He was two years younger than me–a college student on a semester abroad, living on my Island, studying resort hospitality & management. It was the summer before my mission and never mind the fact that I couldn’t understand much of what he said due to his thick accent, he had me at “Hello, I’m from Paris.”

Mother didn’t approve–at all–due to the fast approaching missionary service I’d committed to, consistently late nights (really late), and the fact that he had no idea what a Mormon was let alone what our standards are, but I told him where I stood when it came to “that stuff” and while dating him probably wasn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done, it also wasn’t the dumbest and I feel no regret. I actually look back on it with a smile. It was a fun summer.

A really fun summer.

There wasn’t a whole lot of substance to the relationship and that didn’t bother me. It still doesn’t. That’s the point of summer flings. They’re built solely on heat, a foundation as sturdy as the sand on the beach. You know it’s going to end so depth doesn’t really matter.

He worked all day at the hotel and I worked all day on the docks. At night we would play. That meant movies, dinners, and the beach. And the “beach” meant making out in the sand-dunes. What can I say? He spoke French whilst he kissed me. What’s a girl to do? Kiss back. That’s what she’s supposed to do.

And I did. A lot.

I remember he made me lobster one night. We ate it sitting cross legged on a blanket on the floor while he tried to teach me French. He wore fitted 4-button suits with gorgeous silk ties. And thus began my love affair with the way European men dress. He tasted like mint. And he smelled delicious.

On our last night together we dressed up in our fanciest and went to a French restaurant. We ate duck and escargot dripping in butter sauce. I loved it. Loved it. At the end of the night, he walked me to my car, cupped my cheeks in his hands and kissed me long and hard on the lips. Then he kissed my forehead and told me to “find a boy who will take care of [me].”

And then he turned and walked away.

I wasn’t sad. I didn’t cry. I didn’t try to prolong the good-bye. It was just the end.

The end.

Of my one and only summer fling.