Chapter 4
July
I never had a boyfriend before Joe. Boy friends , sure, but when I got old enough to start going to parties where kissing occurred, my boy friends never seemed any more interested in kissing me than I was in kissing them. We played sports together. Did homework together. Watched shows and movies and played video games. We did not kiss.
So Joe was my first everything. My first date, my first boyfriend, my first kiss, my first…everything. And nobody that came after ever came close to inspiring as much of any kind of feeling as Joe.
Before our first date, Mom caught me staring at my swimsuited self in the hall mirror, taking inventory. Tall—too tall? Almost as tall as Joe. Good hair. Nice face. Clear skin. Realllly broad shoulders—broader than my hips, but did they make me look too much like a boy? And the muscles in my arms and legs…too much? Thick waist…I really wished my waist were much smaller and my stomach flatter. I was pretty sure I outweighed most of the people in my class and positive I outweighed Joe.
Mom came up behind me and put her arms around me. Leaned her cheek against my shoulder. “You look nice, honey.”
Of course she’d say that. She loves me. “I feel gigantic.”
“You are young and strong and healthy and exactly the size you are supposed to be.”
“Mom, I’m embarrassed for him to see me in a swimsuit. I’m not going to look like the other girls he’s seen. I’m a giant.”
“He’s probably never seen a girl so pretty and strong and sweet and capable as you before.” She looked me straight in the eye. “Which is why he asked you out, not them.”
Part of me saw the sense in that. Part of me feared he just thought I was a sure thing. I’d heard the stupid things boys say about big girls.
But that wasn’t how it seemed. He talked to me. He listened to me. He teased me. He didn’t rush me, with anything. We didn’t even get into the water that first date. Just sat on that rock and talked and laughed and made up silly warm-Coke toasts about our coworkers. He told me funny stories about other places he’d lived and asked me questions about life in Galway. He didn’t say much about his own family—just told me he was an only child—but was interested in mine. Long before we kissed, he told me how much he enjoyed spending time with me. Let me know how much he liked me.
By the time he did touch me, I was comfortable and half-giddy in love and…so eager. For everything. And every single thing we did together seemed magical. And by that point, I believed with my whole heart that he loved everything about me the way I loved everything about him.
And then when he disappeared, once I finally pushed past the worry for him enough to convince myself that I’d know if he were dead or desperately ill, I had to come to grips with the fact that he just didn’t seem to want to contact me. And my brain wouldn’t let it go at that. Day and night, my head spun stories about why that might be so. Attempts at explanations that would mean I could still have hope. That I wasn’t wrong about him. That he hadn’t fooled me and used me and then abandoned me like a giant piece of garbage.
And over time, I’d run through all the scenarios I could think of. None of them was convincing. The phone stayed silent and the mailbox empty, and I had to face just exactly how wrong I’d been about every single thing to do with Joe Anderson.
And then I spent months bludgeoning myself with my wrongness, my freakish bigness, feeding myself a shame-only diet, wishing myself into disappearing. And I almost made it happen too because eating—or not—seemed like the one thing I could control in my life.
And for twenty years, Joe existed in two contradictory spaces in my head at the same time: the this-is-how-to-love space and the this-is-why-I-should-never-trust-love space.
Now, in this dark dining room, the upturned chair legs casting long, strange shadows across the floor, I look in grown-up Joe’s eyes and try to understand how this could have happened. How it could be that not only did his parents fuck him over in every possible way, but that I did too when I lost faith in him.
He looks back at me, his bright eyes solemn, his crooked smile nowhere to be seen. The bump on his nose…I bet his monstrous dad did that too.
Joe’s skin has the permanent tan of somebody who is out in all kinds of weather. He’s clean-shaven, like when I knew him. I bet if I reached out and touched his cheek, my fingertips would still know him.
My memories of learning him are so strong I can almost feel the softness of his eyebrows and the thick nest of his hair. If I buried my nose in the warm skin at his collar, heard his quiet hum in response, my other senses would recognize him too.
All the parts of me that used to melt and tighten and rise up to greet him are doing it again.
The Joe I gave up on—the Joe who really did love me, who really meant all those words and touches and kisses and promises—is back.
