion.

I’d be damned if I gave him the satisfaction, though, so I didn’t say much about my internal struggle. But I’m sure he knew he was getting to me – to the point that I begged my mom to run him over in the crosswalk on more than one morning. (Imagine my thrill when she told him this years later.)

Something had to give – and boy did it ever.

One morning in early November, when the rest of my Pre-AP English class was working on vocabulary sheets, our adviser called me into her back office.

Here’s all you need to know about our adviser: She didn’t like me, she really liked Chris (which largely contributed to why she didn’t like me – the debacle that was our relationship was fairly common knowledge), and she had evolved into the type of bitter old woman that had you wondering at least once a week what possessed her to ever get into a field where she’d be working with children – or people in general.

Oh yeah, and she wasn’t always the most professional teacher.

Case in point: Her calling me into her office during ENGLISH class to talk to me about NEWSPAPER issues.

And what she said hit me like a ton of bricks.

THEY didn’t feel I was carrying my share of the weight. THEY didn’t feel it was fair to the other page editors. THEY felt I would be better suited in a different role. I’d still have a specialized title, but THEY were demoting me to be a lowly copy editor. (Yes, the irony is not lost on me all these years later.)

In the haze of shock, one word resonated over and over.

THEY.

Meaning her …

… and Chris.

He had won this time.

Really won.

The Story of Us: Part VI (aka "Parting Shots")

When we last left off, evil!Chris had worked his evil!magic to get me fired as a section editor. I was now a lowly copy editor. And I was furious.

Bottom line: Chris = evil. Jenn = wronged party. Got it?

I never said anything to Chris about my demotion -- or my knowledge of his role in it -- but my demeanor was on par with the weather for iciness. And it was December.

Still, I wasn't going down without a fight. I may have lost the battle, but I hadn't lost the war. The second semester was drawing near, and with his royal evilness graduating, the coveted position of editor was about to be vacated. As far as I was concerned, the job was mine. After all, there were two groups of people on the staff -- the go-go-go super motivated ones (the seniors and me) and the eh-I-needed-another-elective complacent ones (everyone else). I was entitled. I was deserving. And I was in no danger of any competition.

Or so I thought.

Did I happen to mention that my replacement as a page editor was a first-year staffer? A first-year staffer who happened to be a cheerleader -- and one that a certain evil someone found extremely attractive?

Far less attractive to me was the fact that I had gone to elementary school with said cheerleader, and whether she could actually spell the word cheerleader was iffy. Now, most people would be wondering why someone who, as a sixth-grader, had went to a fifth-grader in their Multiage class for spelling help, had joined the newspaper staff, but, hey, some of the worst spellers I have seen are journalists. They just hit spellcheck and pray for the best. Besides, evil!adviser had recruited her and a couple others in her Pre-AP English class the year before.

To clarify, I had no problem with Lady Rah-Rah -- until she inadvertently stole two things from me. One was the throne, and the other was the attention of a certain ... Never mind. I hated him. HATED. Remember?

I did, however, have a big problem with our adviser making it VERY clear that I would not be Chris' successor, despite my (initially forced) enthusiasm for my new position. I had spent the last few months attacking every misplaced comma, spelling mistake and unclear headline as if it was going to earn me a Pulitzer. I had gone into it with the intent of kicking ass to spite Chris -- and realized that I was a damn good copy editor.

But evil!adviser felt that my personal issues with other staff members (Chris) and my tendency to gossip (regarding Chris) weren't professional. What was this, The New York Times? And how did he end up being the second coming of Hearst?!

I was reaching my boiling point when I got a karmic reprieve in the shape of evil!adviser announcing she was retiring from the newspaper business. She would still be teaching English, but she was tired of advising the paper after a whole five years. A regular Bob Woodward, that one. The reins were being turned over to another teacher who was currently in the science department, but planned to move upstairs to teach English in the fall.

Perfect.

They say that absolute power corrupts absolutely. Well, what about the person who doesn't even technically have power?

I took the opportunity to schmooze SciGuy during a Science Club hiking trip to Mt. Rainier (yes, I really and truly hiked as a means to get what I wanted), chatting about my progression on staff -- i.e. that whole pioneering freshman thing -- and how I hoped to shape the paper in the future as the staffer with the highest seniority, blah blah blah. I never used the word editor, but my point was clear. (And NO, I was NOT in the Science Club; the big field trips were open to anyone, and several of my friends and I took advantage.)

With that taken care of, I turned the tables on Chris. I'm sure he thought I was seething about his underhandedness -- after all, I had praised his fairness just a few months earlier -- and while I was, I didn't want him to think he'd won. So, instead of going Mad Dog Lane, I pulled a Cat Grant -- and draped myself all over him.

I sat on the floor next to his computer. I rubbed his shoulders. I walked around with his graduation sash around my neck. And I called him Christof. (Don't ask.)

Poor guy had no idea what the hell was going on -- but I knew exactly what I was doing. I had him distracted, flustered, and most importantly, checking out the letterman jacket with a swimmer on the back -- not the one with a cheerleader.

I know, I know. Not my finest moment.

But remember, I was the victim. I did NOTHING wrong.

But he certainly did. As the presses rolled on the senior issue of the 1998 Clover Leaves, evil!adviser and her sidekick announced Lady Rah-Rah as the next leader of our illustrious publication.

What?!?

I had edited. I had flirted. And I had ... hiked?!?

To say I was stunned would be an understatement.

And I knew one thing for sure -- I would NEVER offer my spelling assistance again.

But the show must go on, and since I was in Concert Choir, I was tasked with attending graduation the second Thursday of June. It was the traditional pomp and circumstance -- we sang, speakers spoke, everyone used the programs to fan themselves.

But more importantly, for me, it was a means to an end.

Chris was the last member of the Class of 1998 to receive his diploma, and he triumphantly waved it in the air.

I crossed my arms over my green choir robe and smirked.

I didn't care what anyone said.

He was gone. And it was my turn.

To be continued ...

The Story of Us: Part VII (aka "Out of Sight, Out of Mind")

We pick up at the beginning of my junior year with a little geography lesson.

Pullman, Washington, is about 315 miles from the house in Lakewood where I grew up. It had cows, wheat and no redeeming qualities whatsoever. (This attitude would come back to bite me in, oh, two years, but that's another story for another post.)

But wait, I spoke too soon. God bless Whitman County, land of farmers, fraternities -- and ex-boyfriends.

