When I was fifteen, I convinced myself I was in love. Jonny was sweet, funny and kind. On Valentine’s day we met under a starry night and he told me he loved me and I whispered, “I love you” back.

We made plans. We named our kids and decided I would wear blue at our wedding. We got carried away, but the thrill of the romance carried us along.

On the night of my sixteenth birthday, he made me dinner and we talked for hours. Then he carried me upstairs and took away my maidenhood. Then we sat up talking, another cheesy romantic pose, his head in my lap.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.
I remember looking away, shamefaced.
“You’re sixteen now,” he said getting up from bed and walking over to his desk. “I want to ask you something.”
I nodded vaguely, still self-conscious about my new state.
“Marry me?”

Suddenly I was all too sober. Backing away from the door I was so glad my clothes were downstairs.
“I’m sorry.” I choked. “I’m sorry.”

I ran away that night, not for the first time, and definately not the last.