At first he kept apologizing.
I’m sorry, Jessi.
Call me?
Please call me?
I called you and it went to voicemail. Can you call me back?
Come on, J.J. We need to talk.
I’m really, really sorry.
After about a week, his messages took a turn.
Are you coming for dinner at our place tonight? Mom’s making lamb chops.
Hey, missed you tonight.
Mom and Ro are getting worried about you. I am, too.
We’re watching Say Anything tonight (Mom’s choice). Willing to be your footrest.
I almost smiled at that.
Almost.
When we were younger and had movie night at the Cohens’, we would all run and try to claim the long couch for ourselves. Whoever got there second got to sit on the loveseat with Mel, and whoever got there last had to sit on the end of the slightly lopsided long couch and serve as a footrest.
Ro and I were almost always competing for the long couch. Luke, who had the toughest time abandoning whatever book or video game he was currently immersed in, pretty much always settled for last. And since I was quick and as sly as a fox, I almost always outwitted Ro and beat him to the long couch.
So Luke’s permanent position during movie nights became being my footrest.
Still, I didn’t respond to his text.
I couldn’t.
I was still too mortified to face him or any of the Cohens. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have been able to keep the truth from Mel or Ro, but Mel was preoccupied with her treatment, and maybe Ro’s distance was turning out to be a good thing after all. I had kissed Luke, for crap’s sake. And he’d peeled me off him.
I didn’t even blame him for doing it. Say what you will about Ro’s being drunk the night of the celebration dinner, I was the one who had lost my inhibition and was going around kissing people with no advance warning. Luke had clearly been humoring me—when he’d called me beautiful . . . and maybe all my life—and I’d misunderstood and taken it as an excuse to jump his bones. I’d thought I was following Mel’s life advice, being brave, but all I’d done was thoroughly embarrass myself and ruin everything.
Thankfully, it was only a few days until Luke went off to State. Then, maybe, I could start showing my face at his house again. Maybe.
The night before he was scheduled to drive to college, I got this text from him.
Jessi, Mom and Naomi cooked this huge dinner in celebration of the fact that I’m heading to school tomorrow. It was amazing. Wish you’d been there.
The next day, late at night: Arrived at State. Mom bawled pretty much the whole morning and Ro got that quiet way he gets when he’s sad. I hope I’m doing the right thing, but I know you will take good care of them. You always do. If it wasn’t already clear, I’m sorry and I acknowledge that I am a complete and utter idiot. I hope things can go back to being OK with us soon.
I’d cried at his words.
I was sad that my stupidity had caused me to miss such a milestone in the Cohen house—Luke was going to college! I felt horrible that I hadn’t been there for him, or for Mel and Ro, and it started to sink in with horrible clarity that Luke was gone. He’d probably never live in Winchester again. He would make new friends and go to hundreds of parties and karaoke nights and never think twice about me. He’d kiss heaps of girls, all of whom he’d actually like.
The whole thing was devastating.
Still, I rallied myself enough to compose a response.
Glad you made it safely. I’ll look after Mel and Ro. Good luck at State.
I never heard back.
Not that there was anything else for him to say.
The next day, I went over to see Mel and Ro, claiming a crisis with my mother, which was pretty much true. She was basically always in crisis, but all we did was live with it.
Just like that, things went back to a new normal.
Mel’s treatment continued.
Ro and I started school again.
Life went on.
And then one day, three weeks into September, my doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it!” I called out from the kitchen, where I was elbow-deep in dish-washing soap. It was unnecessary for me to say it, really, because my mom was in bed and my dad had fallen asleep over a table full of papers. He also didn’t like to get the door unless we were expecting company. He was convinced that everybody was peddling a product “too useless to be carried in a real store” or were Jehovah’s Witnesses.
It was after ten on a Saturday night, and I opened the door, expecting it to be the neighbors, who lost their dog weekly, but it was Luke.
He was standing with his hands in his pockets, wearing a dark blue version of the Henley I loved so much.
I opened my mouth, but no sound came out.
“Hi,” he said, and his voice was blanket-soft and familiar.
My heart skipped a beat.
“Can we talk?” he asked.
I stole a look behind me to make sure my dad was still at the table, then stepped out the front door and shut it behind me.
“What’s up?” I said, finally finding my voice.
“Not much. I’m back in town for the weekend.”
“How’s school?”
“Different,” he said. “Good different. I think.”
I nodded.
“How have you been?” he asked, and it was weird making small talk like we were strangers. Sure, Ro had always been my best friend, not Luke, but we’d been such integral parts of each other’s lives that there was never nothing to say.
“Good. School’s . . . school.”
He grinned and then rubbed the back of his neck.
“Why are you here?” I asked finally.
Luke looked down at the ground for a minute and then said, “I miss you.”
At first I thought I’d misheard him. “Please don’t make fun of me.”
He looked surprised. “I’m not. I . . . wouldn’t.”
“So what do you want?” I said, folding my arms across my chest.
“About that night . . . I’m sorry. It wasn’t . . . it’s not you.”
