When Chris and the kids leave for the water park I buckle down and finish my work, then head out to begin my errands. I finish the grocery shopping quickly, amazed at how much I can accomplish when I’m not dragging two squabbling kids along. After dropping off the groceries at home, I get my oil changed, deal with the dry cleaning, fill the prescription, and then pull into the Starbucks next door. I order an iced latte, sipping it at one of the shaded outdoor tables. The marquee for a nearby movie theater catches my eye. My family won’t be home for hours, so I wander over and buy a ticket for Sex and the City 2; I’ve been dying to see it. My mood instantly improves when I find a seat in the half-empty theater, the air-conditioning a welcome contrast to the rising temperature and the blazing afternoon sunshine.

I love going to the movies; I always have. There’s nothing quite like the anticipation of the story that’s about to be played out on the big screen. I’ve never been to a movie by myself before, but once the lights go down and the previews start, I wonder why I waited so long.

That’s where Chris and I met back in 1998, sitting next to each other in a movie theater when we were twenty-two years old. Kendra, a girlfriend I’d met during my internship and that I still kept in contact with, had called me up late that afternoon. “A bunch of us are getting together to see There’s Something About Mary tonight. Are you interested?”

It was August. I’d moved into my own apartment after graduation, a cute studio in a quiet neighborhood that was within a few miles of my first postcollege, full-time job. I had no one to help me if my blood sugar got too low or too high, so managing my diabetes became more important than ever. It made my parents nervous and they tried to talk me out of it, but I’d looked forward to having my own place, relishing the thought of peace and quiet after the noise and chaos of the three friends I had roomed with for the past two years. I craved independence and wanted to prove to my parents—and myself—that I could live on my own. It wasn’t until after I moved in and spent the first few nights alone that I realized how much I missed those girls and their constant companionship. The company I worked for was also very small, and even though I enjoyed preparing visual presentations for a handful of clients, it was quite solitary compared to the large groups I’d worked with on school projects.

So when Kendra called I said yes immediately, jumping at the chance to surround myself with people and noise and get out of the studio apartment that had once seemed so perfect and quaint and now just seemed lonely and claustrophobic. “Great. I’ll pick you up in an hour,” she said.

We met the rest of the group outside the theater, and I noticed him right away. He stood off to the side a bit, this perfect boy with blue eyes and blond hair, wearing khaki pants and a white polo shirt, as if he eschewed everything about the slovenly, multipierced, and tattooed student body he’d recently left behind. He looked like he didn’t belong and he also looked as if he couldn’t care less about things like that. I’d eventually find out that he had been way too busy holding down two part-time jobs and earning straight As to worry about what others thought of him. I realized I’d been staring and looked away quickly, but not before noticing that he seemed to be looking at me, too.

When we were standing in line to buy tickets, Kendra told me—when I inquired, casually, as if I really didn’t care—that he was the former roommate of someone in the group. There were seven of us and we bought popcorn and found seats in the theater, and somehow he ended up sitting right next to me.

He introduced himself. “Hi, I’m Chris.”

“Claire,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.” Clean-shaven and clear-eyed, he lacked the run-down, bloodshot, hard-partying look my previous boyfriend had worn like a badge of honor. I had dated Logan for almost a year but we parted ways when it became clear that I had neither the stamina nor the desire to keep up with him. I had no interest in abusing my body the way so many of my peers did; I had enough to worry about without taking additional risks. I overheard Logan tell a friend one time, “Claire’s hot, but she has issues.” He was probably referring to the time my blood sugar dropped too low. I got shaky and started sweating and luckily I had glucose tablets within reach because he was no help whatsoever. Logan would have freaked out if he’d seen me during a severe low, because it isn’t pretty. I say random things. I sweat profusely, and I cry. I can become belligerent pretty easily. Though Logan never came right out and said it, I always felt as if my diabetes—and my need to follow a strict schedule—put a damper on his spontaneous ways. My disease was manageable, but it required vigilant monitoring and making sure that insulin was readily available. Logan thought nothing of road-tripping two hundred miles to see a concert with only an hour’s notice and he felt more at home in a smoky bar, tossing back shots of Jäger, than he ever did in a darkened movie theater. The stress of trying to fit into his world and the ups and downs of my blood sugar became something I started to hide around him, and I had enough sense to know that it wasn’t a good sign. I ended the relationship a short time later and was more than a little heartbroken when he didn’t seem to care.

After the movie everyone went out for pizza and beer and Chris lingered near me, making conversation and asking if I needed anything. He drove me home that night. “Can I have your number?” he asked.

“Sure,” I said, digging a business card out of my purse and scribbling my home number on the back in case he didn’t want to call me at work. I thought he might try to kiss me, but he pocketed the card and made sure I was safely inside before he walked back to his car. I would have let him. Even back then there was something solid, trustworthy, comforting about him. Or maybe I just liked the way he looked.

He called the very next day and invited me to another movie the following Saturday, a matinee this time. “I thought we could have lunch first,” he said.

“That would be great,” I said.

He picked me up and thus began one of the best dates I ever had. It was one of those idyllic summer days where the humidity seemed to vanish and the temperature hovered at a perfect seventy-five degrees, so we sat at a sidewalk table at a small bistro and ordered Bloody Marys with our lunch. I didn’t often drink alcohol, but there were times when a drink sounded good and that day was one of them. I remember the way the vodka made me feel even more relaxed and carefree than I already did. Chris told me he hated olives and since I love them he laughed and popped his into my mouth, and all I could think about was the feel of his fingers as they touched my lips. When our food came we shared our entrees, feeding each other bites off our forks. To the casual observer, we probably looked like we’d been dating for a while. There were no awkward moments, and I felt instantly comfortable with him. We were having such a good time that we arrived at the movie—Saving Private Ryan—late, missing the previews and sliding into our seats just in time for the main feature.

When the house lights came up Chris asked, “Do you want to get some dinner? You’re probably getting tired of me, but I’m hungry again and I thought you might be, too.”

I looked at my watch. I didn’t wear an insulin pump back then, and I needed to check my blood sugar and give myself a shot before I could eat anything else. “Maybe some other time,” I said. He tried to hide it, but the surprise at being turned down when we were clearly having a great first date showed on his face. “It’s just that I have to go home,” I said. We walked silently to his car and he opened the door for me. When we reached my apartment and he walked me to the door, he made no move to leave. I unlocked it and he followed me down the short hallway and into the kitchen. I walked to the refrigerator and after I pulled out the bottle of insulin I filled a syringe, pulled up the hem of my skirt to expose my upper thigh, and plunged the needle in. Normally I hated giving myself a shot in front of anyone. People seemed to freak out about needles and it didn’t help that Logan used to refer to it as “Claire shooting up.” Chris watched, silently, his eyes lingering on the tan skin of my leg. I capped the syringe and threw it away, then looked up at him.