Fourteen years ago today, Kevin and I ended our year-long courtship and became sweeties. “Courtship” isn’t a word applied to budding lurv relationships since, oh, the Victorian era, but that’s really the only one that describes the circling Kevin and I did.

Except maybe the word “denial.” But in our defense, we had a very good excuse for hemming and hawing about hooking up: We were friends. For a long time. Eight years, to be precise.

I met Kevin in 1988 when I was a dainty maid of 20 and he was a strapping boy of 21.  We were introduced (and I use that term loosely) at a party by my friend who was dating his roommate.

It’s not like our eyes met across a crowded room and the sparks flew.  It was more like me turning to my friend and whispering, “Who’s the weird guy in the camouflage?” I don’t think he noticed me much at all that first day.

Thus began eight years of hi-jinx with my first-ever circle of friends.  Soon we were all sharing the same house on Capitol Hill, trying to make it through school without crashing and burning.  The official renters were the four of us girls, hence the name Delta House. But we lived with at least 4 guys much of the time, and others, too – the boyfriends, the girlfriends, the mutual friends, the lesbians who broke up and had no where else to go, etc.  Kevin dated all of my friends, and I dated all of his friends.  My girlfriends slept with his girlfriends; our male friends spoke to each other in code.

Throughout these years of playing musical partners, there was never any “Gee, I sure wish she / he was free” going on between Kevin and me. We just were not on each other’s romantic radar.

Then everything changed: Delta House graduated from the UW. Wedding bells and out-0f-town dreams were breaking up that old gang of mine. The circle broke apart slowly, slowly, until only the trinity was left: Kevin, our gay pal Bill and me.

It dawned on us that this particular combination of Delta House tenants was the only one that could honestly boast that none of us had slept with each other. “We are the Unfuckable Club!”  we crowed as we ordered another round. “See?  I carry the official card in my wallet!”

It was about this time that both Kevin and I began to wake up to the fact that there was an  attractive, nice, funny, unattached, non-axe murdering fuckable person of the hetero-persuasion in close proximity. So naturally, what did we do about it? Nothing!

Both of us had played the friend-lover-exfriend game before and it sucked. We didn’t want to go through that again. We could enjoy our friendship for what it was: nice, safe, and primly platonic.

Then Bill had to go ruin that ride by getting a job in Vancouver, Washington which is 2 hours from Seattle.  Kevin and I discovered that if you are stuck in a car with someone for 4 hours round trip, you have to talk. Naturally we didn’t talk about the fact that we were slowly becoming smitten. We talked about work and school and friends and anything except that big white elephant in the car.

The moment that you realize you are in love with your friend, your shit begins to freak out.  You realize with ice-pick clarity that suddenly there is a lot more to lose if things do not go well. And, well, neither of us had had the greatest experience with things going well.

Thus continueth the chicken’s game known as “We’re just friends” where all your friends roll their eyes and start planning the “you finally did it” party behind your back. For like, a whole nother year.

Finally one day, one of us (ahem) decided she could not live with all the eye-rolling anymore. She did not meet Kevin at the apartment door in her lingerie as she was encouraged to do by her more adventurous roommate.  No, she played it safe by simply asking him if he would be interested in giving up his membership in he Unfuckable Club.

“How so?” he asked.

Sigh, she sighed. “With me.”

“Ack,” he considered.

This exchange was followed by an entire evening sitting on the couch clutching comfort blankies and shyly holding hands.  We shared a bed fully clothed that night. It took us a week to kiss.

But it was all worth it because fourteen years later, he is still an attractive, nice, funny, non-axe murdering fuckable person of the hetero-persuasion in close proximity who brings me roses and holds my hand.  And who will hopefully draw his last breath at the exact moment I draw mine as we lie peacefully in each others arms. Under a sheet or something to avoid embarrassing the nursing home attendant who finds us, of course.