It was beautiful. September in Seattle usually is. How could I forget the date? September 13, 2009.
I had driven up from Portland, where I was an intern that summer. Kelsey (on the left) had started grad school here, and our friend Rachel (on the right) was visiting from D.C. Rachel and I shared a futon in Kelsey's basement that weekend, and Sunday we all took the ferry to Bainbridge Island. The sun was warm and the breeze on the ferry was just perfect.
Of course we took a photo - that's what you do when you're a tourist on a ferry with the Seattle skyline behind you. It was the kind of day that convinces non-natives to make Seattle their home.
I said goodbye to Rachel and Kelsey and drove five minutes north to Greenlake, to the Methodist church on 65th that looks like a castle. Service started at 4, and I was meeting my best friend Abby, who'd been a Seattleite for a few years.
He made an announcement during the service - something about youth work, a gym he was opening, and some sport called Crossfit that I'd never heard of. He was sooooo dreamy. Seriously.
Abby said hi to him after the service and asked him how the gym was going. She introduced us. Shaking his hand, I remember thinking that he was full of warmth and strength, and I wanted to know more about him. I was still mystified by Crossfit, even after he explained it to me.
Later that night, three hours south in Portland, I did something totally embarrassing. I stalked him on the church's website, since I had discovered that he was on staff. Oh God. Yes, I did. I found out that he loved fitness, theology, and Dostoevsky. I decided right then to try to read The Brothers Karamazov one day (I still haven't).*
Three weeks later, I was living in Seattle.
Three weeks after that, he switched seats with someone at a pub so he could be next to me (sneaky, sneaky).
Three weeks after that, we were on a "group" snowshoe adventure.
A few months later, he asked me to "teach" him how to use FinalCut Pro. Smooth.
The next summer, we were a thing.
And on September 13, 2010, exactly one year since the day of the ferry ride and my web stalking, he moved to Nicaragua and began writing me love letters.
*PS: Though I still have never read The Brothers Karamazov, this man who is now my husband suggested that we read The Idiot together. So I'm finally diving into Dostoevsky, four years later.