Chris was now was a freshman at Washington State University, and more importantly, no longer my boss, my classmate or my problem.

Out of sight, out of mind. Go Cougs.

But when one problem vanishes, another is usually looming, and in this case, it appeared that I really was going to be working under Lady Rah-Rah this year. I could barely stomach the idea of showing up for journalism. All that work -- and all that hiking -- for nothing. I'm sure by now that it is abundantly clear that I, uh, don't handle failure (OK, fine, and not getting my way) well.

I resigned myself to another year of wasting away in Copyeditorville ... and then the bottom dropped out.

On the first day of school, I was standing at my best friend's locker at the beginning of lunch, when I heard someone call my name. I turned to see evil!adviser rushing toward me, full of questions about my summer and my family's trip to Hawaii. She punctuated her enthusiasm with a big hug.

Had hell frozen over? Had she reclaimed the newspaper reins and decided to make peace before embarking upon another year of deadlines and (inevitable) drama?

Of course not. There's a reason why I call her evil!adviser.

I was in the midst of telling her about Maui when an unfamiliar woman dressed far too nicely to teach English at Clover Park High School walked by.

"Hi," she said in an unmistakable Southern drawl.

"Who is that?" I hissed at evil!adviser, noting her placid reply to the stranger.

"Your new adviser," she said simply, with a trace of smugness only detectable to those familiar with her special brand of evil.

My jaw hit the ground. My heart was close behind.

Turns out that SciGuy decided to remain downstairs with the beakers and bunson burners, and this teacher, an AP rockstar and Shakespeare expert who had just been named a member of USA Today's All-Star Teaching Team, took the position at the last minute upon her hire away from a high school in Louisiana.

I vacillated between being impressed with her credentials -- and terrified about what her presence could mean. After all, The Clover Leaves under evil!adviser was hell, but at least the inferno was familiar.

Unfortunately for SheBard, she had been assigned both Beginning and Advanced Journalism, and seemed at a loss for what to do with 25 eager freshmen and sophomores -- and the little staff that could.

The new kids were assigned textbooks that taught them how to write ledes and headlines, and we were relegated to the back room of SheBard's classroom, with a single computer and a phone to call advertisers that we had to share with the English Department faculty. In the universe of newsrooms, this was as far from The Daily Planet as you could get; we were Pluto -- which, may I remind you, has been all but banished from the solar system.

I wasn't thrilled about existing in such close quarters -- there was a far greater chance of Lady Rah-Rah catching me rolling my eyes -- but one benefit of our little exile was the independence it provided. While SheBard was busy with the elements of captions, we were free to slip out and go next door to solicit sympathy from evil!adviser, who "coincidentally" now had fourth period as her conference period.

And, in true form, she had no problem with me and my various friends coming by to complain about how SheBard was running the place like The New York Times. I'm sure it gave her some satisfaction to know that we hated her successor. She plied us with seltzer and candy and gleaned information out of us about the regime under our new dictator, uh, I mean adviser.

It was confusing as hell -- we had little oversight, but when our articles came back, they were bleeding red ink. SheBard hadn't ever explained her philosophies, but had no problem telling us that we were wrong. We had no idea that she was coming from a school where, under her guidance, the yearbook staff won national awards and its staff members treated every layout like it was Pulitzer eligible.

All we knew was that her questions, her complaints and her attitude were totally unwelcome. And making matters worse, she wasn't too thrilled by her senior staff members having other commitments such as swimming and cheerleading.

I focused on my work -- and avoiding dealing with her.

That is, until one day, when I was summoned out of Human Anatomy & Physiology and upstairs, to where SheBard was on the verge sending our newspaper computer to the big scrap pile in the sky. She was trying to print out proofs of the first edition, and nothing.would.work. With the deadline to deliver the paper to the printer in Gig Harbor looming -- and Lady Rah-Rah busy with Advanced Spirit Fingers -- she was panicking. After all, time is money, and a high-school newspaper has little of either.

I don't know if it was the adrenaline that comes with power, or fear of failing the class if the first issue wasn't published, but I lept into action, digging deep for every skill I had ever picked up about computers. Studying the nervous system was an afterthought.

I saved the day -- and SheBard promptly named me co-editor.

I had succeeded. I was going to be editor of The Clover Leaves -- and I had won the job by ethical means. Lois Lane would have been totally disgusted.

I attacked my new role as if I were Perry White -- and it showed.

As a result, SheBard increasingly began coming to me with her questions, comments and irritations. She clearly didn't care about who had been promised what by whom; her main concern was producing a quality newspaper, and my co-editor had started practicing for Senior Skip Day in October.

The staff dynamic was shifting. I was taking greater responsibility -- and the awkward role of telling my friends what to do -- but Lady Rah-Rah wasn't exactly putting up a fight. She was ready to graduate. And I suddenly found myself aligning with SheBard on various issues.

But one thing we couldn't change was the single, crappy computer the entire staff had to share to get the newspaper out. Half the the time, Quark wouldn't even load, and when it did, there was no guarantee of the pages actually saving. Somehow, against all odds, the presses rolled in September ... October ... November ... December.

Even so, something had to give. A whole semester's worth of papers was in front of us.

We needed help, but no one was able -- or willing.

And evil!adviser's classroom was suddenly dark during fourth period.

The day we came back from Christmas break, SheBard told the staff that a former editor would be dropping by to help us with the computer and simplify some of our layout problems. She was thrilled. I was immediately suspicious.

"Which editor?" I asked, saying a silent prayer that it was hot!Jesse from 1997, or even evil!Jeff.

SheBard hadn't caught his name, but he was last year's editor, home from college on winter break for at least another week.

"No," I protested immediately. "He can't come here."

She raised her eyebrows in confusion.

"That's ... he's my ex-boyfriend."

"Oh," she said consideringly, giving me a glimmer of hope that she would bar Chris' entry at the door, "I didn't know that."

I breathed a sigh of relief -- but she wasn't finished.

"Well, he's going to be here in about 15 minutes."

To be continued ...

The Story of Us: Part VIII (aka "Iceberg, Right Ahead")

Oh, Titanic.

If the fabled love story between Jack and Rose taught us anything, it's that teenage girls will shell out a lot of money to see Leonardo DiCaprio in a tux. And, more importantly, that you can be the king (or queen) of the world one moment -- and floating on a board in the ocean the next.

In this case, the iceberg was crimson. Crimson and gray.

