Sparks fly, or probably another unrequited crush

The funny thing is, I don't think Steve and I spoke five words to each other the rest of that first weekend. I mean, I definitely noticed him looking fiiiiine at church and I appreciated his generally kind demeanor. But a cursory glance around the room told me I was far from the only one who noticed his um, charms. That sealed it for me. Too young, too hot and too dang far to even be crushworthy. Plus, um... I kind of had a boyfriend.

After returning to Limbe that Saturday evening, I wrote in my journal about the amazing family that had hosted me and claimed me as a daughter. I concluded a lengthy paragraph of ebullient exposition on their kindness and virtues with exactly two sentences about Steve. One factual: "They also have a son— a recently returned missionary". One half-joking (or, if we're being totally honest, one mired in insecurity): "Too bad he's so young (not to mention would never be interested in me)."

Refocusing on my work, I can honestly say that Steve did not cross my mind again during my last few weeks in Cameroon. That is until I was loaded into a car with all my bags and heading back to Douala for a final long weekend with his family. Why am I so nervous? I found myself wondering as the car rumbled down the highway. Head a little light, pulse a little fast, stomach a little... in knots. Oh crap. It's because of him.

Imagine my abject horror when it was Steve himself who arrived to pick me up and I could barely string together a greeting, so beset with unwanted nerves was I. Damn. Damn. Double damn! This isn't the time or the place to be getting the feels.

Thankfully (or sadly, depending on your point of view), he deposited me at the apartment without so much as a backward glance and I was left to an afternoon ice cream date with his mom. Who proceeded to quiz me on whether anyone had "caught my eye" during my last visit. "You know, some of the boys have been asking about you," she said with a wry smile. Meanwhile, I sucked on ice cream in a futile effort to counteract the growing flush in my cheeks, very nearly irritated with myself for how much I hoped a certain someone was amongst the "boys" in question.

Mother of pearl! As if I didn't do the sad, unrequited thing enough in high school. And university. And general adulthood since then.

That night, Steve and I found ourselves seated in the living room, chatting with a friend of his who spoke to each of us excitedly. The friend, however, didn't seem to notice that Steve and I very pointedly did not so much as look at each other or speak one word directly to one another during the entire exchange. (Months later, Steve would tell me that upon escorting his friend out that night, the friend had asked whether I was his fiancée. I guess my nervous-and-crushing-hard-in-spite-of-myself vibes were just too much for Steve's pure indifference to override).

The next day at church, my eyes were the needle of a compass, and Steve was magnetic north. It was unsettling for me (and I can't imagine it was particularly enjoyable on his end either) because I didn't want to be staring. In fact, I was actively willing myself NOT. TO. STARE. GAH! It wasn't about base attraction (though, yes, dayum son). The only way I can come close to explaining it is that feeling you get when you recognize someone but you don't know where you recognize them from and it just kind of eats at you as your mind folds in on itself, trying to figure out the puzzle.

Sadly, a medical emergency that morning ended in the death of a church member, and Steve's parents ended up helping with that situation for most of the day. That left Steve in charge of getting me, his sisters and some other neighbourhood kids safely home. 

We piled into a taxi, six or seven of us at once. Sleeping in my arms was a little girl nicknamed "la Blanche" because of the fair skin and eyes that gave her the appearance of being mixed race. Steve helped us into the front seat and then folded in behind us. As we drove, he poked teasingly at the little sleeper and I was an instant wreck. His hand is so close to my face, my inner voice screamed with anxiety as my heart beat out an unfamiliar staccato. What the actual crap, brain? begged my more sane self, struggling to hold on. Why you gotta act like a pre-teen just discovering boys?

The house was a short walk down a dirt alley from where the taxi dropped us. I set la Blanche down and grabbed her hand, letting my head swivel to take in the people and the activity around us. Just then, I felt a tingling jolt travel up my arm and I looked over to see that Steve had taken the little girl's other hand. It took a moment for my brain to register, and boy am I glad I couldn't see my own face in that moment! Wide-eyed and slack-jawed, I looked down at my hand, his hand, the little girl connecting us. I thought about the night before, when I had watched her cuddle contentedly in his lap, a full-fledged ovary ache intensifying as he spoke to her adoringly.

The realization finally worked its way through and knocked the wind out of me: we look like a family. A wave of anxiety coursed through me, followed by a rippling aftershock of pure joy. WE look like a family!

I had to hold back tears as I felt the Holy Ghost tell me "This is coming faster than you think. Prepare yourself." Of course, in that particular moment, I wasn't convinced this little piece of revelation was necessarily about Steve. Rather, I received it as a general heads up that the promised blessings were on their way and I felt a tremendous grin bubble up from deep within. Nevertheless, I indulged the fantasy of us for a few short seconds and then, just as suddenly, Steve dropped la Blanche's hand and the spell was broken.

As it turns out, Steve's attention had been pulled by a smattering of neighbours gathered outside a home just across from where we were headed. He saw immediately what was going on: a neighbour had passed and they were waiting for the imam to come take the body. Steve went to offer help while I went upstairs with the kids. From the balcony we watched as the imam very nearly backed the Jeep Cherokee into the trench gutter and then a group of men carried the shrouded body out to the vehicle.

Some time later I went back into the apartment and saw Steve sitting at the table with his head in his hands. Somehow emboldened by the weight of the day, I walked over and sat in the chair next to him, and issued the first non-greeting words I'd ever spoken to him: "Are you ok?"

With that, the floodgates opened, so to speak. We began to talk. We talked about his mission, my schooling, the Gospel, things that scared us, things we wanted to accomplish in life, the fact that we were both in relationships that we knew were going nowhere but for one reason or another had not yet ended. Four and a half hours later, we were still at the table, talking and listening to music when his parents finally made it home.

On our wedding day, my mother in law would tell me that she "knew" the moment they came back through the door and saw us sitting at the table, shoulder to shoulder, legs almost touching, talking and smiling with the laptop open in front of us.

Me, I had figured it out maybe 30 minutes before, though I didn't dare believe it could be true. But hey, that's a story for another day.