Chapter Fifteen #3
"Deal. But Sophia?"
"Yeah?"
"For the record, I was never going to choose anyone else over you. I was just trying to figure out how to choose you in a way that didn't require disappointing everyone else in my life."
"And what did you figure out?"
"I figured out that sometimes disappointing people is inevitable, but losing you would be unforgivable."
"That's very romantic for someone who spent four days being terrible at communication."
"I'm a work in progress. And still figuring out if I’m worthy of you."
"You're already worthy," she says, and then she's kissing me in front of twenty-four kids and their families and Athletic Director Morrison, and I realize that this—this public declaration of choosing each other despite all the complications—is exactly what we both needed.
When we finally break apart, Marcus is standing next to us on the ice, grinning like he's solved a particularly satisfying puzzle.
"Miss Sophia! Coach Matt! Are you done being weird now?"
"Yes," Sophia says, laughing. "We're done being weird."
"Good, because Lucy wants to show you her new jump, and Emma's mom brought cupcakes, and my grandparents want to meet the teachers who made me brave enough to try hockey stops."
As we skate over to join the celebration, Sophia leans close enough to whisper, "So what's next on our agenda? After we eat cupcakes and meet grandparents?"
"Next," I say, "we start planning how to run an expanded program next semester while also figuring out our post-graduation lives."
"That sounds complicated."
"It sounds perfect," I correct. "Complex, challenging, and probably requiring multiple spreadsheets, but perfect."
"I love you," she says, and there's wonder in her voice, like she's still surprised by the fact that we figured out how to make this work.
"I love you too. Even when you color-code our lesson plans."
Six months later, I'm sitting in my first-year law school apartment in Seattle, video-calling Sophia during her last semester of college, watching her explain her post-graduation plans to our now forty-six program participants and their families.
The Turner-Gable Youth Athletics Fund has grown into something neither of us imagined—a permanent program with multiple age groups, scholarship opportunities, and a waiting list of families who want their kids to learn that falling down safely is just as important as staying upright.
Sophia got into medical school—three medical schools, actually—and chose the one that's only ninety minutes away from my law program.
We've created a systematic approach to long-distance dating that involves shared calendars, regular visit schedules, and a joint spreadsheet tracking our progress toward our various life goals.
It's complicated and coordinated and exactly the kind of relationship that works for two people who've learned that the best partnerships require both structure and flexibility.
"Matt," Sophia says through the laptop screen, "Marcus wants to know if you're coming to the spring showcase."
"Tell Marcus I wouldn't miss it," I call back. "And tell him I expect to see significant improvement in his backwards skating."
"He says he's been practicing, and also that he's teaching his little sister your falling technique."
"Excellent. The falling technique is crucial life skill."
"I love you," she says, and even through a computer screen, the words make my chest warm.
"I love you too. Even when you insist on documenting our relationship milestones in spreadsheet format."
"The relationship milestone spreadsheet is a beautiful organizational tool and you know it."
"I know. It's color-coded and everything."
As I hang up and return to my Constitutional Law reading, I find myself thinking about how much has changed since that first morning when I showed up early at the ice arena and found Sophia Turner inspecting ice conditions with the intensity of someone conducting a scientific experiment.
We're still conducting experiments, in a way.
Testing hypotheses about what it means to build a life together while pursuing individual ambitions.
Gathering data about which approaches work and which need revision.
Learning that the best relationships, like the best educational programs, require constant attention and occasional course corrections.
But we're conducting these experiments together now, as partners who've figured out that the most important variable in any equation is the willingness to keep trying, even when the solution isn't immediately obvious.
Some love stories, it turns out, begin with territorial disputes and end with permanent partnerships.
And some love stories involve a lot more spreadsheets than you'd expect, but somehow that makes them perfect instead of problematic.
Some partnerships, it turns out, are worth every complication they create.
Even when those complications involve color-coded lesson plans and systematic approaches to long-distance relationship maintenance. Especially then.