Senior year was shaping up to be all I had hoped for -- and more. I had ditched the glasses for contacts and gotten a job selling shoes at a local department store that enabled me to fill my closet with American Eagle shirts and Steve Madden shoes. I was taking my choice AP classes, had joined the yearbook staff as its copy editor, and was voted National Honor Society secretary.

And, finally, I was the editor -- the sole editor, appointed by rightful hierarchy -- of The Clover Leaves.

No longer the lady-in-waiting, I ruled over the now-monthly publication with a mocha in one hand and a red pen in the other.

You'd have thought it would all go to my head, but it actually didn't. I had gotten plenty of practice the previous spring. Just as I had predicted, Lady Rah-Rah stopped caring about being editor once her college applications were postmarked.

But this time was different. This was special. After all, Perry White refused to make Lois and Clark co-editors when he got promoted. She landed the job on her own -- and now, I had, too.

I benefited from a dedicated staff and the full backing of SheBard, with whom, over time, I developed a close relationship with. Like mother-daughter close. She supported my ambitions -- and was the driving force behind my applying to schools with prestigious journalism programs -- USC, Loyola Marymount University, and, gulp, the University of Maryland.

SheBard, who had grown up in the Midwest and gone to college in the South, assured me that I would be fine in College Park, that I could buy pink snowboots, that home was just a flight away. I was thrilled at such a prospect -- I had told Chris as early as 1997 that I planned to go to college in California, and at one point had entertained notions of Penn State.

I don't know what had my mom seeing more red -- the fact that I had found a role model who was a far greater threat than Miz Lane, or that I wasn't seeing crimson, as in her alma mater.

You will apply to Washington State, she told me. No arguments.

I sighed. I rolled out my eyes. And I eventually filled out the application.

I called it my safety school. I had no intention of going there.

I was California Dreamin' by the time my acceptance to Moo U arrived -- along with a financial-aid letter outlining my full ride to the sticks.

I was horrified. Not only was Pullman in Washington, it was also in the middle of nowhere. As in eight-miles-from-Idaho nowhere.

Talk about shades of "10 farmers and a cow."

But worst of all, Chris was now in his sophomore year at WSU -- meaning he had two years left. And after our last encounter, I had no desire to see him -- and I was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

Remember how he offered to come help The Clover Leaves' staff with our computer problems during winter break of my junior year?

And remember how I was a huge bitch to him?

No? Are you surprised?

Here's what went down: That January afternoon, I managed to pick my jaw up off the floor about two minutes before Chris arrived, and mentally psyched myself up for his visit. As far as I knew, he had no idea that I was now (co-)editor, and I was determined to show him who was boss.

(Little did I know at the time that evil!adviser had sent him the first issue with a snarky note saying that the staff was having exactly the same problems they had predicted. Nice, huh?)

Chris was nothing but congenial -- and I was nothing but an egomaniac with a stack of page proofs. I even scoffed at his saying that he was writing for WSU's student newspaper even though he was a broadcast major. I didn't consider that this demonstrated that his passion for journalism equal to mine; I was too busy trying to not laugh that Chris was planning to be the second coming of Dan Rather.

He ignored my thinly veiled comments and focused on fixing our Pagemaker issues.

So that's where it should have ended ... but of course, it didn't. Seeing Chris pissed me off -- reminded me of everything he had put me through the year before and how hard he worked to prevent me from being his successor. And, I rationalized, how dare he come strutting back into CP as some bigshot college student to help us poor high-school peons.

Coincidentally, that day was SheBard's birthday, and we (I) decided to do something for her. Nothing like a little jab at Pullman's finest to show that neither he, nor evil!adviser, was missed.

I dispatched our two advertising managers to Starbucks to get SheBard a cool mug with her favorite drink in it. But upon pooling our money, we realized that being high-school students with no prior notice of this auspicious occasion, we were a bit short.

Over at the computer, Chris cleared his throat and reached for his wallet. "I can put in some if you're ..."

"That won't be necessary," I cut him off in typical Season-One-Lois form.

We scraped up a few more dollars -- and Chris remained virtually silent the rest of the time he was there.

In retrospect, this was one of those times when I allow the rare "poor Chris" to enter into my thought process. I was so accustomed to Chris being the villain that I couldn't see that he was trying to be nice -- and I acted, well, abhorrently.

I was wrong.

Look at that. Personal growth.

If Chris is reading this, he's probably running off to print and frame those three words. After all, I don't say them often.

I didn't see him again after that day. And while I'd like to say that I pushed him out of my mind, his memory was always lingering -- as I danced with another guy at the prom, when I was named editor my senior year, and especially when I reluctantly accepted my offer from WSU. It was inevitable that I would run into him at some point.

But here was the thing: I still had no intention of going to college there. I was humoring my mom, at best, even as I packed my bags for a spring-break visit there. I said (whined) as much as my mom dragged me to the door of the housing office, checkbook in hand.

"But I'm not going here," I protested vehemently as she paid the deposit to secure me a dorm room. "I'm going to Loyola Marymount!"

Unfortunately, the sun was setting on my dreams of going to college among the beautiful people and palm trees -- an error with my social security number held up my financial-aid package, and I couldn't be guaranteed I would receive the same offer I had gotten from WSU. I couldn't deny that a full ride to college was appealing. Extremely appealing. Who would turn that down?

So I resigned myself to life in the fields -- and started plotting how to put a Lois Lane spin on four years in Smallville. That started with applying for a job at the campus newspaper. I was certain the editors would fall all over themselves to hire the two-time editor of her high-school paper who just so happened to be a member of Quill, the journalistic honor society.

My mom wound her car through the labyrinth they called a campus to an area she could drop me off at to walk up to the Murrow Center, where the The Daily Evergreen was published. My trek included a huge hill, and about halfway up, I seriously considered turning around and going to find a job on flat ground. The idea of doing this in snow was horrifying, to say the least.

I finally made it to my destination and, taking a deep breath, uncertainly opened the heavy black doors and walked down a poorly-lit hallway.

Oh. My. God.

Chris.

Was standing.

About 50 feet away.

I had never been so simultaneously glad and horrified to see someone in my life.

At that moment, he looked up and did that glance-my-way-and-then-glance-away-again-because-it-couldn't-possibly-be-who-he-thought-it-was kind of glance.

"Chris!" I called out before I even realized what I was doing.

He turned slowly as I approached. The shock on his face was evident.

"Aren't you going to give me a hug?" I tossed out, my stupefaction quickly replaced by the feeling of enjoying having the upper hand for once.

