We met on a porch swing after a baseball game. He was tall and tan, and his name was Zach.
When I got up from the swing, and walked out of earshot, he told my friends he liked what he saw in my white jeans.
He looked pretty good in his baseball pants, too.
We were only 18, living in Indiana. It was my last summer before I moved to Baton Rouge, to go to LSU.
Without much hesitation, we spent the summer together, knowing we’d part ways in August.
Many nights were spent driving through cornfields to get to his parents’ house, where he built a “Tiki hut” — a shed with windows and strings of flamingo lights — and we’d sip malt liquor until sunrise.
I even started to like country music that summer, hearing it constantly while riding in Zach’s truck. To this day, “These Days,” by Rascal Flatts takes me down memory lane. Read more…