You May Kiss the Bride?
There came a time in my life when I found myself married to my roommate. He wasn’t an immigrant trying to keep his green card. He wasn’t running from the law. He wasn’t the love of my life. In all truth, he wasn’t a “he” at all. Her name was Kelsey, and we’d been friends since ninth grade AP Biology.
I wasn’t in love with her and, as far as I know, she hid no secret passions for me. We had gotten close over panicked phone calls about chemistry homework, over food runs and the school musical and shared friends. When the time came for all of us to go our separate ways, Kelsey and I didn’t. We both went to a small liberal arts college in the middle of Boston, pursuing our dreams and pledging to keep each other motivated along the way.
It was just at the end of the spring semester of our freshmen year when, unceremoniously, Kelsey and I decided we would wed. Our school only allowed seniors to move into off-campus housing, but we were both already fed up with dorm life. Underclassmen could move into their own apartments if they fit one of only a few exceptions. One was to join the military. Another was to have a psychiatrist declare you unfit to live in the dorms anymore. Another was to be married.