He obliged, and then pulled back to look at me in disbelief. Who'd have thought that never in his wildest dreams had he imagined me standing in the hallway of Student Publications at Washington State University?

"What are you doing here?"

"Applying to be a reporter," I said casually.

"You ... you're going here?"

I nodded as I picked up the application slid across the front desk by the oblivious receptionist.

As I walked away, I called over my shoulder, "See you in the fall!"

I could feel his eyes on me all the way to the door.

To be continued ...

The Story of Us: Part IX (aka "Here We Go Again")

When we last left off, I was on a tour of Washington State University. I saw cows, I saw campus -- and I saw Chris.

Now it was the summer of 2000, and the moments until our inevitable, unfortunate reunion were ticking by. Sure, our unexpected encounter in the hallway of Student Publications had been cordial. We'd even made physical contact for the first time in three years. (The hug, people. There is no unedited, red-light version of this story.)

But we were going to be sharing breathing space again, this time at The Daily Evergreen, where he was a sports reporter and I had just been hired as a news reporter. After the debacle that was, well, the entire time frame of 1997-98, we were fully aware of the direct effect our personal relationship could have on our professional one.

With the stakes even higher, could we work together again?

Things didn't seem too promising in early August, when we ran into each other outside Gottschalks, the department store where I sold (and bought) shoes. Chris couldn't help giving me some friendly advice -- or at least couldn't help trying to. I had struck up a friendly rapport over e-mail with The Evergreen's fall editor, and she and Chris weren't exactly best buddies. I didn't know at the time that his attitude was borne of her having narrowly beat him in the editor election that spring.

So, naturally, I shot down everything he had to say with a perfunctory, "Candace already told me that."

After all, she was the editor. Editor equals God. Right?

Once he figured out I had already fallen hook, (dead)line and sinker for everything his nemesis had to say without even setting foot in her office, Chris hightailed it over to Barnes & Noble, leaving me to go home and start packing my ego and a whole lot of shoes that I would later find to be wholly unsuitable for uphill treks in the snow.

And all too soon, I was in Pullman.

You'd think that meeting my roommate would have been the scariest part. But no, Emily, from Vancouver, was super friendly, had really nice friends also attending WSU, and she, too, had black Steve Maddens and a plaid comforter. You'd think that being so far from home would have terrified me. But my mom had reassured me that I'd be fine shortly before hanging up on me when I called home exactly six hours after she left Pullman to demand a car. And you'd think that trying to fit all of my clothes into a dorm-room closet would have given me nightmares.

What scared me to death was the idea of working at The Evergreen.

This wasn't high school. This was the real deal -- working for the college paper would help me get internships, which, in turn, would help me get a job. I had to bring my A-Game -- and then some.

No problem. I was Lois Lane. I was a star. I was ready.

And yet, for all my illusions of grandeur, I dragged my feet at making an appearance. I unpacked my boxes. I bought my books. I arranged them in height order on my bookshelf. And then, when I had nothing left to do, I ventured out of the safe confines of Community Hall and down the street to the Murrow Center. Murrow, as in Edward R. Nope, no pressure here, going to the same college as one of the deans of contemporary journalism.

As I walked, my courage returned. I was going to knock 'em dead. They'd be naming buildings after me someday. The Jennifer Jackson Journalism Institute had a nice ring to it.

I sauntered down the same hallway where I had seen Chris a few months earlier, and to the entrance of The Daily Evergreen's newsroom.

And then I froze.

Everyone looked so much older, so much more experienced, so aware of what they were doing. I had been through freshman newspaper hazing once before, and this seemed like ripe territory for round two.

So I did the mature thing. I ducked out of sight and weighed returning to my room.

And then came a voice from the doorway.

"Come in."

I turned and my gaze locked with the same blue eyes I had been alternately gazing into and avoiding for four years.

"Hi, Chris."

It turns out that he had seen me outside, but when I failed to come in, he came to investigate. Good journalist? Good guy? Or both?

He didn't say much, handing me off to Candace as she came out of her office, but his presence ironically made me feel much more comfortable. I didn't feel so alone ...

... Until the next day.

Turning 18 is a major milestone. It's no 21, but by crossing this threshold, you are officially an adult. You have the legal right to vote, smoke and buy adult magazines. See -- a big deal.

Waking up on your 18th birthday in a strange room in a strange town on the first day of your freshman year of college is hardly cause for celebration.

I didn't have much time to dwell on my misfortune since my first class was at 9 a.m., so I got dressed in my finest pinks and plaids and plodded up the hill to be introduced to communication. But once class was over, and I had an hour-long break before English, I began to brood. I didn't want to go sit in my room. I didn't want to be by myself. It was my special day, for crying out loud, and I hadn't gotten a single call before I left for class.

Bryan Hall was next to Murrow, so I wandered down to The Evergreen, hoping someone with some form of power was around to assign me a story to take my mind off things.

But, as fate would have it, Chris was sitting in the otherwise empty newsroom, tapping away at a computer.

He greeted me with a friendly, "Happy birthday!"

My jaw plummeted -- and my heart wasn't far behind it.

"How did you know it was my birthday?"

Chris shrugged in that casual way that is either endearing or aggravating depending on my mood. "I just knew."

And between that -- and the fabulously thoughtful Emily's homemade decorations, ice cream and a shoe-shaped photo frame -- my 18th birthday wasn't so bad.

Twice, Chris could have given me the same treatment I had given him, and twice, he had been ... sweet. No, no, not sweet. I figured that he was just paying it forward, that someone had been kind to him when he was a freshman. That he was just. being. polite.

I pushed all thoughts of Chris out of my head as I threw myself into my classwork, getting to know the girls on my floor, and my two jobs. Not only was I reporting for The Evergreen, but I had also transferred to the new Gottschalks in neighboring Moscow, Idaho, where I would work on Fridays, since I had no classes after noon.

The Sunday after my first week, I was hard at work on my Shakespeare homework when there was a knock at the door. I figured it was one of my new friends looking to get a bite to eat, so I dragged myself out of my desk chair and to the door.

I threw it open -- and felt my heart skip a beat.

Standing there was Chris.

"Hi," he said. "I was walking by."

I swallowed my nerves -- and pride -- and invited him in.

Oh. My. God.

Chris was in my room.

He stiffly took a seat on the corner of my bed, while I perched on Emily's, which was higher off the ground, thus giving me the opportunity to literally look down on him -- and space between us while I wondered what the hell he was doing here.

