When I told Howard that we should meet again in five years to see if we were meant to be together, I thought I was just being practical. My idea was less about romance than hedging our bets.

I was only 18 then, a freshman at Cornell, and he was barely 21. We had dated since September and now it was spring. Soon we would be headed back to opposite coasts, he to San Francisco and me to suburban New Jersey . The impending separation was forcing us to re-evaluate. Our dorm-room conversation went something like this:

Me: “I think finding The One is a matter of person, place and time. What if we’re both the right person but this is the wrong place and time? We’d miss our chance and regret it.”

Him: “So, are you saying we should stay together?”

Me: “No. I don’t want to marry the first guy I’m serious about. I’m saying, let’s give ourselves a second chance. Let’s meet in five years. I’ll be 23, and you’ll be 26. We’ll see if we want to get back together.”