The Only Valentine’s Day Worth Remembering

During halftime of Superbowl XXIV, the object of my affection declared that he was seeing “Suzy from Great Falls High” and needed to go. Since I had driven him over to my house, I endured the excruciating trip back to his home (where, for all I knew, said Suzy was waiting inside), dropped him off, and headed up the street to Mike’s where I’m sure I cranked either Chicago or Michael Bolton and wept over the loss of my beloved.

Two weeks later, I found this in my locker:

I was confused. I wasn’t yet dating anyone and was definitely still smarting from the halftime show in my family room. I opened the card to this:

Amid all my wailing and ranting about the insensitivity of 16 year old boys, I never considered that at least one of them may have had something resembling a conscience and a heart.

I wish I could give you a storybook ending, something about the card serving as a catalyst for a rekindling of a budding romance that has stood the test of time.

Silly rabbit, those stories only exist in the movies and really bad chick lit.

But that card was a type of things to come: throughout our friendship, every time he broke my heart he didn’t quite know how to apologize. So he bought things. Mostly books. One time, it was a Fruit Roll-Up.

But it started with a Valentine’s Day card, and every time I flip through my scrapbook and see it, I get all gooey and remember that at one point in time, at least one of the boys who broke my heart felt bad about it.

And on this of all days, that is worth remembering.

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