After some small talk about campus living -- Chris had lived in a coed residence hill down by the athletic fields for a year before moving off campus -- he cleared his throat.

"I just wanted to talk to you," he began somewhat nervously, before explaining that he wanted me to know that he harbored no resentment about what had happened between us in the past and that he was glad that I was going to be working for The Evergreen.

I sincerely thanked him, and agreed that the past was the past.

And yet, there was the past, sitting on my plaid bedspread.

I opened my mouth to tell him that I appreciated his rescue at the door the week before -- and then the phone rang.

Was it a blessing? Was it a curse? Was it my mom?

Yes, it was. The latter, I mean.

Not wanting to give her a heart attack by telling her that the same guy I had once asked her to run over in the crosswalk was sitting on my bed, I hurriedly asked if I could call her back later.

You hear that? I was choosing Chris, my ex-boyfriend, over my mom, who had the ability to put money in my checking account. Now, if that isn't telling, I don't know what is.

But he was already standing up, gesturing that it was OK if I stayed on the phone.

"Sorry," I mouthed.

Chris smiled understandingly, and with a wave, he was gone.

I watched the door silently close behind him -- and this time, I couldn't push the thoughts from my mind.

What had possessed him to absolve me of my guilt?

What would I have said had the phone not rang?

And what did this mean for us?

It wouldn't take long to find out.

To be continued ...

The Story of Us: Part X (aka "Lust, Loathing and Lattes")

Nothing like a gravestone to give you a little reality check.

Not mine, of course, but my first "big" stories for The Evergreen were on teenage vandalism to grave markers in neighboring Rosalia (population 648). I thought I was on my way to a Pulitzer.

And then I got a rude awakening (emphasis on rude) to the world of college newspapers.

Where I came from -- The Clover Leaves -- newspapers came out once a month. And publication was a mandatory class missed only in the event of death. Or something like that. Therefore, I had no idea that staffers were expected to show up at The Evergreen every day -- and no one told me any differently. I figured that my gravestone story was a one-time thing, and I didn't come in the next day. A little dinner with my new friends, a lot of homework, and to bed by midnight. No big deal, right?

Wrong. The next day, the boom was lowered. Our esteemed leader was not too thrilled with my no-show status, and even though I was an admittedly clueless freshman, she didn't care. She expected me to go out to Rosalia -- more than 20 miles away -- and I didn't have a bike, let alone a car. I basically was on Candace's bad list, and I was fully aware that I had to dig myself out quick -- or find another job.

I was horrified -- and furious. No one had showed me the ropes beyond a quick lesson on how to log onto the paper's computers and a deadline for my first story. No one was providing me with any support, and I was nearing the point of hating my job. It felt like The Clover Leaves, redux.

And making me even more annoyed was that the first thing that crossed my mind was that I should have listened to Chris. He clearly was right. (You see that, Chris? I'm admitting that I was wr ... you know, I've already said it once in the course of telling this story; is it really necessary to repeat?)

So when he left me a friendly message, I called him back that night.

We ended up talking for 45 minutes.

And during the conversation, he asked me out.

Now, you'd think that I wouldn't have been the least bit nervous going out with someone with whom I had already held hands, danced, hugged ... and broken up with.

That last part was terrifying to me. I had already burned and been burned by Chris once, and I didn't know how this would go. I didn't know he felt. Hell, I didn't know how I felt. We had agreed to a truce that Sunday in my room, but that was a cordial, professional agreement, not Saturday afternoon tossing my hair while smiling coyly over a cup of coffee.

And even worse, Chris and I had never been on a real date. At least not one where we weren't in the presence of chaperones and a DJ playing Sir-Mix-Alot's "Jump On It."

So I alternated between pacing back and forth in front of my closet and panicking to Emily, who, despite having just broken up with her own boyfriend, was super supportive. So much that she called for backup. I don't know if she just wanted to calm me down (and shut me up) or she felt bad that I really had no clue, but she offered to show up at the Starbucks we were going to with her fellow Vancouver-ites (that's Clark County, not Canada) and take a gander at how things were going.

I figured that it couldn't hurt -- Chris had never seen Emily, Katie or Keely, so he wouldn't know I had (or needed) reinforcements, and maybe they could give me some useful feedback if they noticed anything. After all, all three of them had been or were in a serious relationship. Far more serious than a tolo, a prom and a bunch of petty fighting over headlines and deadlines.

So when Chris rang my room from the callbox downstairs, I felt much better. I sprinted down the stairs in a haze of American Eagle and Victoria's Secret Heavenly perfume, threw open the door ...

... and standing there was Chris, looking really good in a button-down shirt and jeans, holding a bouquet of flowers.

I felt my heart skip a beat. He had brought me flowers?!

I wasn't expecting flowers, and that brought my nerves back in full force. Most women know that guys don't just buy flowers. And most people who know Chris are fully aware of his aversion to the grocery store. So that, alone, said something.

I focused instead on small talk -- the still-warm weather, his new car, how nice it was that Pullman had a Starbucks -- on the short drive to the coffee shop. I felt more relaxed once we were inside and I was reading the familiar drink menu -- but it quickly became apparent that I wasn't the only nervous one.

When the barista asked for our order, I asked for a grande mocha, and she perfunctorily gave the total. Chris produced money, paid for it, and stood there. She looked at us in confusion before asking if he wanted a drink, too. Chris looked totally flummoxed, and kind of embarrassedly ordered a venti hot chocolate. Yes, you read that right. Hot chocolate. Back then, his tastes were clearly lacking. After all, he wasn't madly in love with Starbucks, and he wasn't madly in love with me. Or so I thought.

We took our drinks to the closest open table, a cozy setting for two, and picked up our conversation from the car -- opening up little by little as we covered every topic except our past. We discussed classes and professors that he had already had and I was now experiencing, living in Pullman -- and The Evergreen.

It turned out that Chris shared my consternation about the Rosalia situation. He saw no reason for the campus newspaper to even be covering the vandalism, and he thought it was utterly ridiculous for me to be told to drive out there. Neither of us came right out and said it, but it was clear that we both were thinking back to the hazy days of 1996, when I was reporter non grata on The Clover Leaves staff because of my unfortunate billing as a freshman. But this time, it appeared, I had support and sympathy.

Away from the newsroom (and past bitterness), I couldn't help but think that maybe Chris would have been the better choice for editor. After all, he wasn't trying to send me out to Rosalia.