God help me, he’s back.
And if my whole life and future rearranged itself in a massive and unfathomable upheaval before, when he left when I was a sixteen-year-old kid with a part-time summer job, how might things change now that he’s back?
What are my responsibilities and to whom?
What do I want to happen? Who do I protect?
What can I handle?
***
Joe
Searching my suitcase for jeans, I come across the shoebox Mom gave me. The letters. Why didn’t I take them with me to July’s last night?
And why did I leave her?
I can still see the shattered slate of her eyes, huge and tragic, welling with tears that didn’t fall because she wouldn’t blink. My hands itched to reach for her, and my gut twisted more each second we sat there.
She stayed silent so long I was starting to think she couldn’t speak. But when I asked if she was okay, she nodded once, fast, and cleared her throat. “I’m, um, having trouble processing this.”
I get that. It was hard for me to rearrange my head four months ago too. And if I’d expected some big tearful, hugging reunion where we’d declare our undying love for each other, well, that was unrealistic to the point of ridiculousness.
So even though all I wanted was go to her and wrap us around each other, to feel her strength and her warmth and her softness again, the way I dreamed of for years, I eased out of the booth. “I’ll give you some space, then, okay?”
Bad, bad decision.
She looked up at me with those big eyes and nodded. Didn’t protest.
I moved toward the door and she followed, and I still didn’t take her in my arms. Didn’t touch her face or brush my lips over any bit of her smooth skin. “I’m just down the street if you want to talk, okay? Your friend Rose knows where.” I dredged up a smile, remembering the interrogation. “Don’t be mad at them. They’re looking out for you. I was lucky to be alive after they got done with me.” I had to clench my jaw then to stop babbling. To keep from reaching for her hand.
She watched me step out onto the sidewalk. “Night.” Her voice was someone else’s, tiny and unsure. Before I could answer, she pulled the door shut.
I left her there on the other side, old wood and glass and twenty years of thwarted emotion between us, and headed “home” to this dump. Spent the night tossing and turning on my squeaky air mattress.
What if she had questions for me? What if she needed somebody to hold her? What if she wanted that as badly as I did?
And what’s she thinking now? Does she believe me?
These letters might reassure her I’m telling the truth.
And there’s my plan for today.
I make a grocery run, eat a peanut butter sandwich, watch a few YouTube videos on patching walls, and when I’m pretty sure lunch rush is over, I take the shoebox to July’s. Not sure how to handle this…maybe order something to eat and ask the server to give July the box.
But she’s on break when I get there. Sitting in the booth we used last night, poking at a salad, looking as beautiful as ever, even with shadows under her eyes.
From across the room, I see her freeze when she notices me. She doesn’t move as I cross to where she’s sitting. Just gazes up at me.
And I can’t read her anymore. There’s an ocean of sadness in that.
I clear my throat, hold out the box. “I should’ve given you these last night.”
Her eyes fasten on the box like it’s got a cobra in it. She settles her fork on her plate and reaches out with shaking hands. “Is it…?”
“The letters, yeah. I mean, they were supposed to be yours.” Fuck, this is awkward. I’ll just leave them with her and go somewhere else to eat. Suddenly I’m not hungry anyway.
She clutches the box, holding it a few inches from her chest, and looks back up at me. “Want to join me?”
And just like that, the day brightens.
I nod, a too-eager jerk of my head, and slide onto the bench across from her. Our knees don’t meet under the table, and I’m disappointed. This would be easier if we were touching.
She sets the shoebox beside her, next to the wall. “I should probably wait till later to read them.”
I shake my head. “You don’t have to read ’em at all if you don’t want. I just thought you should have the choice. Throw them out if you’d rather.” In fact, maybe I should’ve read them first, to see what sixteen-year-old me wrote. I was pretty bitter there at the end…
“Joe.” Her eyes are as certain as I’ve seen them, and for a second, I see past our current awkwardness to the old bond between us. “I want to read them.”
She fetches me a menu and relays my order to the kitchen herself. Slides back into the booth with water and iced tea for me. She pushes her salad aside, studying me, her eyes moving over my face like a touch. “This is weird,” she says finally. “I want to catch up. I want to know everything, but…twenty years…where do we even start?”
