looked around the room. “Oh!”
Not wasting a moment, I grabbed the pin and began sticking balloons. Laughing all the while, I searched for “the” balloon. But there were so many, I finally started shaking them and throwing them to the side.
“Don’t forget there are balloons on the ceiling,” Jeff reminded me. I looked up.
After an eternity, I shook a red balloon. Something rattled! When I poked it with my gold stickpin, shiny heart-shaped confetti cascaded around me. A blue ring bag fell to the carpet.
Trembling, I tipped it open until a ring fell into my hand. Jeff gently took it and urged me to sit on the couch.
“You know me. I have to do this the traditional way.” As he lowered himself to one knee, his brown eyes gazed into mine. He asked me to be his wife and slipped the princess-cut diamond on my finger.
After my eager “Yes!” and many kisses later, Jeff said, “Oh . . . and . . . by the way . . . we are not going to Happy Hour.”
Elizabeth L. Blair
A Friend, Indeed!
F riendship often ends in love, but love in friendship— never.
Charles Caleb Colton
“Mom . . . it’s over!” I wailed into the telephone. After being wined and dined for two years, I’d been dropped like a hot potato. My first heartbreak.
In the following days, tears gave way to a blank sadness and the bitter taste of betrayal. By Wednesday evening, I was lying on the living room floor curled in a ball, trying to ease an inner pain that would not cease. Then I heard a voice in the distance.
“Julia . . . come on . . . get up! Get dressed! We’re going out.”
I looked up with glazed eyes, dazedly recognizing my old friend Alex, whom (guiltily, I realized) I had not made much time for during the past couple of years.
“No,” I muttered with self-pity. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I felt myself elevated by strong, sturdy arms and gently placed on my feet. “Get dressed, Jules,” he repeated. “I’ll wait right here until you’re ready.”
Thus began the healing process. Through Alex, I reunited with friends I had somehow drifted away from through the years. He appeared at my doorstep each evening with a new agenda for the night, gently prying me from my misery as our mutual respect and quiet love for each other grew in friendship.
After a particularly difficult day, he took me to a lively café. Drowning my sorrows in a frothy latte, I blurted, “Alex, will I ever meet the right guy?”
His deep brown eyes danced with laughter. “Jules, one thing I can promise you: Someday, I’ll be dancing at your wedding.”
I gazed at my trusty, dependable friend. Taking in his broad stance, olive complexion and endearingly familiar smile, I tried to picture Alex waltzing with his date at my wedding. But I couldn’t. Something didn’t seem quite right. I resolved that this could only mean one thing: I might be destined to never get married. With a sigh, I turned my attention back to the latte.
As the years passed, I decided to concentrate on my career as an artist rather than on my downfalls with men. Alex was there to share my disappointments and successes, no matter how large or small. He helped me recover from the likes of Brad, Lou and John—although failed relationships no longer shocked my system.
I occasionally shot him an earful of advice on the ladies and suffered only mild pangs of jealousy toward the women in his life. But it wasn’t until Dan that I truly opened my eyes.
Dan. He was thrilling, exciting, handsome—and famous, too. What more could a girl want? Our dates consisted of exclusive shows and private parties, a fantasy come to life. So why did I find myself comparing him to Alex?
In fact, I realized most of the men I’d dated couldn’t hold a candle to Alex’s kindness. None had his sense of humor or rich, hearty laugh. None had his overwhelming compassion and genuine optimism. None had the qualities I had taken so for granted in Alex.
So, when Dan left me behind to go on tour, I
Not wasting a moment, I grabbed the pin and began sticking balloons. Laughing all the while, I searched for “the” balloon. But there were so many, I finally started shaking them and throwing them to the side.
“Don’t forget there are balloons on the ceiling,” Jeff reminded me. I looked up.
After an eternity, I shook a red balloon. Something rattled! When I poked it with my gold stickpin, shiny heart-shaped confetti cascaded around me. A blue ring bag fell to the carpet.
Trembling, I tipped it open until a ring fell into my hand. Jeff gently took it and urged me to sit on the couch.
“You know me. I have to do this the traditional way.” As he lowered himself to one knee, his brown eyes gazed into mine. He asked me to be his wife and slipped the princess-cut diamond on my finger.
After my eager “Yes!” and many kisses later, Jeff said, “Oh . . . and . . . by the way . . . we are not going to Happy Hour.”
Elizabeth L. Blair
A Friend, Indeed!
F riendship often ends in love, but love in friendship— never.
Charles Caleb Colton
“Mom . . . it’s over!” I wailed into the telephone. After being wined and dined for two years, I’d been dropped like a hot potato. My first heartbreak.
In the following days, tears gave way to a blank sadness and the bitter taste of betrayal. By Wednesday evening, I was lying on the living room floor curled in a ball, trying to ease an inner pain that would not cease. Then I heard a voice in the distance.
“Julia . . . come on . . . get up! Get dressed! We’re going out.”
I looked up with glazed eyes, dazedly recognizing my old friend Alex, whom (guiltily, I realized) I had not made much time for during the past couple of years.
“No,” I muttered with self-pity. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I felt myself elevated by strong, sturdy arms and gently placed on my feet. “Get dressed, Jules,” he repeated. “I’ll wait right here until you’re ready.”
Thus began the healing process. Through Alex, I reunited with friends I had somehow drifted away from through the years. He appeared at my doorstep each evening with a new agenda for the night, gently prying me from my misery as our mutual respect and quiet love for each other grew in friendship.
After a particularly difficult day, he took me to a lively café. Drowning my sorrows in a frothy latte, I blurted, “Alex, will I ever meet the right guy?”
His deep brown eyes danced with laughter. “Jules, one thing I can promise you: Someday, I’ll be dancing at your wedding.”
I gazed at my trusty, dependable friend. Taking in his broad stance, olive complexion and endearingly familiar smile, I tried to picture Alex waltzing with his date at my wedding. But I couldn’t. Something didn’t seem quite right. I resolved that this could only mean one thing: I might be destined to never get married. With a sigh, I turned my attention back to the latte.
As the years passed, I decided to concentrate on my career as an artist rather than on my downfalls with men. Alex was there to share my disappointments and successes, no matter how large or small. He helped me recover from the likes of Brad, Lou and John—although failed relationships no longer shocked my system.
I occasionally shot him an earful of advice on the ladies and suffered only mild pangs of jealousy toward the women in his life. But it wasn’t until Dan that I truly opened my eyes.
Dan. He was thrilling, exciting, handsome—and famous, too. What more could a girl want? Our dates consisted of exclusive shows and private parties, a fantasy come to life. So why did I find myself comparing him to Alex?
In fact, I realized most of the men I’d dated couldn’t hold a candle to Alex’s kindness. None had his sense of humor or rich, hearty laugh. None had his overwhelming compassion and genuine optimism. None had the qualities I had taken so for granted in Alex.
So, when Dan left me behind to go on tour, I
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