Wow. This was ... nice. Chris and I, sipping drinks and talking newspapers. I felt so grown-up, light years away from the little girl who had been afraid to ask him to a school dance. We had a natural rapport that seemed dangerously close to Lane and Kent territory (circa late Season Two), and I couldn't decide if I was thrilled or horrified. I was leaning toward the former because, honestly, who doesn't enjoy a little undivided male attention -- and flowers -- from time to time?

I actually was somewhat panicked by the arrival of Emily and her fellow sleuths. To anyone else, they were just three students getting a coffee on a Saturday afternoon, but the pointed looks and smiles had me worried that Chris would notice. (Ironically, when he met Emily, he put the pieces together on his own. He clearly should have been an investigative journalist instead of a sports writer.)

Their eventual departure restored my sense of calm, but all too soon, Chris was driving me back to my dorm. And I found myself not wanting our afternoon to end. We had lingered long after our drinks were gone, and the conversation had been wonderful.

I told him as much when he dropped me off, and he looked thrilled. With a smile, he bid me goodbye, and I headed -- or more likely, floated -- up to the second floor. I couldn't stop smiling, even through Emily's questions and a questionable lasagna in the dining hall.

I didn't want to admit it, but the bottom line was that things hadn't felt so comfortable between us since that night in our school cafeteria, when we held hands and danced in the darkness.

Was it possible that Chris was feeling the same way? That he couldn't stop thinking about our afternoon together?

That evening, I received an e-mail from Vroomway (named for both her love of motorcycles and her love of cyberspace), SheBard's best friend and another English teacher at Clover Park with whom I had become friendly. She had spent the summer in Moscow working on her master's degree and had done work on the sets for a play that had opened that weekend at the University of Idaho. Being a thespian/drama teacher herself, Vroomway was excited to see how they had turned out, and asked if I would be willing to go take some photos during the Sunday matinee.

She would have two tickets waiting at will call in case I could do it -- and had someone who wanted to go with me.

Hmm.

Who would possibly want to spend a Sunday afternoon watching a play, in Idaho, no less? I didn't even know if I wanted to -- and I really didn't want to go alone.

Hmm.

I consulted the university's electronic phonebook and picked up the phone for the second time that week.

He answered on the second ring.

"Hi, Chris," I said. "I was wondering if you had plans tomorrow."

To be continued ...

The Story of Us Part XI: (aka "Hot and Cold")

Sunday, rainy Sunday.

In what would become, well, the norm in our relationship over the years, I wasn't ready when Chris arrived for our hot date in Moscow. It had started raining AFTER I got dressed, so I didn't think a tanktop was a hot idea seeing as that it looked like Seattle in October outside. This would be my first introduction to WTF weather on the Palouse, considering that it had been in the mid 80s the day before.

Anyway, Emily very altruistically (ha!) went down and got him at the door and brought him up to our room. It took him all of about 10 seconds to recognize her from Starbucks the day before, but to his credit, he didn't say anything.

I emerged from the bathroom in a cute pink floral tanktop with a pink cardigan over it and khakis (yes, I remember what I wore on every first date with Chris, and yes, I am aware of how ridiculous it sounds to say every first date) and felt justified in holding up our departure once I saw that he was wearing the same winter Nautica coat he had in high school. (I didn't know back then that Chris had a ridiculously sparce wardrobe and therefore no lightweight jacket.)

We set off for Idaho, chatting easily, and all too soon took our seats in the darkened theater to watch "The Rainmaker." I don't remember much about it other than that while it wasn't a high-school production, it was hardly "A Mid-Summer Night's Dream" at The Globe. And I'll admit that I was both hoping and worrying that Chris would take my hand. The fact that Mr. Sports had so readily agreed to go to the theater to begin with was a pretty good indication that he was into me.

After the play, Chris waited patiently while I took the pictures Vroomway had requested, and then held the door for me on the way out. I remember that specifically because it crossed my mind at that moment what a gentleman he was.

The parking lot was nearly deserted by the time we reached his car, and we slid inside as the rain pelted the roof. But Chris didn't start the car.

He shifted in his seat to face me and said, somewhat nervously, "Jennifer, I was wondering if you would be my girlfriend."

I felt my pulse speed up and my heart skip a beat all at once. "Yes," I, the total Type-A control-freak planner, blurted out without even a moment's hesitation.

His face lit up and we embraced, his puffy coat getting in the way as we stayed locked in a wonderful moment that seemed to go on forever. It was straight out of a movie.

As for what happened next, when I started thinking about it a few days ago for writing purposes, I felt compelled to go into the bathroom and apologize to Chris while he was taking a shower. He was pretty much like, "OK ... great... we're out of facewash." It clearly doesn't bug him, but the same can't be said for me. I will say this, though: I do not feel bad about the decision I made, just about the way it affected him, and in turn, us.

But first, let me explain what happened.

As we left the University of Idaho campus, Chris asked if I wanted to go get something to eat, and for some reason, that sent me into an internal state of panic. I was still reeling from him asking me to be his girlfriend, so I didn't think I would be able to choke down a salad, let alone make small talk and toss my hair and in the way Seventeen suggested as a surefire way to get -- and keep -- a guy.

I didn't know what the hell to do.

But I did know this: I had just barely turned eighteen; I was away from home for the first time; I was just getting acclimated to taking classes and taking care of myself. I was having fun making friends and dancing with brooms in the hallway at midnight and going on Papa John's runs in the middle of the night to escape the fire drill that we were so sure would go off and never actually did.

And from what I had seen of college relationships so far, I worried that I would lose out on the freshman-year bonding experience if I had a serious boyfriend and spent all my time with him and at his apartment. I didn't want to play house; I wanted to dance on desk chairs with Emily and my other new friends, damnit.

I declined dinner, and we lapsed into silence. I knew that I wasn't ready to be Chris' girlfriend, but how did I tell him that?

As he drove onto campus, I worked up my nerve.

"Chris," I said quietly, "I was wondering if maybe we could date more casually. Like not as a formal couple."

He glanced briefly at me as he drove through Greek Row and I hastened to explain that I was just starting to get my footing in Pullman and I especially didn't want people to make a big deal about us dating at the paper. Blame it on professionalism; it works every time. But it was the truth. I already knew he didn't get along with Candace, and I didn't want to be associated with potential accusations of favoritism by an upperclassman. Lois Lane got there on her own -- and I was determined to take the same route to the top. Distractions did not lead to Pulitzers.

