I was thirteen years old when, in a cloud of bonfire smoke, Brock Kinsey asked if I was cold.
“I’m fine.” In fact, I was freezing—but what that had to do with Brock Kinsey, I couldn’t fathom.
“Your teeth are chattering,” Brock observed, availing himself of his denim jacket. He was the tallest fourteen-year-old I’d ever seen, his six-foot frame towering over me. He extended the denim jacket like a church usher holding out a collection plate. When I didn’t move, he carefully draped the denim jacket around my shoulders.
I felt utterly ridiculous—like a toddler playing dress-up in her dad’s sports coat. My hands were lost in long sleeves of denim. I stared helplessly at my Sharpie-marked Solo cup, deserted in the crabgrass, the bubbles in my store-brand cola still fizzing.
“That won’t work,” Brock said—like this was a grave problem to be fixed. Two or three girls huddled nearby, watching the entire interaction as if it were a Lifetime movie. I hoped Brock would drop the whole thing. Instead, he stroked his chin—determined to arrive at a solution.
Suddenly, it came to him and—before I knew what was happening—he began to peel the striped sweater from his very body. His head momentarily disappeared into pastel lengths of wool. Brock tugged at the edge of his wool sweater, revealing a cotton undershirt. One of the girls let out a muffled gasp.
Brock Kinsey was new to our small homeschooling community. His lack of awareness regarding Christian courtship culture in the early 2000s was obvious. I wasn’t positive whether Brock even owned a copy of I Kissed Dating Goodbye. With various articles of clothing flying in every direction, I harbored some doubt.
Brock extended his balled-up sweater. “This might fit better.” I handed the denim jacket back. He slipped it over his undershirt and ran a hand through gel-spiked hair.
“Thanks.” I held the ball of wool in my hands like a gift I planned to open later.
“Put it on,” Brock said.
Slowly, I unrolled the sweater. I poked my head through the gaping neck hole. In one fluid motion, the sweater cascaded to my knees.
“You’re small,” Brock commented.
“Not really.” I stared down at my jeans and sneakers—barely visible now. I muttered something about needing to check on my friends.
“Sure,” Brock said, sipping his cola with relative ease of motion—an indisputable benefit of having access to one’s own hands.
I entered the huddle of nearby girls. “What a nightmare,” I moaned.
Sierra sniffed my shoulder. “You smell good.”
Jessica plunged her head into the crook of my elbow. “Is that cologne?”
Sierra—an expert on all things boy, by virtue of having an older brother—inhaled my shoulder again. She came up for air, deep in thought, finally concluding: “I think it’s Calvin Klein.”
Jessica swooned. “You’re so lucky!”
“I don’t want to wear his clothes!” I squeaked.
Jessica’s eyes widened. “Why not?”
Sierra, who knew me best, cut in: “Heather doesn’t like Brock. Heather likes—”
“No one!” I hissed.
Jessica stared admiringly in Brock’s direction. “You should give Brock a chance. He’s so tall.”
“I’d wear his sweater,” Sierra agreed.
“You wear it, then.” I stripped the Calvin Klein-scented tent from my torso.
“I can’t wear that! He gave it to you.”
“Well, I don’t want it!” I balled the sweater up and marched straight back to Brock, who was now standing with a couple of other boys.
“Um, Brock?” I held the sweater as far away from my body as possible. “I’m not cold anymore. Thanks for letting me borrow your sweater.”
“Are you sure?” Brock accepted the wad of fabric. “It’s freezing out here.”
I crossed my arms to hide the goosebumps rapidly surfacing. “I’m sure. Thanks again.” I held up my hand in what I hoped would be interpreted as a goodbye-forever wave.
Then, I ran—my sneaker colliding with my Sharpie-marked Solo cup. The cola hissed and foamed at my feet. I glanced around, hoping that the actual object of my affection—one Nicholas Coffman, a boy who’d recently lent me his copy of The Hobbit—hadn’t seen any of it. The lending and returning of this book had presented me with two separate opportunities to admire Nicholas Coffman’s blue eyes while discussing dwarves for roughly ninety seconds. Now, all of that hard-fought progress was unraveling faster than a snag in Brock’s sweater—a sweater no doubt purchased in some cologne-scented den of sin at the local mall.
By homeschool-group standards, Brock’s rotating offers of outerwear were tantamount to a Viking claim. My future was bleak, pastel, and hair-gelled to a crisp. In the glow of the blaze, my eyes met Nicholas Coffman’s. The look in his eyes told me he’d seen all of it. He turned away, his silver purity ring gleaming in the moonlight. I was sullied goods at thirteen, luring tall boys with Tweety Bird overalls and butterfly clips. Daydreams of a parent-sanctioned courtship with a teenage Tolkien scholar burned to blackest ash.
Brock continued his attentions for a while—he once insisted I listen to Christian metal band P.O.D. on his Sony Discman for the uncomfortable length of three songs. Looking back, I recognize that he was trying to get to know me better. At the time, it felt like a distraction from the long game I was attempting to play with Nicholas Coffman. A tentative wave here, an impression of Gollum there—with time, all of it would surely add up to the Darcy-and-Elizabeth end game my childish heart desired. Brock Kinsey would not be diverting me from my own personal Rebecca St. James “Wait for Me” moment with a pair of shared earbuds and a couple of P.O.D. songs.
In the end, I married neither Brock Kinsey nor Nicholas Coffman. That night at the bonfire, in fact, turned out to be wholly inconsequential to my life—with one exception. No matter the forecast or my destination, I always bring my own jacket.