The Marriage Pact: A Love Story (Sort Of. Not Really. But Maybe?)

Let’s rewind to 17 years ago. I was 17 (man, that makes me feel old), working my second job as a cashier, still wearing braces and figuring out how to flirt without having a full-blown anxiety attack. Peter, 19, was technically one of my managers. His long curly hair was always pulled back in a ponytail that should’ve made him look like a Dungeons & Dragons character—but somehow worked. He’d wear his usual polo shirt tucked into his slim bootcut jeans that never failed to hug his surprisingly public bulge so perfectly. I wasn’t the only one who noticed; we could all tell he was hung—and I was salivating. Girls would write him letters and bring him gifts.

…he waited almost two decades to finally say it out loud during a movie night: That he had been in love with me the whole time.

Growing Sparks and Love Triangles

When he finally introduced himself, it was obvious there was an attraction between us.
He’d always show up in the breakroom during my breaktime or hover near my register just to talk. He’d even show up when he wasn’t scheduled and pretend to shop, coming through my line. I’d blush and stammer through my words whenever he was around.
We liked each other. Like, really liked each other. It was mutual, undeniable, and awkward as hell.

Only thing was, I was living with my on-and-off-again “boyfriend” Ronaldo who I was still determined to torture for cheating on me at the beginning of the relationship.
Peter saw him one day when he came into the store to chat with me, and asked me if we were together. I explained the situation, and we eventually agreed to hang out. We were comfortable and giddy with each other. I was coming over every day to sneak cuddles on his strict parents’ couch while watching Jeff Dunham (he did the best-worst impressions, which I initially thought was cute).

The Rise of The ICK

But then something shifted. It always does (or used to) with me. I lose interest fast. I would chase excitement, then flee when things got too soft, too quiet, too real.

And as awkward as I was, Peter made me feel normal by comparison. He was painfully awkward, overly nice, and emotionally earnest in a way that made me feel like the villain in an indie film. Not to mention he came from the perfect home, full of love, and admittedly had a hard time relating to me.
And, I don’t remember our first kiss, but I don’t wonder why—he was the worst kisser (who never improved over the years). He had extremely dry skin and lips, and did this weird thing where he’d peck me quickly, over and over, but never really move his lips.. and it always made a weird sound. Four words: TOTAL LADY BONER KILLER.

I experienced The ICK for the first time in my life. I started emotionally pulling away. He didn’t. So I ended up breaking his heart, as one does.

Virginity, Parking Lots, and Penguins

He told me he wanted to have sex with me for his first time – he was a virgin.
I’ll be honest… my intentions weren’t pure… well, purely sexual. I didn’t understand the value of sex and “the first time,” but found myself still conflicted: do I take this special time from him to satisfy my own sexual desires or do I back off? Our talks were always the same, ending with him assuring me it wouldn’t end in regret for him. So..

Despite the inconvenient existence of my on-and-off live-in boyfriend, Peter and I started sleeping with each other. I took his virginity in the most awkward way possible: on the middle console of his old Nissan Sentra. Romantic, right?

We couldn’t go to his house to bang one out in his bed, so we drove around and parked behind a random shed like horny raccoons looking for shelter. I expected the usual two-pump chump situation, but to his credit, he didn’t finish quickly… Which, in this case, would’ve been ideal. Unfortunately, the seats were jamming into my sides, he kept hitting buttons on the radio, and one of my legs was squished somewhere behind my ear. It was awkward. Like, “two penguins trying to tango in a phone booth” awkward. If that sounds sexy to you, I admire your optimism.

An Emotional Safety Net (And Some Seriously Good D)

For the next decade and a half, we became an offbeat pattern during my chaotic love life: every time I fought with a boyfriend, there he was. We’d go months or years without speaking, then reconnect like no time had passed. He always answered my texts. I only texted when I wanted to come over for a late night quickie or friendly comfort during a lonely time. He was always single. Always available. I treated him like an emotional safety net. His friends and family hated me. And honestly, I would, too.

For years, it was just sex to me, because….I mean, the D was fire, as they say. Not that he knew how to use it—he was just blessed in that department (I would cum in literally a few seconds—WOWZA!).

