The moment I knew: we were running late, but his optimism was contagious

In 1992 I arrived for year 9 as a scholarship kid at a boarding school in the Victorian Alps. I was from Canberra and knew no one. Boring suburbia was replaced by a bush shed shared with 14 girls. We had to chop wood for warmth and hot showers, and spent weekends hiking and skiing. I got tougher, explored my limits (a half marathon and six-day hike by the end of the year) and made lifelong friends.

One of them was Guy. He was in my French class, our desks separated by half the alphabet. A regular in my diary list of “top five boys”, he was witty, genuine and playful. We played pranks and games – table rugby, footsies, hid and stole each other’s stuff – and sent ridiculous notes at supper. Whatever we did, there was laughter.

I loved the school, but my parents didn’t, so the next year, I was back in Canberra. Guy and I kept in touch: phone calls, mix tapes, an unaccompanied group ski trip to Jindabyne that I now can’t believe was allowed. A British expat kid from Hong Kong, Guy moved back to England after school, but during gap years and uni holidays we sometimes caught up. We went on adventures, got drunk and laughed from Canberra to Bristol and the Lake District.

There was chemistry, but also bad timing. A couple of times early on we almost kissed but were interrupted – by people, nerves, circumstances. After that, I was loyally coupled up with an English boy I met at 18. While nothing romantic ever happened with Guy, he remained one of the best people I knew.

In 2001 I moved to the UK to be with my boyfriend. I had $300 and a plan to join him in Scotland after earning some cash in London. On my second night in town, I met up with Guy in the pub. He bounded across the room like an excited labrador, wrapping me in a long hug that broadcast delight. He’d come straight from a job interview, his blue and yellow checked shirt paired with a maroon paisley tie. We talked and drank and danced in terrible nightclubs before I passed out on his brother’s couch.

We hung out a few times and things were fun, effortless and sparky, with awkwardness only arising if my boyfriend was mentioned. I knew I was falling for him and suspected it was mutual, but didn’t want to burden a new relationship with the demise of an old one. I caught the train up north and broke it off without telling Guy.

A few weeks later my sister had an Australia Day party at her place in London. She and I were jars of Vegemite; Guy was dressed as Steve Irwin. Halfway through the night, I nervously told him I’d broken up with my boyfriend. We sat on the couch and held hands. It was all on from then.

Four months later, Guy ran through the train station towards me, beaming, his bag flying behind triumphantly. When he caught up with me, we sprinted down the escalators towards the train to the airport, the doors closing just behind us. It was our first weekend away: he knew I got nervous about missing flights and had arrived an hour later than agreed. As the train started moving, he ignored my annoyed look and wrapped me in a hug. “We’re going to Venice, baby!” he said, laughing as he outlined an elaborate story of why he’d been late: lunch with his grandparents, leaving his bag on a train, his brother saving the day.

We didn’t know it yet, but our flight was delayed. Later that evening we would roll off the plane into a maze of lanes and canals with three whole days to explore.

Guy has a serendipitous, optimistic, contagious kind of magic – he knew we were going to make it, and that if we didn’t we’d find something better to do.

And we have, for 20 years of marriage, three kids and all the life hidden within that sentence.

We’ve worked out careers, parenting and identities, had amazing adventures on most continents, before the kids and with them in tow. All the hard and easy times, the routine and slog, have been enlivened by laughter.

Guy helps me remember what actually matters, and that we get to decide how to live. For decades now we’ve been choosing together: starting with joy, ending with kindness, rounded out with adventure.

Megan Holbeck is a freelance writer.

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