#mrhometown

For years, I have wondered how I hadn’t dated Mr. Hometown.  Though he is five years older, our sisters were in the same grade, I knew his (similarly strict) family growing up and he is handsome, successful, well-educated, musically inclined, Catholic, living abroad and quite possibly the only guy who makes me feel even mildly intimidated. 

My friend Danny throws a concert in his barn and I attend with Mr. Player, a date I’d been trying to score since my younger sister’s wedding.  I am late (work) so I kiss Mr. Player hello as I take my seat and he pops open a Corona for me.  I’ve no sooner put my mouth around the bottle (no glasses in the barn), when I spot Mr. Hometown’s mother.  Sitting next to HIM.  A re-introduction will be necessary. 

When the concert ends, I push forward and approach the mom. 

“My, you have gotten so big!”

“Surely you mean tall,” I respond, not taking my eyes off Mr. Hometown. 

“Oh yes, tall.  This is my son, he’s here for the weekend.”

She smiles and I smile right back with my very best/polite I-am-going-to-steal-him-from-you-and-never-ever-give-him-back face, which she returns, surprising me with her eloquent, you-go-right-ahead-he-is-thirty-seven-years-old-and-we-would-really-like-some-grandchildren-please face. 

I ask him if he “likes beer,” and surprise again - he and Mr. Player have been best friends since high school so we all decide to go out drinking together. 

It becomes clear by beer two that my interest is to captivate Mr. Hometown and Mr. Player resigns elegantly from the battle (we are still friends). 

Mr. Hometown extends his stay for an extra week and we go out on dates, trying different scotches, checking out some good live tunes and making out under the stars in my car at the reservoir with my sun-roof open.  When a local police officer drives up to ask us to get going, he sees that it is the two of us, recognizes us from grade school, smiles and says, “Oh you kids.  Congratulations.”  Everyone is on board with this homegrown love story. 

Mr. Hometown tells me that being home makes him feel like a fourteen-year-old boy again and I can’t stop smiling.  We meet in the city and I bring him a present.  He securely unwraps a gold sheriff’s badge (seems appropriate for a thirty-seven/fourteen-year-old) in front of his college mates and pins it right on his shirt. 

We get absolutely blackout drunk and meet up with Mr. Player, who seems sincerely delighted by our connection.  While we are at the bar, I receive a totally random and jealous text from an undergrad chum living across the street to “stop making out by the pinball machine.” 

I am completely taken.  And I cry for the entire train ride home, as I know he will be getting on a plane back to Europe in the morning. 

I continue to cry in my bed, in the shower, in my coffee, and on the phone with my father.  My father is both nervous and impressed – nervous that I would even tell him that I am dating someone and impressed that I’ve met someone who actually makes me feel like I might have to work a little harder to keep up.  And I mightn’t have stopped crying, but Mr. Hometown is calling on the other line and when I hang up on my father to get it, he says he is training back into Connecticut and he would like me to meet him at his parents’ house for dinner.  Check.

Still hungover from the NYC trip, we agree to pass on wine at dinner.  His parents are extraordinarily nice to me and after a lovely grilled al fresco meal, we retreat to the living room where Mr. Hometown plays the piano and I sing along. 

I have never, in my life, imagined having more simple fun than that. 

And I know, for the first time ever, that I can easily and want to keep him forever. 

His mother winks at me as she comments that she heard I am relocating out West and Europe isn’t much farther.  Yes ma’am, I am happy to stretch my move, but the invite must come from the lover.