On the first date with my now-fiancé, Kye, I laid it all out on the table. I figured there was no use wasting his time. He had to know what he was in for. Kye could tell I was nervous, but he probably thought it was just jitters. He was handsome. Dark hair, kind eyes and the same smile I remembered from primary school, where we first met.
A lot had changed since we performed together in the school showcase. I scanned the room for the closest exit, mentally preparing a panic route for when it all went south.
“So, I need to tell you something,” I said.
He looked at me and nodded, waiting for what was coming. He held my sweaty palms and gave them a quick squeeze. My heart raced.
“So, I have a boyfriend – ,” I said too quickly. His eyes went to the floor and I realised how it sounded.
“Wait! No! I had a boyfriend … I guess. He died.”
I still wasn’t used to the words coming out of my mouth. Kye’s eyes returned to my own and his expression changed. His look was different to the one I’d come to expect. Instead of a pained expression of pity – a look I received so often at that time – his face held care.
I was 19. Not sure what to call myself. Not quite a widow, we weren’t married, though I had bought a ring to give him if he ever woke from his coma. Sadly that ring was never used.
Almost a year after the loss, I started a conversation with a boy from primary school. The online chat was easy. We kept it casual, discussing Marvel movies, exchanging pictures of our dogs, debating where to find the best curly fries in our neighbourhoods.
Finding the right time to drop my life bomb felt impossible. How do you segue from Doctor Strange to the boy you loved catching a deadly case of pneumonia? I waited for the first date.
Kye’s response told me he was different.
It wasn’t “I’m so sorry”, a phrase I’d heard over and over. Instead he said: “What was he like?”
He asked like he actually wanted to know.
For the first time, I spoke about what I’d gone through with ease. And he listened. He squeezed my sweaty hands. I could feel his palms were sweating too.
Our date lasted hours. The talking mixed with nervous gestures of affection. He held my hand in the cinema and I rested my head on his shoulder. He walked me to my car and asked if it was OK to kiss me. I said yes.
Dating while grieving was hard – sometimes really hard. We took it day by day. Kye respected what I had to do to get through it.
When I think of my late boyfriend I think of the day trips we took together. Car rides that turned into adventures without a destination. He was the first person to make me really feel safe, even when we were lost.
One day while stopped for lunch near a lake, a ladybug flew on his hand, then on to mine. After he passed, I looked out for ladybugs. They were my sign that he was with me.
On our first Valentine’s Day together, Kye bought me a ladybug teddy. He told me it was OK to still think of him.
When Kye and I decided to move in together, we went shopping for furniture.
It was exciting, but in those moments I would get a pinch of guilt. I was finding happiness with someone else.
On our way home, we listened to the radio and Kye held my hand. As we pulled into the driveway of our first place together, Kye turned the car off and sat still.
I looked over to see what it was he was looking at. There, on his steering wheel, was a ladybug.
Haylee Penfold is a writer from Newcastle, Australia