"Okay," he said slowly.

I knew I had hurt his feelings, but I felt I had made the right choice.

When he dropped me off in front of Community, I emerged into the rain accompanied by growing doubts about my decision. Had I been too hasty? Was I being unfair to him -- and potentially cheating myself? I turned to wave at Chris, and was met with a tremulous smile that made me feel terrible. Still, we had agreed to give it a try on a more casual level, and I hoped we would.

And true to form, Chris held up his end of the bargain, calling a few days later to invite me to a party at his apartment. The Evergreen's star photographer was back from his internship in Eugene, Ore., for a few days and now that they were all 21, they wanted to have a good time. I was torn. On one hand, I wanted to go and see Chris and have bragging rights that I had already been to a college party. On the other, our relationship was supposed to be casual, on the downlow, and I feared that my attendance would raise questions about why an 18-year-old too young to legally drink and who had never actually met Kevin was at the party.

I declined, and fortunately, Chris seemed to understand.

But it did give me some hope that he did want to see me, that we could slowly work on our relationship. I enjoyed spending time with him and our talks on the phone. So THIS was what it was like to be an adult. To meet and get to know someone. The potential here could totally erase our checkered past.

Or so I thought.

A couple days later, while talking to Candace in her office, she subtly mentioned that at the party, Chris had insinuated that we had slept together.

WHAT?!?

I asked for further clarification, and she provided it. Enough so that I believed Candace completely without pausing to consider her possible motives for sharing this little piece of information. Now, I know that Chris wouldn't have ever said anything of the sort. Back then was another story entirely.

I stormed out of her office and down the hall -- and ran into Chris outside. He was playing catch with Kevin, and I wasted no time in blasting him for his lies.

His lack of response -- likely from shock -- confirmed my irrational fears. I told (yelled at) him to leave me alone and then turned and ran off down the hill.

Chris started to follow me, but I had a good start on him. And whether for common sense or because he thought things would blow over, he stopped, turned around and went back to the Murrow Center. And as much as I didn't want to see him, I was even angrier that he hadn't caught up to me; that he hadn't begged me to listen; that it was just a big misunderstanding.

How could he have said ... that?

I ran all the way home, feeling for the first time that it actually was my home, the place where I could hide under the covers, eat ice cream and get over Chris -- again.

This time, it was really over.

To be continued ...

The tale of the tandori bear ...

As parents, it is our job to shape the tiny, helpless creatures we bring into the world into full blown people. We teach them to walk and talk; we introduce them to great books and great food ... and we hope that our own weird quirks don't rub off on them. Bottom line: We want our children to adopt the best qualities of ourselves -- while becoming wonderful individuals.

Case in point: Collin wandered right up to a cage full of chickens at the cider mill we visited in November ... while I cowered behind a tree. No one can say my kid isn't an independent thinker -- or that he doesn't have a wimpy, ornithophobic mother. It actually makes me quite happy -- as long as I don't have to get near any bird that isn't on a plate, covered in gravy.

But here's one way we didn't count on him being just like us, and especially not at the ripe old age of one: Collin has the best palate of any child I have ever met. My surprise was largely borne of working with children his age at the WSU Children's Center my senior year of college and watching them gag, cry and refuse to eat anything that wasn't familiar (i.e. chicken strips and macaroni and cheese). Toddlers are famously picky, and I long ago resigned myself to having to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich to bring along when we went out for Thai.

This phenomenon started around 10 months, when Collin pulled himself up on the edge of Chris' chair at dinner on a clear quest to share his dinner. Not that he hadn't just polished off his own jar of organic blah blah blah. Chris was hesitant to give him Indian food, but the Whambulance was revving up, so he offered him a bite of butter chicken, figuring he would spit it out and crawl for the hills.

Wrong.

And with that, a little brown-eyed, pacifier-wielding foodie was born. Granted, this could all change tomorrow. He could wake up and refuse to eat anything but cinnamon toast and chocolate milk, and I'd have to literally eat my words. But honestly, neither of us see Collin losing much of his culinary zeal. He truly seems to enjoy food. At the age of 19 months, he loves Indian -- and will eat medium spice without batting an eyelash, whereas my post-gallbladder lifestyle dictates mild, mild and more mild. The flavorful sauces have the added benefit of hiding things like vegetables, and he'll inhale mango custard faster than a speeding bindi.

Oh, the irony. I, the full-blooded Indian -- from India, no less -- didn't even have a full Indian meal until my senior year of high school. And here's a half-Indian kid from Seattle who has eaten more of it since turning one than I did in the first 18 years of my life. And we love it. He literally licked the last drop of butter-chicken sauce off his plate at dinner tonight.

Collin also loves Thai, especially the curries and anything with peanut sauce, and has enjoyed pho, udon, sushi and Chinese. And I'm pretty sure that he would eat Mexican food every day if he had the option. I find this particularly interesting because Mexican was my main pregnancy craving. If citizenship was based on food intake, I would have been living next door to Felipe Calderón. Therefore, I can't help but wonder if Collin, well, inherited some of my food preferences. (After all, he doesn't seem to like eggs ... Hmm ...) The last time my mom took Collin and I out to our favorite Mexican restaurant in Tacoma, she graciously shared her dinner with him. He ate his half -- and then some. What can I say? The kid loves his enchiladas.

But here's the flip side of things: Since discovering global cuisine, Collin has zero desire to eat normal kid foods such as macaroni and cheese or chicken strips. They're apparently too bland. Seriously, how many parents have this problem?! Fortunately, he does like an array of everyday foods, including hummus, spinach dip, cheese, oatmeal, chicken, spaghetti and soup. Given that he's in the 89th percentile for weight and 90th for height, he clearly isn't a (super) picky eater.

I am not writing about this with the intent of bragging -- I know how lucky we are to have a good eater. Make that incredibly lucky. I know that most 19-month-olds wouldn't touch lobster bisque with a 10-foot pole and most of their parents would do a double take if they saw my son inhaling Caesar salad. Sometimes I marvel at it myself -- and I am incredibly proud of Collin's open-mindedness at such a young age.

Several of my friends' children, and kids in my family, have longer lists of what they refuse to eat than what they deign to allow past their oral orifices. I also take into consideration that we had one hell of a time in the pre-solids days of nursing, so maybe this is a karmic reprieve.

Or maybe it's God's way of telling me that I only need a half-portion of flautas.