How much of this woman is my July, the sweet, happy girl I knew and loved, and how much is someone I’ve just met? She’s still kind. Still draws me like a magnet. Still has that sprinkling of pale freckles across her nose—a warm constellation I’ve mapped a hundred times with my lips.
She’s waiting for me to respond.
I glance around the dining room with its exposed brick, funky art, bright tablecloths, and flowers in tiny vases on each table. “You got your dream. I’m glad you got your dream.” I’m sorry I couldn’t help like I promised .
She doesn’t look away from my face. “What about you? What have you been doing?”
I half laugh. “I got your dream too. Met a guy in the army—my buddy Gabe—and he took me under his wing. Tried to teach me everything he knows. He knows a lot about cooking.” Gabe was a lifesaver to me.
I swirl the straw around in my tea. “After my discharge, I went to school in Colorado, worked for an old guy in a restaurant. Ended up running it for him. When he decided to retire, he gave me a good deal on the building and equipment.” And I changed things up. Made it my own. Got it noticed in a good way.
A smile blooms on her pretty face. “ Really . So we’ve been doing the same thing these past few years.”
It’s physically impossible not to smile back at her. “Yeah. But I was getting restless. Started applying to social work programs. Then Mom gave me the letters and…anyway, I start classes at Western Carolina this fall.”
She nods, her eyes measuring me. “And you bought a building down the street.”
I wince. “Yeah, in hindsight that seems a little…” I scratch the back of my head. Presumptuous? “I happened across it while I was looking for apartments. Thought maybe after I get my degree, I can use it for some kind of youth program.”
“I was hoping I’d catch you on break, July!” a voice booms and we both jump.
A stocky, blond dude is beside us, tie loosened, shirtsleeves rolled up, suit jacket nowhere in sight.
“Oh. Tom.” July’s voice is neutral. Careful. “Joe, this is Tom. Tom, Joe.”
I nod at him. Dude looks me over, probably comparing the cost of my T-shirt and denim jacket to his professional gear. Doesn’t say anything, and after a few seconds, it gets awkward.
“Would you like to join us?”
I’ve been away for twenty years and even I can hear the lack of enthusiasm in July’s tone, but this guy says, “Of course!” and slides right on in next to her, crowding her up against the box of letters. And kisses her on the cheek. “Missed you last night.”
Fuck. She does have somebody. And it’s this asshole.
My joy over her asking me to join her evaporates.
But July rears back and looks at him like he’s lost his mind. “What? Why? We didn’t have plans.”
Interesting.
A server arrives then with my food. I’d ordered a rice dish called Summer Chicken, and its aroma is nearly enough to distract me from the asshole. I taste it while the server takes his order.
July watches me. “Like it?”
With the blond dude distracted, it feels like just the two of us again.
“It’s good. Really good.” And man, it is. Complex. I can pick out some of the flavors, but it’ll take me another few bites to figure out the rest.
She smiles. Warms me up from across the table without ever touching me.
“So.” Blond dude turns back to us as if we’ve been waiting for him so our lives can resume. “Miguel’s transferring to Rio.”
July nods. “Yep, I heard. Good opportunity for him.”
“Yeah, but it leaves us without a left fielder.” He smirks at me. “Don’t suppose you play softball? Outfield?”
July turns those gray eyes back on me. I can’t read her expression. Does she remember how good we were that time we played together at her block party?
“I do, yeah.” Pretty sure I keep belligerence out of my tone.
“He’s good.” July says it to him without pulling her gaze from me.
Dude—Tom—rakes me again with a glance, clearly unimpressed. “Wanna play in our coed league? Wednesdays and Saturdays.” Sounds sorry he mentioned it.
I glance at July. That call’s got to be hers.
“It’s a good group,” she says. Maybe encouraging me? Maybe meaning they’re not all like Tom?
“Sure. Sounds fun.” It’ll give me a way to see her more. Get to know her again.
Tom settles in, monopolizing the conversation, managing to work in mention of a million inside jokes and past experiences with July.
I eat my Summer Chicken, eyeing my utensils, wishing I’d belonged to some special forces branch that teaches you fifty ways to kill with a spoon.