Marco was one of my best friends in high school. We had bonded during the 10th grade drama class that he didn’t even want to take. We talked about his racist parents, my over-protective father. He was a farm boy; tall, green-eyed, on the football team. I was the eccentric yearbook committee editor who wore Chuck Taylors all year around. Several of my friends thought he was cute; said I could do worse. I wasn’t interested. A year later, as I watched my friends get wrapped up in elaborate promposals, I automatically assumed that I was going with Marco. It was late April when he asked me to describe my…