Deconstruction of a Broken Heart: Part I

The Initial Hope

Compared to the standards established in years prior, the summer of 2006 was setting up to be a nondescript period of time, which was fitting since I was beginning the descent of my roaring 20’s. The long nights of gallivanting the nights away went from consecutive to occasional to sporadic. Clubs and raves became the dive bar after adult-league softball games, and midnight began to feel late.

I was going on my seventh year of being single, and while it seemed like a long time, I was in a good place, finally. I had been battling the demons of depression that were deeply rooted in my many insecurities. I had no reason and every reason to be alone at the time, yet it tortured me to be so. Finally though, I had come to a resolution in my heart to just live and not languish in worry.

One Thursday night in June, I arrived at the softball field early to warm-up for our first game of the season. Jessica’s boyfriend, Scott, invited to play on his team, and I was excited to be doing something active to keep me busy.

As the team warmed up on the side of the field, two girls approached us wondering if we were their team. Luckily for me, we were. One stood behind the other who was doing all the talking. She was wearing black spandex pants, a maroon tank-top, and running shoes. Her dirty-blonde hair was up behind a headband, and I couldn’t help but sneak glances at her. They were both named Jen, so we nicknamed the talkative one “C” since she was Jen Curci, and quiet one was nicknamed “T” for Jen Thompson. I was enchanted by “T” the moment I saw her. While they were being introduced to the team, my eyes locked in on her big hazel-browns, and usually I would turn away after a moment of awkwardness, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I smiled a wry smile, and she turned away because I caught her looking at me.

After games the team would go to the dive bar down the street called The Hangar for drinks, and I would use this time to make whatever conversation with Jen that I could. One night while lost in the words of our conversation, I reached over and poked the dimple in her cheek. I loved it when she smiled because that dimple made my heart swoon. It was the first time we made physical contact aside from the congratulatory high-fives on the field. I had breached the point of physical flirtation.

I noticed a poster in the elevator at work about a string quartet giving a performance of Haydn at the library. I invited Jen to the come along to show her I was a cultured gentleman. She wavered on committing to the plans, so I grabbed her cell phone and programmed my phone number into it. I told her to call me and let me know what she wanted to do.

The Friday before the Haydn sting quartet performance I got a phone call from a funny area code I had never seen before. I was hanging out with my sister at her ex-boyfriend’s house at the time, and quickly ran outside to take the call. Jen was calling to let me know that she wasn’t going to be able to make it because she was going on a camping trip with the other Jen. I opened up the mental bag of conversational tricks and kept her on the phone. What was supposed to be a quick call to tell me that she couldn’t hang out the following day turned into a two-hour conversation about anything and everything. It was the first time in a very long time that I had become so engrossed in a conversation that I lost all concept of time. There was just something different about Jen. Something special. Something that made this beautiful girl in a city rife with beautiful girls stand out.

I had always considered myself a “hopeless romantic in search of hope”, and for the first time in a long time I had an idea what that elusive hope was. It came in the elegant form of a girl who came from thousands of miles away to capture my thoughts, my heart, and my soul.