Not Malicious, Just Messy

But here’s the twist: I wasn’t using him maliciously. I was just a mess. He was kind, and I didn’t know what to do with kind. He was safe, and I wasn’t ready for safe. He was always there, and I wasn’t done hurting myself. I just never felt good enough.

Over the years, he was always consistent. Comforting. Secretly in love with me from a distance. He never asked for more. I never offered more. He seemed to be the only person I could always count on, which I needed. Crazy to think…here we are all these years later – he went from being my teenage crush, to booty call, to lifelong friend.

From Chaos to Clarity (And From Crush to Couch Potato)

Eventually, we grew up. Sort of. I traveled and experienced life while he just got older and became a nihilistic couch potato. I eventually started prioritizing personal growth while maintaining my looks and good health. I did a complete 180: broken to blooming, chaotic to clear-headed, self-destructive to self-possessed.
Peter seemed to become more negative over time and packed on weight. He got himself a side job doing voice acting for a popular company, but other than that, nothing to report.

OKAY OKAY OKAY… If you’re like me, you might think I was a total bitch for breaking his heart and ruining his life. Eh, I’ve always felt conceited to think I have this much power over someone, but the truth is, I’m pretty sure I played a huge hand. I eventually realized my errors and apologized, asking specifically if he feels like I played a part in.. it. And I was right. I’ve never stopped apologizing, and I try to make it up to him in little, consistent ways. (And you’ll learn this about me: when I was depressed, I was flaky – to everyone. We’ll talk later.)

These days, we hang out about once a year, talk about life, and bond over both feeling like aliens in this world. We stopped masking around each other a long time ago. We’re comfortable talking in monotone voices, sitting in awkward postures, and telling each other things we wouldn’t say to anyone else. There was always a strange sense of safety there. Like he was the human version of a childhood blanket—frayed but familiar. I love him. Just not like that.

As for him, he waited almost two decades to finally say it out loud during a movie night: That he had been in love with me the whole time.

The Pact is Made (Mild Panic Attack)

Last year, on my birthday, while Aquaman tried to distract us (me.) with glorious pecs and CGI water that never looks wet enough, Peter turned to me and asked, “How long are we gonna do this dance?”

I raised an eyebrow. Um…¿Que?

He explained that we should just get together because we’re comfortable with each other, get along great, and are still in each other’s lives after all this time. I was smacked with what sounded like a serious conversation masked with a casual demeanor.

He stood up and walked over to the couch where I was lying, holding out his hand to shake mine:
“If you’re single on your 40th birthday, let’s get married.” (Notice the deal didn’t include anything about him.)

I was a bit caught off guard by this and didn’t want to just say no. Especially since it’s not like he’s actually being serious about solidifying a huge, legally binding decision like marriage with a single handshake…. Right?

As I looked at his hand extended to me, I considered for a moment what marriage with him would actually be like: Open and honest communication, winning over some great in-laws, platonic teddy bear cuddles, lots of lone visits to the gym, pasta every night, no sex, and lots of Marvel. Could be worse, why not?

I agreed and we shook hands…for a little too long.
He’s a little too eager.
Oh shit, he’s serious…I just fucked up.
I suppose I agreed to an actual marriage pact..

Four Years to Find the Real Thing

So, I’ve got four years. Four years to fall in real love. I know the right one’s out there, and I’ll know him when I meet him. And until then? I’m holding out. Because while platonic cuddles and a safe, predictable relationship might sound comforting, I’d like to believe that love—real, vibrant, soul-igniting love—is still out there. To meet someone who doesn’t just adore me, but matches me.

Because I deserve more than a “why not.” And so does Peter.

And while I’ll always love him in a weirdly protective, platonic, could-never-actually-marry-you kind of way, I don’t want to settle just because someone waited for me.

What I’m Really Waiting For

I want passion. I want chemistry. I want the best-friend type who makes me laugh AND fulfills my dirty fantasies. Someone with confidence, weirdness, and a healthy BMI. Someone I don’t just feel safe with—but drawn to.

And if I don’t find that person? Well…

I can’t help but think: Was the pact just a punchline, or the prologue?