Where We Left Off

“You were always a shitty kisser.”

I feel the tension leave his body like the exhale of a long-held breath. “We were fourteen,” he laughs. “Everyone is a shitty kisser when they’re fourteen.”

“You were going off to college when we broke up,” I remind him.

“Oh, right,” he admits, his smile crooked with embarrassment. “I’m sure I improved a little bit, right?”

Half of a chuckle escapes my lips. “So how’s Duke?”

“Fine.”

“Where is it, anyway?”

“South Carolina,” he replies, “in Durham.”

I swallow, searching the farthest reaches of my mind for any way to sustain pleasant conversation. “I didn’t know you were into kinesiology.”

“I’m not. I’m into football.”

“Oh, right. And you can’t just play football at college,” I sigh, absentmindedly drawing circles in the air with my foot. “You need an excuse.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s not like that…”

“You’re really good at excuses, by the way.”

“Caroline,” he breathes, pausing for a moment before adding, “please don’t.”

I clench my teeth, looking out on what’s just beyond the window, unwilling to look at his pleading eyes or the way he pouts his lip like a two-year-old when he’s sorry for something he knows is wrong. “I won’t. I’m sorry.”

“I am.”

“What?”

He sighs, “I am sorry. Like really, really sorry.”

“And?”

A pause. He clears his throat. “And nothing. I just thought I’d remind you.”

I nod. “I know.”

“I didn’t know how to end things…”

“So you fucked a girl you’d just met?” I demand, surprising even myself with the harshness of my voice. “I mean, you might as well have hung a sign on your forehead that said you hated me. I think that would’ve been more effective, to be honest.”

“I didn’t hate you.”

I finally look at him again. “Then why did you do it?”

“I knew we wouldn’t last if I was in South Carolina and you were here, but I didn’t want you to miss me,” he says. “I wanted you to hate me, I guess. I couldn’t stand to have you thinking you were missing out on someone great.” He stumbles for a moment, “Not that I’m great, but…you always acted like you thought I was.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“And now you don’t.”

I shrug. “I’m not sure what I think of you, honestly.”

And I’ve set him off, now, doing the stupid lip thing and the helpless childlike eyes, and I can’t stand it. Because I remember how many times he would make that face, sheepishly begging for my forgiveness. And every time, I would kiss his pouty lips, and suddenly they weren’t jutting out so far anymore, and his stupidly convincing puppy-dog eyes would drift closed because he’d won again. And I loved every second of it.

Yes, I was seventeen. Yes, I was dumb. And yes, I was terribly in love with him.

I spend the subsequent silence trying to convince myself that loving him is indeed past tense, that the ‘was’ is not an ‘am.’ But it suddenly becomes very present tense as he takes my hand in both of his.

“It’s weird seeing your nails not painted,” he muses, smiling. Absentmindedly, his thumb traces the back of my hand. “Used to always have them painted really light pink, y’know?”

“Yeah, not anymore…work,” I practically whisper. I can’t even begin to try to convince myself that I don’t enjoy his affection, even if it does seem unintentional. “You’re the first person to notice.”

He looks up, a few strands of sandy hair obscuring one of his eyes. “I’m surprised,” he says, “but then again, there’s not that much I don’t notice about you.”

Suddenly, I pull my hand away, and his posture straightens immediately. “So, if you don’t mind my asking, what brought you in here today?” I ask, trying to construct the most indifferent exterior I can manage.

“I owe you a lot of apologies and an explanation,” he answers matter-of-factly. “And I’d be lying to myself if I tried to say there isn’t a part of me that wants you back pretty damn badly.” Noticing the look on my face, he adds, “I know it’s not gonna happen, but maybe we could be friends?”

“I thought you were going to explain something,” I remind him, desperate to change the subject.

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, like he’s picking which words should come out first. “I never fucked anyone,” he blurts, looking a little shocked at his own choice. “No girl at a party, no girl at Duke, no one. Ever.” Before I have a chance to say anything, he keeps going, “I just…I knew you would try to convince me that we could make distance work, and I was really struggling with how to end things.”

“I’m not seeing how we get from A to B here.”

“I know. I’m getting there,” he sighs. “I went to that party, that night when you were sick. You told me you didn’t have a problem with me going, so I went with Charles. There was a girl there, and she kept hitting on me. Real drunk, y’know? Like the kind of drunk that makes you feel sorry for someone, because you know they’re drinking something away.”
“And?”

He sighs, “And this is where I messed up. She passed out, and I knew it wasn’t safe for a very pretty, very drunk girl to be passed out at a party with a bunch of wannabe frat boys. So I found her home address on her phone, and drove her home.”

“That’s it?”

“She woke up puking, so I stayed with her until I could get ahold of someone to keep an eye on her,” he explains, swallowing. “But people talk. And I knew you wouldn’t want to stay with me if you thought I cheated, so I let ‘em talk.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling my heart drop through the floor. “That’s almost worse,” I whisper. “You let me believe I wasn’t good enough for you this whole time.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know…how I’m supposed to feel.”

He tries to take my hand again, but I pull back. “I don’t know either, but I needed you to at least hear the truth from me.”

“You never really admitted to it,” I remember, looking at a yellow Volkswagen bug parked just outside. “You just kind of sat there quietly, nodding the whole time.”

“I’m so sorry, Caroline.”

“Fuck, Ian. You’ve really got me…thrown for a loop here.”

He nods, resigning himself to whatever I think of him now. And there are no puppy-dog eyes or pouty lips, and he’s not running his fingers through his hair nervously or rubbing his hands together like he used to when he was stressed. He’s just waiting for me to give my verdict.

I don’t like being a judge.

“I love you.”

He looks up at me, the skeptic in him pouring out through his eyes. “What?”

“I’m not saying I want to start over or get back together or pick up where we left off,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m saying I love you, and I have no clue what that means. For me or for you.”

“Okay,” drips from between his lips sluggishly. “Am I supposed to say it back?”

I bite my lip. “I don’t know.”

My heart is about to explode through my chest, I’m sure of it. I can barely breathe. Half of it wants nothing more than to forgive him and try again, and half of it wants to spit in his face and run out the door. And my mind doesn’t know which half it likes better.

I stand up calmly to walk out the door, but something pulls me to him. I kneel to look him in the eye, deciding what my lips should do next.

“I was always envisioning kissing you goodbye at the airport, and I…I never got to,” I say softly. “So let me, for one moment, pretend this is an airport, okay?”

He nods, and I lean forward, unprepared to feel his lips on mine again. But when I do, it feels like home. He’s warm and soft, and his hands just fit when they’re on my face, and it’s all so perfectly incorrect. My heart is racing when I finally pull away.

All I can think to say is, “You’ve improved,” and I run out the door.