My name is Mollie Player. My husband is named David, also Player. He didn’t give me that name, though; I took it from him. But he didn’t mind.
He is a good person, and a good friend.
I haven’t known my husband David for long. I have only known him for about three years, depending on when you’re reading this, and since I am now—depending on when you’re reading this—about thirty-three years old, and I never met anyone that made me happy as a partner before I met him, there was a long time before I knew him that I was alone.
This is the story of those times.
It is also the story of now.
A few years before meeting David, I bought a house in my hometown. For a long time, I lived there by myself. After I got sick of that, I moved to El Paso and got married. That didn’t work out, but I made the best of it: I didn’t move back home.
I moved to Seattle instead.
I didn’t make this decision lightly. Guessing (as it turned out, correctly) at the importance of this decision, I thought very hard about what to do.
First, I thought about going to Japan or Korea to teach English. I decided against it, though, when I realized it would be hard to find people to date there. After that, I considered just traveling around the U.S. for the entire summer—maybe even to Alaska—taking any decent job I could get until I figured out what to do next. I decided against that too, though, not wanting to put off my career any longer. I needed to find a job I really liked, I decided, and a city I really loved.
I didn’t want to be unhappy anymore, and I didn’t want to be alone.
That is when, all of a sudden, I remembered Seattle.
As soon as the idea crossed my mind, it seemed right. It wasn’t too far from my hometown and family, but it was a beautiful place with the weather just like I like it and it was big enough that I could find a good job eventually, too. So, that night, I made a profile on a dating website and started looking for a boyfriend there. Two weeks went by, and then, it happened:
I met David.
At first, since I was still living in El Paso, we just wrote emails. One day, very early on in our exchange, he ended one of his letters with a heart icon, and when I saw that, I knew he was feeling the same way that I was already. After that, we had some long phone conversations and then, about two weeks later, on the first evening of the first day I was in Seattle—the day I moved here—we met in person.
Six days later, we were on a seven-day cruise to Alaska.
On our first date, I wasn’t sure if I liked him. I even told the friend that I was staying with in Seattle that I didn’t think it was going to work out. “He’s too thin,” I told her. “He’s too happy.”
Then, on our second date, I fell in love.
It hurt so badly.
He wanted to see me again the next day, but I told him I thought we should wait a while.
We waited two days. On our third date, the fifth day after we met, while we were walking through a park on the way to his house from the bus stop, he said that he was glad that I had decided not to see him the other day even though he’d wanted to see me. He said that he had needed some time to figure out his feelings. Neither of us had brought up the subject of our feelings for each other yet, and I was surprised that he didn’t mind saying something like that so soon.
At that moment, I knew I could trust him. I knew that he was honest.
I was right.