2016

            I knew a girl once. I now know her as a mistake, but it was a mistake I was willing to make for reasons I have yet to discover. In the time I knew her, I loved her the way one enjoys the thrill of a fleeting high. We made as much of our time together as we could, but there was only so much to squeeze out of our tiny, teen romance. In the blissful darkness, we blindly toyed with each other, gentle caresses that hinted at something more—I was almost convinced we’d had it all. 

            Later, looking back, I shone a light on all the broken promises, unfulfilled milestones, and lies upon lies upon lies. It disturbed me just how much I couldn’t see when I was caught in her embrace.

            But, oh, those lips. Who can ever forget the taste of black cherries? Or that forest of curling hair, seductively bursting with the scent of heaven (or hell?), too much it was too good. Too much, it was overwhelming. Too much, it could kill grown men. I wandered in anyway. 

            She was my biggest and best mistake all wrapped up in one delightfully excruciating year. It was the year I had my first girlfriend, the year of my first kiss, the year of my first break up. In just twelve short months, she brought out the best of me and she brought out the worst. She knew me better than I did, and for that, I will never forgive myself.

Winter

            Unlike most love stories, it started in the winter. Out of the ashes of crinkling leaves and skeleton trees grew two hearts, pierced together with a poison needle. On the day she invited me to her sister’s birthday, she was the last thought on my mind. Her soft smile was still inextricably imprinted on the preceding school year, when we had said our final adieus. She was to attend boarding school in Switzerland, a natural byproduct of wealthy and busy parents. I was to embark on my first year of college, four years prematurely that is. 

            We hadn’t spoken much in the intermediate time. She had called once in the fall, begging for me to stay in touch, but besides that, our interactions were largely perfunctory. She would send a picture of her dorm room and in exchange, I would cursorily catch her up on the latest in L.A. She would wish me a Happy New Year and I would reciprocate. But, one winter’s afternoon, that all changed.

            A zephyr blew cold air through the wind chimes on the porch of my small townhouse, and from my room, I relished in the light clanging of metal on metal. When my phone dinged, I could barely distinguish the noise.

            “Hi, are you free tomorrow night?” read the text. “My sister, some of my family and a lot of her friends are going to a movie to celebrate her birthday because we will be away on the actual day, do you maybe want to come?”

            Trust her to ruin my plans. “Tomorrow night,” I was to see a play with my mother, who had reserved tickets months ahead of time for the two of us. But, at the moment, I knew—or thought I knew—where my proprieties laid.

            “I’ll see you tomorrow!” I texted back.

            When I arrived at the AMC theater, I quickly found her among the mass of shuffling bodies all gathered for the celebration. It didn’t take me long to figure out why she had invited me: she had no one else.

            Later that night, upon returning to her house, we snuck upstairs to her room while the remainder of party guests entertained themselves downstairs.

            “My mom’s in a good mood, so she’s letting us be alone tonight,” she told me. I wasn’t sure what to make of her comment.

            We sat, watching a horror movie, my arm around hers. Somehow, it felt as though we had never left each other. Those interceding months between when I saw her last and now became one terribly long night, swept away with the coming of this party and the horrific images flashing before us. We had awfully little to say to one another, but all to do.

            She sealed that night with a kiss. The kiss was…average, but the seal was deadly. I couldn’t see my surroundings well that night—the room was washed solely in the soft glow of the TV screen—but somehow, she had led me into a bed of quicksand. Resist her and I only fell further. 

Spring

            We didn’t talk much in the Spring, but we texted…a lot. It was clear that she had me under her thumb, but I derived a sort of pleasure from my pathetic inability to keep her out of my mind. Those were the days when every incoming text pulled at my heartstrings and every time it wasn’t her pulled even harder. Long hours I would sit by my phone restlessly, my mind preoccupied on our scheduled FaceTime appointment due to begin any minute. I would wait for her call and of course it would never come.

            Finally, she broke the silence.

            “Alright, so I have an idea,” she texted. “I think we should just be friends until I get back.” I could see my heart in the palm of her hand. She squeezed and it bled. If she wanted to, she could even make it burst.

            “Just friends. Just until I get back,” she added. “Quick break, only 5 five weeks.”

            Only five? Oh right, summer.

Summer

            How could I have been so stupid? 

            We sat on the beach together, the warm, moist sand curling around our fingers. Only an inch of space separated our bodies, but something within in me held back from closing the gap. The inch between us was small but scorching. 

            Malibu Beach had been blessed with the best weather there was to offer that day. The waves lapped gently along the powdery shore. The air was cool and the sun shone brightly on the water, making it sparkle. Why had she chosen to tell me now? Her words were white, hot, and irritating, entering one ear and darting out the other—maybe my body was allergic.

            “I just wanted to get it off my chest,” she concluded.

            Silence cut through the void between us, spreading an inch into a mile.

            “So let me get this straight…these breaks you asked me about weren’t even breaks? They were just whenever you felt like-”

            Don’t say it, don’t say it.

            “Yes,” she interrupted, a little too loudly. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to forgive me.”

            Another silence.

            Could I forgive her? Could I let her get away? All that time I’d been giving, giving, my heart bleeding for hers and all that time she’d been coquettishly kindling fires under boys I had never seen? Boys sheonly knew in passing? Could I forgive her? Better question: how could I not?

            “I understand, but don’t do it again.”

Fall

            A short while before school started, she moved back to L.A. Without further explanation, she pointed out how our close proximity would bring uscloser together. For a brief moment, I was elatedly convinced it would. But things were different from when she had lived five thousand miles away. Then, our conversations had been long, detailed and meaningful. Now, they were brief, stilted, and hinted at the coming of the end.

            “Ok…I need to say something,” she texted, finally.

            Then, moments later: “I’m calling a break.”

            I could have texted back, “I knew you would,” but somehow, I thought better of myself. I’d give her time to think, to process, to reconsider. Maybe she’d come to realize the gravity of her suggestion. One year of careful preservation, one year of a long-distance relationship that survived in spite of stretches of empty silence and betrayal, in spite of that summer confession—one year, and she had the gall to propose that we let it all waste? I’d give her time to think.

            A week later, my phone dinged like an exhausted timer.

            “Ok, I should be clear,” she said. “It’s not a break. I think we’re broken up.”

            She added, “I must sound so harsh but I’m really doing this for you.”

            I replied quickly with my prepared response, “Ok, you are someone really special to me. I just want you to be happy. What’s bothering you about me?”

            What came next was a spattering of flustered words, not full sentences, just bits and pieces of broken answers all hinting at a deeper, graver question: “Do you understand what I’m getting at?"

            Unlike the day on the beach when she refused to let me excavate the foul words that danced upon her black cherry lips, here now was an invitation to do so. But the invitation came too late, I guess, because I had already gathered her meaning. It tasted like a mouthful of sand, bitter, coarse, and absolutely impossible for the tongue to forget, similar to the word I couldn’t get out on that perfect summer’s day because she couldn’t, wouldn’t let me.

            I actually didn’t know how to respond.

            “Follow your heart,” I said, and then I switched my phone to vibrate