And For Ever More

The Only Exception (Paramore)

It's been two weeks since RJ officially started courting me, and I must say it seems like he's really getting a kick out of playing the eager-to-please suitor. He throws himself into the role enthusiastically, leaving random notes and flowers at my locker every day. The flowers are lovely, of course—sometimes it's a classic long stemmed red rose, sometimes a pink or yellow one, other times a single lily or carnation. But what I really look forward to are the notes—sometimes sweet, sometimes funny, sometimes both—but always they make me smile.

When he doesn't have basketball practice or a late class, he insists on driving me back to the dorm, and during the rare instances when our schedules line up and we both have a free hour or two, he follows me around like a puppy, never leaving my side. A tall, manly puppy with bedroom eyes and a dimple that makes my womb do a wild hula dance.

Today we're hanging out in the quad, with me concentrating as hard as I can on the Classic Lit reporting I'm typing out on my trusty MacBook Air. RJ is sitting across from me, sprawled over the table, his head resting on one arm while he twirls my hair with a pencil in his other hand. It's an unusually fine day for this time of year—bright and sunny, yet the air is cool and breezy—and RJ thought it would be fun to do something outdoors, like play Frisbee or have a picnic on the lawn. But I have this paper to finish, so we compromise by sitting outside while I work.

I'm lost in thought, mulling over the themes and symbols of Madame Bovary, when RJ suddenly raises his head and sits straight up, startling me out of my reverie. "Hey, you know what I should do? I should visit you at home. I should meet your family."

Well, that effectively drives all thoughts of Emma Bovary and her illicit affairs from my mind. Is he serious? He wants to visit me at home? I'm not sure whether he's joking or not; and if he isn't, does that make him a reckless thrill-seeker with a death wish?

"I mean it," he insists, as if reading my thoughts. Oh, RJ. You don't know what you're saying. It's not that my family is so terrible; it's just that they can be pretty overwhelming, to say the least. My father is a very intimidating man—one of few words, with a default stern expression on his face—while my mom can be quite discomfiting with her enigmatic, sphinx-like smile; and my siblings are all so in-your-face and larger-than-life. The mere thought of him facing them all at once is already stressing me out on RJ's behalf.

"Seryoso ka ba dyan?" I demand, knitting my brows in consternation. He smiles and reaches out to take my hand, his dimple popping. It's my fingers he's squeezing, but I feel the pressure in my chest as my heart skips a beat.

"Seryoso ako," he says firmly, but his voice is low and gentle like a caress, and a thrill ripples through me. "Gusto ko mameet yung family mo. Gusto ko magpaalam ng maayos sa parents mo. I should've done that first. Pasensya na, I'm still new at this."

Well, I guess that settles it, then.

**********

On Saturday afternoon, he ends up taking a wrong turn and getting lost for a bit, so he shows up thirty minutes later than expected, and that slight delay is enough to make me sweat bullets. I'm so nervous on his behalf, but as I watch him exit his car in our driveway from the front door, he throws me an apologetic grin, and he doesn't seem the least bit worried at all.

He opens the door to the backseat and starts pulling out package after package. There's an enormous bouquet, two boxes from Conti's, a brown paper bag from Red Ribbon, and a big plastic bag dangling from his wrist. I bite my lip and fight back the urge to comment that this isn't a wake—we don't need that much food. But he looks so keen and pleased with himself that I don't want to ruin the moment for him.