It began with a song, like so many stories do. When people ask how I met you, that's where we start. I always wonder if people ask because they really want to know the story or if they're looking for tips and hints, like every relationship's origin might lead them to the secret fountain where true love springs. But that's the funny thing about us, our love isn't more true or special or different from any one else's beyond being uniquely ours. Full of strange and unlikely circumstances and obstacles and so many tiny little landmine moments that could've turned the narrative any other way. While you've claimed to have always known, even if just on some small hunch to keep chasing, I didn't and instead, kept running. I didn't want this to happen. Not at first. But somehow, whether it be sheer luck or resilient will through every test or the strings of some romanticized destiny neither of us really believes in, here we are.
I was thirteen the first time I committed a great act of friendship treason. Ana was a friend of mine, although two years younger, that I'd known from living on the same street and going to the same school. On days that it snowed or rained and my mother couldn't get me, her grandfather would give me a ride home, too. One summer she came back from a week away at some trailer style campground in the Poconos with the number of a boy four years her senior, Kyle. After listening to her fluctuate between swooning and moping, I, the self-appointed older sister, called him from her phone with what had meant to be a teasing shove to talk to him. But really, I had wanted to see what the big deal was. And when I went home that night and called him from my own landline in the sanctity of my dark bedroom closet, the intent had evolved into a new monster.
I wanted to see if I could get him to fall for me. Poor Ana had never done anything bad to me. She was sweet and caring and beautiful, I mean really beautiful in the way that magazines shell out for. I know now that it was a mixture of insecurity and that still lingering disease that craved feeling wanted. I spent two weeks seducing him from the other end of a spiral cord before he called for a group date to the movies and invited Ana. Even if some part of me wanted her to see us together because it would solidify that I had been the victor, I later tried to justify away the guilt with reasoning that he'd invited her because he was using me in an effort to squash an unrequited crush.
We went to see The Thin Red Line. A film I still don't know anything about because we started kissing before the opening credits had even finished. She never spoke to me again after that day. And he carried on the relationship for nearly six months before I ended it. Hearing him tell his friend he liked me even though I wasn't super pretty was enough to cut him loose then. I wanted nothing short of entirely consumed and obsessive devotion.
He was my first real boyfriend and my last for the next five years. I was almost eighteen when I did it again. I'd lost weight and found myself fitting neatly into the dark haired, classic French brand of goth, sporting a brood even when I was internally sunshine and rainbows. Lisa and I had been friends since the first day of Freshman year when she'd asked me, "Are you punk?" A safety pinned denim jacket were all we'd needed to bond over and decide to have lunch together to avoid first day rejection in the cafeteria. And from that day forward, we never had those awkward moments of feeling alone in high school, without a place to sit or someone to hold a spot for you. We had each other. That year was also when we met a couple of seniors from a neighboring high school at a party: John, Eddie, Jason, and Chris.
Lisa had been head over heels for Eddie from day one and while nothing ever really happened between them, she carried that torch all through high school. Senior year he called me almost every night. He hated college, begged me to savor every last bit of adolescence I had left, asked me to sing him to sleep. Lisa would ask if I'd heard from him and I'd lie. Because he was depressed and made me promise that I'd keep it secret, ward off the people that came looking for him because he didn't want to deal with them. I ended up in his bed one March evening, watching American Psycho, on black sheets and surrounded by the literature and papers he'd been drowning in, trying to be productive despite the onslaught of an existential crisis. I tricked myself into believing I was just being his friend. That I could speak to his demons in a way that no one else could. But the truth was that I liked the way he needed me. It made me feel special. I even liked the dirty, rotten guilt that washed up from under my knees and swelled to a burning hot at the back of my neck whenever Lisa asked or spoke of him.
Naked and legs spread wide, my hips rose to beckon him inside me, fingers curled in his hair, tongue chasing after the piercing in his. This was how I was going to lose my virginity. Nose to nose, he paused and whispered, "I don't know if I can do this." I asked why, confused and impatient. "Because I'm in love with you." That was my cue to echo the same. Mirror back the words and in hindsight, as I'd put my clothes on and got back in his pickup truck for the silent drive home, I knew I should've just said it. It would've been so easy. But for some strange reason I just smiled and said, "Isn't that all the more reason to?" He looked so heart broken as he forced a smile, kissed my cheek, and climbed off of me.
Lisa slapped me right before AP English the next morning. Called me a stupid slut and stormed off tears streaking CVS bought mascara down her face. I didn't argue. I didn't fight. I didn't even beg. I let her go because I knew she deserved better than me. We reconnected after college and while we're friendly, I know we'll never be the same again. I'm the stray dog you feed scraps to outside, but never bring in. She learned that the hard way.
