Over the Water and into the Past

He was waiting for me when I walked out the door. I knew he would be. I stopped, unable to move, and he waited. I wasn’t going to be the first to speak. Finally, he gave up and asked, “Will you go for a drive with me?” I looked down at my feet and back up, forcing a slight smile. I nodded my head. He got up from the bench on the sidewalk and started walking towards his car, slowly, at first, to make sure I followed.  He opened the door for me, just like he used to.  He didn’t know the area as well as I did, so I navigated his driving. I directed us to the park in front of the lake. We sat in his car in silence. 1

“My mother would be very disappointed in me,” I said, staring straight ahead. 2

He turned to me and asked, “Why?”3

“She always told me not to get in a car with a stranger,” I paused and let the words sink in, cutting as I knew they would be. I felt bad. “But you know,” I turned to him and looked into his eyes, “if you cut your hair, and took the steel out of your lip, you might look like a guy I used to know in high school.”  I paused to think about what I had said before adding, “I haven’t seen him in years.” 4

I felt tears coming and didn’t want him to see. I opened the door and walked towards the playground. I settled on a swing and lethargically propelled myself in the air, cautious with each movement. 5

I hated him for coming. Earlier that day he and some girl had come into the coffee shop where I worked. I treated his presence with hurt amusement. I hadn’t talked to him in months.  I wondered if I would have been able to get in touch with him if I wanted; but I didn’t want to talk to him and I couldn’t bear seeing him. But, as always, when I least expected it, he was there.  He commented on how long my hair had gotten and said that I looked great; the girl glared at me. His eyes had lingered on me after every word I said. He felt it too, I knew. The pain, I mean. He felt the pain even though the last time we talked he said, “I haven’t had anything to say to you in a long, long time. . . and I’m not sure I ever did.” He continued to watch me as I waited on other customers. I could feel his reminiscent gaze as strongly as I could feel the girl’s glare. 6

I knew what he wanted. He wanted to talk and pretend that everything was okay. He wanted to fall back into whoever we were when we were compatible. He wanted to escape into the past and forget the lies between us. I guess I wanted the same thing, but I knew it was impossible. We could talk, but it would never be the same. It would happen the way it had been happening for the last few years. I would tell him every detail of my life–every heartbreak and beat–he’d nod his head and feign interest. Then I’d ask him questions; he’d get defensive and never give me real answers. He would ask, “What have you been doing?” I’d tell him about school, my friends, my family, my love life, my job, my hobbies . . . my everything. I’d return the question and he’d say, “Not much . . . just chilling.” I’d feel cheap and used. I’d feel like I had poured my soul onto fire instead of fertile soil. I would hate it. I wasn’t going to do it this time. 7

He came up behind me and leaned on the post of the swing set. “Beautiful night,” he said. I barely nodded my head in agreement. I clumsily touched my feet to the ground to push the swing. I watched every initial movement of my feet on the sand; then looked out over the water. I have to admit that it was beautiful. The moon was perfectly reflected off of the lake. I heard him light a cigarette. I turned to him, but he was still looking off into the distance–over the water and into the past. 8

I joined him in my mind.9

I remembered the first time I saw him smoking. Months before I had heard a rumor, but he swore it wasn’t true. He told me that he thought smoking was disgusting and he would never do it. He looked directly into my eyes and I believed him. Then I saw him. He turned and walked away as soon as he saw me, but I followed, determined to get an explanation. He finally turned to face me and I was speechless. “Don’t be mad,” he said. “It has been a bad night.” He looked into my eyes and I believed him. I took the cigarette from him–he didn’t even protest, just cautioned me not to burn myself. A girl we barely knew, who seemed to think she knew us, forced me to put the cigarette out.  She said that if I didn’t, she would. I put it out and he glared at me, “You know those things come in packs, right?” I hugged him. “Don’t do it again, okay? Please?” He wrapped his arms around me and I whispered in his ear. I told him that I loved him and didn’t want him to start an addiction he might regret. His hands swirled in comforting circles on my back. Months later, he admitted to me that he smoked every day since before I had even heard the rumor, but didn’t want me to know about it. He said he was trying to quit. He looked into my eyes and I believed him. Smoking. Ha. It used to seem so significant. We were barely fifteen and innocent; everything was a big deal. 10

I briefly reflected on various instances where I caught him doing something he said he didn’t do.  I guess I didn’t always catch him–sometimes he came to me with horrifying confessions.  After each of these instances, brought forth by anything–drugs, alcohol, lies, sex–he apologized.  Every time something happened, he said he didn’t want me to be disappointed in him. He said he was sorry for letting me down–I said he was never responsible for holding me.  It was somewhat true though.  I didn’t mention that even though it wasn’t his responsibility, I had sometimes secretly relied on his strength in the past; we both knew it, but I was letting him off the hook.11