The Story of Us Part XII: (aka "The Agony and the Ex-tacy")

I should have listened to Lois Lane.

She lived by three rules: Never get involved with your stories; never let anyone get there first; and never sleep with anyone you work with.

Covering ASWSU for The Evergreen pretty much negated the first rule since I hardly had a burning passion for the allocation of funds for the student recreation center.

I didn't have a choice when it came to the second rule since Chris was two years ahead of me in school -- and therefore in the newsroom hierarchy.

The third rule is where I got in trouble.

No, I hadn't slept with Chris, but in a profession where debunking lies and searching for the truth wins you big, fat Pulizters, as far as our co-workers were concerned, I may as well have gone over to his apartment and showed him exactly what Victoria's secret was.

The damage was done without Chris saying a word or me taking off a single article of clothing -- and it was only September. All that was left was to revert back into the icy silence that had consumed the majority of the last time we had worked together.

Chris took up residency in an empty office in the main newsroom to avoid me, Candace and pretty much anyone else with a pulse, and I continued learning the ropes of reporting from our fearless leader and her assistant cohorts. I was on a mission. I had put myself in this position, and now I HAD to prove my professional worth.

As the weeks and months passed, my hard work started to pay off. I was being taken seriously as a reporter. I even got called to be on notice to cover an Al Gore rally in Spokane if they weren't able to locate the staff political reporter in time. (It ended up falling through, but the request spoke volumes.)

And then everything changed.

Ryan won the election to be editor for spring semester. He was a senior, he had been on staff for several years, and oh yeah, he was Chris' best friend. I was screwed before I even walked into the office.

During staff interviews, Ryan flat out said that he wanted me to continue on the ASWSU beat, but that he had reservations over my personal relationship -- or more specifically lack thereof -- with Chris, his choice for assistant managing editor. He felt that our apparent inability to get along would negatively impact the paper. I swore up and down that I would be professional -- and apparently, Chris did the same -- and we set off toward spring.

I had zero desire to sit next to Chris' desk, nod obediently and apologize profusely as he told me everything I had done wrong in a mere 10 inches, but I had no choice. And to my complete and utter shock, he was wonderful in a managerial/mentoring role. Unlike his predecessor, his criticism was constructive. His tone was congenial, not reproachful. Instead of punctuating his changes with sighs, we worked together to make my stories better.

It was like alimony in its purest form -- support for your ex.

He taught. I learned. The ice began to thaw.

Oh crap.

I knew that with every click of his mouse, we were inching closer to our familiar slippery (deadly) slope, so I backpedaled, fast -- and right into Ryan's office.

No, I didn't like Ryan. If anything, I found him annoying and arrogant 95 percent of the time. But he could hold a conversation, and I knew that my being in there bugged Chris. He maintains that it didn't, but I knew he was watching every time I walked into the office -- and he has admitted he wondered if I liked Ryan.

But that wasn't enough. I developed a crush on a friend in my Com Theory class -- and talked about him to the managing editor -- who just so happened to sit right next to Chris. In retrospect, I wonder how much of my crush on King Kentwood was actually about him -- and how much of it was about Chris. I wanted to keep things safe, and safe was away from him.

Don't get me wrong; we were getting along. So well, in fact, that late in the semester we started referring to each other as "my ex-husband" and "my ex-wife." We had somehow found a way to coexist not only peacefully, but almost affectionately. Go us.

And then the Murrow Symposium rolled around.

The annual event celebrated the best and brightest in the communication school: award winners, scholarship recipients -- and the lucky person being honored with that year's Edward R. Murrow Achievement Award. In 2001, it was CNN anchor Bernard Shaw, and the icing on the cake was that I had won two scholarships: one from the Blethen family (owners of The Seattle Times) and one from the News Tribune/Tri-City Herald. Sweet.

I ordered a dress, enlisted Emily and Megan to do my hair -- and asked King Kentwood to go with me. Not a date, per se, but two friends attending an event together ... and if he just so happened to be captivated by the scent of Heavenly perfume and the way the flowers on my dress sparkled in the light, I wouldn't exactly complain.

But I wasn't the only one going. Chris had also won a scholarship, and in the spirit of our newfound rapport, we congratulated each other in the newsroom. I suggested with only a tad of snark that he may want to look into getting a suit jacket if this was as ornate an affair as it was being presented by those who had gone the year before.

That balmy April night, King Kentwood and I walked down to Beasley Coliseum (what the hell was I thinking walking that far in heels?!) for the prestigious event. White lights twinkled in the air; waiters in crisp shirts circulated with silver trays; and the state's media elite shook hands and sipped wine. I was in heaven. It was clear that what the Kerth Awards were to Metropolis, the Murrow Symposium was to Washington. And in little Pullman, no less.

King Kentwood went off to talk to some fellow broadcasting majors, so I took the opportunity to make a quick call to The Evergreen to let them know my Mom's Weekend stories wouldn't be in until after the symposium -- later than expected. As I slipped my cellphone back into my black beaded purse, I spied Chris taking his seat at one of the ornately decorated tables. My my heart skipped a beat as I realized he was wearing a black suit and a tie. Score one for the ex-wife. He looked good ... No, make that GOOD.

And sitting down next to Chris ... was a woman. One with long brown hair.

A brunette bitch in a blue blouse. Say that 10 times fast. I didn't have a clue who she was, but I hated her already. Where on earth had Chris found a date?! Since when was he dating?! And did I ... care?!?

I was both thrilled and horrified that my sitting in Ryan's office and talking about King Kentwood had actually worked. He had a date.

Wait, he had a date.

I was totally safe -- and nauseated in a way that I couldn't blame on dinner, since it hadn't even been served. I needed to give myself peace of mind, and then I could focus on how hot King Kentwood looked in his black suit.

So I did what any good journalist does: investigate.

After buying some time by locating my own seat in the cavernous room, I took a deep breath and approached Chris' table, stopping behind his chair and leaning in to put my hands on his shoulders. The scent of his cologne flooded my senses and my voice took on a flirty(!?) tone as I said, "I see you took my advice."

He shifted in his seat and smiled. "I did."

Our eyes locked for a quick second before I shifted to subtly check out his date. Maybe because he's a fellow journalist, or maybe because he was my ex-boyfriend, he seemed to know exactly what I was doing.

"Jennifer," he said, following my gaze to the unsmiling woman seated next to him, "I'd like you to meet my mom."

Like I said, hate at first sight.

To be continued ...