At twenty nine, after the trainwreck that was Braysin, I stopped letting men touch me. Even when I wanted someone, anyone to wash him off my skin, replace the awful taste he'd left, I still didn't want to be touched again. There was no writing off of love or self empowering proclamations. I let myself wallow for six months and heal and find other people to get lost in for a time. Farrah had helped me through it, even if she had no idea that she was then. I really loved her. She took care of me and at the time I hadn't really had that in anyone.
I won't lie, when you came along I thought you were nice to look at. But I held no interest in you beyond what you would be for her. I wasn't going to see if I could steal you or lure you away. Not this time. Not to her. And maybe I should've known better, that telling you it was never going to happen would only entice you to prove me wrong. But I had meant it when I'd said it. I didn't want you or anything to do with you outside of whatever we'd both do for her.
But you kept showing up at my god damn door. Every time we spoke or sat across each other at a table, smirking over plates, tossing jabs and jest at one another, I refused to see you as anything other than a friend. But we were growing into each other regardless. And for a little while, the tension that had yanked me by the gut that first night you came to my apartment and I could feel the animal magnetism I thought only existed in cheap romance paperbacks and risque flicks, took a back seat to loving the new friend I was making in you.
The night I was arrested was when I first realized I cared about you. I was embarrassed to see you walk into the room where I was still cuffed because I refused to shut up and sit still. I was angry at having my heart broken and being disposed of by someone I had loved so much. Hateful at how unfair it was, knowing you as much as I did at the time, and that someone else got to have you. Seeing my friend be objectified and handled with the arrogance of some self entitled shit was just the breaking point. You came into the room looking like someone else entirely. And while you spoke to me I wondered which was the real you. The hard face in front of me or the burst of illuminated smile I got whenever I made you laugh. The guilt the crept into the room knowing Farrah had called you to try to fix this, to fix the mess I'd made of myself wasn't the same as before. It hurt. I barely remember anything you said in that room. And if you hadn't been hurt by my response and told me later when I asked you why you were annoyed with me, I'm not sure I would've remembered that either.
I lay in the back of the car you drove the three of us home in and tried not to cry. I failed at that too, though, and decided I never wanted to have to see you again.
When you left Wildwood, I chased after you. Walked you to the car while we shared a smoke and fought myself not to tread the line and challenge where you were going. Though Farrah would tell me later anyway. I had invited you so that the two of you could get closer, maybe even sleep together, but the truth was that I just wanted you around. Even if it was in the next room subjecting us all to the sounds of you making love to my best friend. The electricity of a weekend on the beach with three piers of funnel cake and rides died the second you got in the car and drove down the street. After that I couldn't wait for Sunday afternoon so I could go home.
By the time she'd moved on from you, I realized she'd moved on from me, too. I had thought it was because I said things she didn't want to hear, made her accountable for the way she'd handled things with you rather than demonizing the things you'd done. Partly because I knew what it was like to be punished for something you weren't aware was wrong and partly because everyone else was just telling her what she wanted to hear. Even when it stung, I wanted things to work between you, I wanted you to be taken care of the way I believed she really could. I didn't know you'd told her that you'd wanted other things until later. And in hindsight I can't help but wonder if she'd drifted from me because she thought I'd manipulated her or situations to get to you. It still bothers me now and then, when I remember, because I didn't this time.
Feeling her slip away was agonizing and I took it as a license to get you out of my system, let the whole thing crash and burn. What had being good and loyal and loving gotten me? A kick to the teeth and another deleted phone number to keep myself from pulling up my contacts in a drunken spiral. Whether I tried to steal love or earn it, I still lost. That night on your couch was supposed to have been it. Like a craving to sate and forget. How I ended up with a square swatch from its remains framed and treasured, hung on a wall among all our other deviations made into art, I'm still wondering as I sit with your grandparents trading smiles and gestures with our limited pool of English and German.
But here we are, touring each other through histories and stretching roots as far back as they'll go to make up for all the years lost without the other. Somewhere between the horns and hooves, the surprise dates of stealing bathroom portraits and tagging up abandoned walls, calling each other during work hours to whisper filth from empty employee bathrooms, wearing each other beneath skirts and ties, sharing the same cup of coffee and cigarette, I fell deeply in love with you. And I knew that every time Jordana tried to casually converse with me and my only impulse was to violently put an end to her life after what she'd done to you that I wanted to be with you. Only you. Because no one knew how to care for you the way I did.
I had a hard time telling the whole story at first. The beginning felt tainted and questionable for a while. But we are the sum of our parts. Even with all of your sins stacked against you, you're too good for me. You're my monster, my breath, the reason I was made so strange and awful; to keep everyone away until you found me. Whatever comes next, know that I go into it more than just willingly. I'm all in, maximum effort. I may not have known as early as you did and I know I've never been as good as you are at showing it, but I need you to know that I love you more than anyone or thing or moment in my life. You weren't a conquest or a game or a need for validation. No matter where we begin or end, despite how hard I tried to push you back or away or fight it off, I kept coming back to you. Because I belong to you.