I remembered, very vividly, the first time he told me that I was his best friend.  Years ago it had made me comfortable and unbelievably happy.  Back then I never would’ve guessed that such a seemingly perfect memory could come back to haunt me–to make me feel alone and hollow.  12

A strong breeze came over the lake that distracted me from the past and forced me into the present. I needed to leave.13

“I’m not going to talk to someone who has nothing to say to me, so why don’t you just take me back to my car?”14

He flicked his cigarette and nodded in agreement.  We walked to his car in silence.  He opened my door for me, just like he used to, and seconds later, I was directing him back to the coffee shop. He pulled into the space next to my car. We sat in silence. 15

The way we were sitting reminded me of New Year’s Eve a few years ago. He called to wish me a happy New Year around midnight. I was really drunk and hearing his voice upset me. We had already drifted. We had already fallen apart. It had been a long time since we could talk to each other like we were friends. He said, “You sound like you need to talk.” I told him no. Ten minutes later, he was knocking on my door and took me away from my own party. He wanted to go for a drive. When we came to a red light, I asked him to run it, explaining, “I just don’t want to wait here.” He accelerated, “Anything you need.” I don’t remember most of the conversation. I just remember that he took me home at six in the morning. We sat in my driveway, in silence for some time, before I started to criticize him for everything. He had pushed me away and thrown me out of his world and I hated him for it. I screamed my disappointments, resentments, and everything between us that had caused me pain. He was quiet - a trait he had been nourishing over the years. I gave up on a response, opened the door, gave him a hug, and whispered, “Happy New Year,” in his ear. When I tried to leave, he pulled me closer and wouldn’t let go.  He swirled his hands in a circular motion on my back and said, “I love you,” before loosening his grip.  I got out and walked away. 16

After minutes in silence in the coffee shop parking lot, he finally said, “I have to get going. It’s late.” 17

“Yeah,” I agreed. I knew what I was about to say and became delirious with fear. “How about . . . when you drive away this time . . . make it the last.” I had his attention. His hurt expression seemed unjustified and motivated me to go through with it.  I scoffed through my unpronounced tears. “What was this night? We didn’t talk. We aren’t friends. We aren’t who we used to be. This is done . . .” and the tears pronounced themselves. They ran down my face, but I was strong enough to keep my voice steady. “Let’s just preserve the memories, broken and scratched as they seem.” He still didn’t say anything. “Please just give me this.” 18

He turned his face straight ahead. His voice was cold and indifferent, “Fair enough.” 19

I felt dissatisfied.  If that was going to be it, I wanted more.  I wanted a better explanation, I wanted mysteries to be explained . . . why did he push me away? Why did he come back, only to treat me like a stranger? But, as always, I was afraid to ask. 20

After a short silence, I nodded my head. “Right,” I said, convincing myself that this was not just the best, but also the only choice of action. “I guess I’ll go then.” 21

I opened the door and had my right foot out when he stopped me. “Wait.” I stood still, half out of the car and waiting.  “You’re right . . . about everything,” he turned his face to mine.22

I resentfully looked into his eyes–I already knew that I was right. I was waiting for more: an apology, an excuse, an explanation . . . anything. We met each other’s eyes and he looked at me like I was an idiot. “That’s all.” 23

“Of course,” I said, rolling my eyes with no attempt to conceal my bitter sarcasm. 24

“Come on . . . don’t be like that.” 25

I stared him down, not sure how to respond. 26

He gestured for me to get back into the car and said, “At least give me a goodbye hug.” 27

I reluctantly leaned in for a hug and his warmth was surprisingly comforting.  The hug was soft and forgiving, but full of regret. I pulled away and noticed tears falling down his cheeks. He was just as composed as I was. I looked directly into his eyes, careful to notice how natural the moisture looked. “Good luck. Good night. And . . .” I hesitated with no concept of time.  He nodded his head and tried to smile, giving me the strength to finish.  “Goodbye.” That was all I needed to say.  The mutual tears filled in the blanks.  28

I don’t remember relocating myself from his car to mine. I saw the headlights of his car reflected in the window of my coffee shop, but I couldn’t bring myself to turn and look at him. I knew that seeing him would weaken me and make me wish that I hadn’t said anything.  Instead, I stared straight ahead until he left. I felt the distance between us grow as the evidence of his presence, the light from his car, faded back, turned around, and drifted away. 29

That last moment in his car was pretty unoriginal–it was scripted by all of the previous “goodbyes” we had said to each other. Each time was equally dramatic and emotional; and each time, we meant it.  For whatever reasons, this time was the last.30