I cringed. “Please, dear God, don’t say it’s you.”
“It is me,” he insisted.
I took a step back. “Okay, good night, Luke.”
I opened the door to go back in, but he grabbed my hand, stopping me. “You’re making this so complicated.”
Luke was basically holding my hand now, but I didn’t react.
“It’s not that complicated,” I said. “I liked you, I kissed you. You didn’t like me, you didn’t kiss me back.”
“That’s what you think happened?” He let go of my hand to push his hand through his hair. “Please come out and talk to me.”
I hesitated, let go of the door again, and turned to face him.
“I’m trying to be . . .” He shook his head, like he was struggling to find the right word. “I’m trying to be a good guy here.”
“No one asked you to be.”
“You’re supposed to be like my kid sister,” he said.
He couldn’t be serious.
“Since when? That’s bullshit.”
“Is Mel like your mother?” he challenged.
“That’s irrelevant,” I said stubbornly.
“Is Ro like your brother?”
“He’s my best friend.”
“Okay,” Luke said. “So what am I?”
“I don’t know, Luke,” I said, annoyance starting to fill my every word. “You’re Luke. Unattainable, too good to be true, not on my level.”
“I’m not good, okay?” he said, surprising me with his fervor. “I’m fucked-up just like everyone else, but I’m trying. I’m trying to be better than my dad—than both my parents . . .”
“What did Mel do?” I asked.
“That’s not the point.”
I sighed. “I really don’t know what you’re saying, Luke. I’m not sure you do
either. It’s not supposed to be so freaking hard. You don’t have to be Good. I said I like you. If you like me, say it back. I kissed you. If you liked it, kiss me back.”
I’d barely gotten the words out before Luke’s lips were on mine. He kissed me frantically, as if we were running out of time, his hands threading through my hair.
When he pulled back, his voice was rough and unfamiliar. “Now do you know how fucking much I liked it?”
I opened my mouth to speak, then changed my mind and kissed him instead. I felt feverish as his hand curled around my waist, pushing us closer, and I looped my arms around his neck. We kissed for so long I lost track of time.
“Jessi, who’s out there?” Dad’s voice sounded like it was coming from close by.
Luke and I stepped back from each other as my father appeared in the doorway.
“It’s just Luke, Dad,” I said, my voice sounding gravelly.
“Hi, Mr. Rumfield,” Luke said, standing up straighter.
“Luke, how’s your mother?”
“She’s good, thanks,” he said. I pressed my lips together, hoping they didn’t look quite as swollen and as pink as Luke’s did.
“Good. And how’s the biochem?” Dad asked. “Are you thinking pharmacy? If you’re considering optometry at all, I’d be happy to talk—”
“It’s late, Dad,” I interrupted, trying to save Luke, but my father shot me a look that said if it’s so late, why is he still here?
“I better get going. Nice seeing you, Mr. Rumfield. Jessi.”
He held my gaze for a second before turning and heading back toward his car.
I followed Dad in and shut the door, trying not to float away.
THEN
I barely slept that night. My mind kept replaying the kiss(es). Luke’s soft lips on mine, his arm around my waist, his hand in my hair. I tossed and turned all night and fell asleep just as the sun was starting to sneak out across the sky.
The first thing I did when I woke was to lunge for my phone.
I had no messages, no texts. No voice mails.
Nothing.
Had I imagined the whole thing? Had last night even happened?
Maybe he’d changed his mind.
I didn’t know, but I intended to find out.
I focused on one of the tenets of Mel’s advice about boys, which was that girls could totally make the first move. I’d definitely made the first with that kiss on his porch step the night of the dinner. It was true that being too forward had resulted in the most miserable five weeks of my life, but it also had resulted in the previous night.
I pulled up Luke’s name on my phone.
In the end, all I could think to say was hey.
About ten minutes passed before my phone vibrated with his response.
Hey.
It offered exactly zero clues about what he was thinking, whether he’d spent the night regretting coming to see me.
About last night . . . I texted, letting it hang in the air.
I saw the three dots indicating that he was replying. Then they disappeared.
Then reappeared again.
I wrote are you having regrets, but didn’t send it when I saw that his three dots had disappeared again.
Ugh. He was the most aggravating person in the world to text with.
I deleted my text and wrote: you go first.
I’d had enough embarrassment to last me a lifetime. There was no way I was professing anything until he did first.
No, you, he wrote, and I wanted to throw my phone.
Before I could, though, another text popped up from him.
But if you’re going to do that thing where you take it back before I have a chance to tell you that I can’t stop thinking about you, then I’m not going to take it well.
My heart stopped.
You can’t stop thinking about me? I wrote back.
A couple of minutes passed.
Only for the past three years.
I had to reread the text four times before I allowed myself to believe what it said.
??????? I texted back.
What? He said.
Three years?? I didn’t kiss you three years ago.
I know you didn’t, he wrote back.
I felt dizzy and hot, as if I might pass out from shock.
But you liked me then? Why didn’t you say anything?
He wrote back a couple of seconds later: You were 14, it was weird.
