The Lost Boys

Have you ever dated a man who was lost? The kind of lost where you’re not even sure if he’s with you in the room, or if he’s ever shown up in any place at all? What about the man who wears oversized hockey jerseys and plays vinyls on a record player in the dark while you make out in his living room?

I once loved a befreckled boy whose last name had two syllables because I’d always wanted two syllables to balance out the three in my first name. He sent his friends over to ask me to be his girlfriend when we were in second grade. When I saw him cowering across the playground — waiting in agony, I can only presume — I remember feeling angry with him for his cowardly behavior. I made a grand gesture with my arms so he could decipher my answer. “Tell Jake that since he can’t come over here and ask me himself, I’ll never be his girlfriend!”

Then there were all the boys overseas in the war. I didn’t romanticize war. Plenty of family members had gone to Iraq and Afghanistan so it wasn’t something I played around with. But I felt tremendous responsibility to care for them. I loved all of them. They sent emails and chats. I always replied. So the story went at least 5,000 emails later. None of them ever loved me back, which I always thought was strange. Even with sending homemade beef jerky, they never did love me enough to want to keep me.

Another time there was the former-marine-turned-airport-manager. He had a steady job, a modest house, good eating habits and was handsome to boot. He had a wife-shaped hole in his life and that was obvious. It felt like someone strangling me, which was odd — because this was what everyone said I was looking for.

There was the mathematician. The consultant. One year each for both of them. I assumed they didn’t love me back because I wasn’t sure if I loved Jesus yet/still. They loved Jesus more, so I let them go on their merry way. The doctors were always an entertaining leap of faith or a test in sanity. For all my knowledge about their hectic schedules and the inherent challenges around family life, I was hoping I’d find the one handsome doctor who also had a pleasing work/life quality about him. Some of them stayed around for a few months, some just a few dates. One of them lied about his height by three inches because I assumed all the other women forgave him since he’s a doctor. On occasion, I wished I was four inches shorter — just so we could avoid the obvious fib someone else told on their profile.

I’ve loved two men who were each hugging a tombstone every time we talked. They didn’t mean to. They were actually quite brave, and I loved them because of their attempts. One had an incredible smile and energy. The other was strong in obvious, life-building sort of ways. Sometimes at night, I could feel their hearts open up. I knew they were building a small closet for me to live in — while they tried to tear down the house that used to belong to her. It wasn’t meant to be with either one of them, though. You see, that’s the trouble with seeing the good in people. Sometimes they can’t see it in themselves, and if that’s the case, then being loved in return is a lost cause.