The first time I ever drove to Baldwin-Wallace College, I got stood up. I had hooked up with Justin one random night last spring at 2 a.m., and a week or so later I decided to drive up to Berea for round two. I arrived and called him. He was running late. No big deal. Two hours later, I had relocated to Panera Bread, calling and calling. Another hour, and Justin calls with news of his ex stalking him around his dorm. He’d taken refuge in his resident assistant’s room. After rolling my eyes, I got back on the turnpike and headed back to Kent.

Fast-forward nearly a year and a half, and I’ve driven to and from Berea five times in the past week. And while I took a few wrong turns my first journey back, I didn’t get stood up. What I got, after randomly deciding to drive up there at 11:30 one night, was a whole lot more than I bargained for or ever expected.

About a month ago now, I deleted all of my Facebook friends one lonely Sunday night. In less than seven minutes, I had freed myself of the 700-odd people I had added over the past seven years. It was a brash move, and the past few weeks have been plagued with wall posts and messages along the lines of, “I thought we were friends, man?” But if I hadn’t gotten rid of all my friends, then I couldn’t have gone on my random friending sprees throughout the past few weeks. Without adding enough friends daily to receive warnings about violating Facebook’s Terms of Service, I doubt Nick would’ve ever thought about messaging me out of the blue.

Just two weeks ago yesterday, I was watching “Monster-in-Law,” waiting for another friend to come see me after he got off work, chatting with this random English major from Baldwin-Wallace College. We cross-referenced social circles, exchanged increasingly scandalous photos of ourselves and agreed to have dinner and a movie the following Thursday.

Sunday rolls around. I spent the evening doing work and getting things ready for work in Cleveland the next morning. At 11 p.m., after we’d been texting all day, I asked Nick if he wanted me to spend the night – drinking and a movie. A bottle of cheap vodka and an overnight bag later, I was half-drunk and making out with this random boy I had met less than a week ago.

But then we didn’t have sex.

And the next morning, I was late to work because I wanted to stay with him all day. I sent him a dozen yellow roses as soon as I got to work in the morning. I bought him lunch that afternoon. I drove home after work and ended up driving back to spend yet another night with him.

And then I drove back again Tuesday night.

And then he drove here Wednesday night.

We were lying in bed at my apartment, making out and whatnot. I told him I didn’t want to have sex until we knew where whatever was going on between us was headed. He agreed.

“Well,” I said after a few semi-awkward moments of silence, “do you want to be mine?”

“I mean,” Nick coyly replied, “do you want to be my boyfriend?”

“Do you want to be my boyfriend?” I hesitantly responded.

He faux-searched for an answer for a few moments and then said yes.

So for about a week now, the guy who they never thought could – the one who, per a quote on someone’s Facebook wall, “would fuck a hot dog if he could” – has had a boyfriend.

God only knows why or how, but after the end of spring semester, having lost all faith in ever finding a new significant other and resigning myself to a summer full of meaningless romps, I told myself I wouldn’t look. I’d let him come to me.

Nick did. And for the first time in a year and a half, driving 40 minutes both ways to spend a night, sans sex, with an amazing guy is one of the best things going for me right now. Sure, it seems rushed, but these are the chances you have to take – the ones that may be an end-of-summer romance or the ones that have potential to be so much more than we know.

I’m betting on the latter and hoping deep down that he is too.

Adam Griffiths is a junior visual journalism major and columnist for the Summer Kent Stater.

Contact him at [email protected].