You were 15!!!!!
His message came back nearly instantly: :)
My mouth dropped open.
Did you just . . . send one more emoji and I’m going to turn to mush.
:) :) :) :) :), he wrote.
My mouth is literally open right now.
He said: I didn’t know mush could do that.
I let a couple of minutes pass before I sent anything back, and when I did, I simply said, So.
So? He wrote.
I kiss you, you kiss me back (after an unforgivable amount of time), you tell me you’ve liked me for 3 years and then we just go back to normal? I asked.
I bit my lip as I waited for his response.
Is that what you want? He wrote.
No.
What do you want?
I started to say that I didn’t know, but then I changed my mind and decided to be totally honest. To kiss you again.
It took ages for him to write back. Glaciers melted, animals went extinct, man touched the sun. Finally, his response: We could start with frozen yogurt?
So we did.
I borrowed my mom’s car and drove to Cold Rock Café. My palms were slick against the steering wheel, and I wondered the whole way whether I was underdressed in my denim skirt and T-shirt, or was it overdressed? Was it possible to be both?
Luckily, when I pulled up in front of the fro-yo store, I saw Luke waiting outside, his hand in the pocket of his jeans. He, too, was wearing a plain T-shirt. His face relaxed into a grin as soon as he saw me, and I couldn’t help but smile.
The butterflies in my stomach were having a riot and my heart was staging a stampede, but neither of those things mattered.
Luke Cohen was looking at me like we shared a secret. And we did.
“Hey,” he said when I stepped out of the car.
“Hey,” I said, feeling shy. We both kind of hesitated, not sure whether to hug or kiss or neither or both.
In the end, we did neither and just walked into the store. “What’s your favorite flavor?” Luke asked, holding the door open for me. “I feel like I should know that.”
“Mango,” I said. “What’s yours?”
“I like vanilla. Kind of boring,” he said.
“No, I like it, too.”
We made small talk as we waited in line and ordered. When it came time to pay, Luke slid a bill across the counter before I could.
“I got it,” he said. I flushed. If there had been any doubt that this was a date date, this erased it.
“Thanks,” I said. “Do you care where we sit?”
“Probably shouldn’t sit too close to the window. Mom and Ro think I’m already on my way back to school.”
I smiled. “Okay, how’s this?” We settled into a table for two near the back of the store.
As we dipped into our respective cups, the awkwardness threatened to engulf us again.
Without permission from my brain, I heard myself speaking. “When did you know?”
Luke didn’t pretend not to know what I was talking about. “Honestly? One day you were just different to me.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “So, when I got boobs?”
He laughed. “You didn’t get boobs at fourteen.”
“Oh my God, does that mean you were looking?”
He gave me a smile that could only be interpreted as devilish, but what he said was, “I mean, just a basic knowledge of human biology and reproductive health tells me you didn’t get boobs at fourteen.
“When did you know?” he asked me.
&
nbsp; We had just spent the last minute discussing my boobs, so I didn’t bother trying to hide anything. “Pretty much the day we met.”
Luke raised his eyebrows skeptically. “You had a thing for nearsighted eight-year-olds?”
“Your glasses were cute.”
He looked at me like he didn’t quite believe me, but he didn’t argue. We continued talking about random things, and soon I’d forgotten I was on a date with Luke Cohen. I was just hanging out with one of the people I knew and loved best on the planet, and it was easy and comfortable and nice.
When we finished, we stood outside in front of my car.
“So, did you change your mind?” he asked.
“About?”
“Wanting to kiss me.”
“Did you?” I asked.
“I wish I did,” he said before leaning down and pressing his mouth to mine. This kiss was slow and soft, a complete one-eighty from yesterday’s frenzied kisses. When what he’d said registered, I took a small step back.
“Why do you wish you did?”
He pushed his hand through his hair and looked at me. “Mom’s going to kill me.”
“That’s it?” I asked, relief seeping into my body. “That’s all you’re worried about?”
He shrugged.
I closed the distance between us again and covered his lips with mine. “Let me worry about Mel.”
NOW
It’s not like I ever stopped worrying about Mel. She’s always been a thought lingering in my mind, and I never stopped missing her. Knowing I’d lost the woman who made me so many of the things I am was like having a thin film between me and the world. It changed the way I saw things, the way music sounded, the way good things and bad things and mundane things felt. I was always wondering what Mel would think of this or what Mel would say about that or what Mel would tell me to do. When I really wanted to torture myself, I would go online and read the Winchester obituaries, bracing myself to see her name, her picture, survived by, predeceased by.
But what Mom said was right—Mel’s still alive. She’s been alive all this time, and now she’s back in my life again. My heart feels like bursting at the thought, and my mind is a blur of things I need to catch Mel up on, things she’s missed, things I’ve missed.
On Wednesday, the day after I have dinner with her and Luke, and after my talk with Mom, I’m happy to the point of distraction, even as I lead my campers from activity to activity and chat with other leaders and pretend like I’m anywhere in the vicinity of the Winchester Community Center.
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