This One's For Us

It really is just a game.

I swing my foot against the couch as my finger lazily swipes left, sometimes right, but more often left. I told Michelle that I had no interest in getting involved with this new trend. The word tasted dirty in my mouth. But, she insisted, pressing me like a finger on a bruise. 

Eventually, I caved and let her walk me through how it worked. I was on the verge of graduating high school and didn’t need anything that might complicate my life further, just when everything was about to change. Unfortunately, the mechanics didn’t even require a second thought. 

Cute. Swipe right. Meh. Swipe left. 

If anything, she neglected to tell me it would become as addicting as the newest video game. Obviously, I didn’t let it consume me, but I would be lying if I said I didn’t play it continuously for the next few years. Its staying power to pull me back in every summer was truly what became addicting.

I’m on autopilot now, swiping through the generic faces and pick up lines. 

Hey. 

Smiley face. 

How’s it going, cutie? 

What are you doing tonight? Me?

I balk and unmatch the most recent additions to the trash pile. As entertaining as it was watching the garbage pile up, it slowly became tedious, almost like a chore. There were some I’d take a chance on, but I wouldn’t be a player. I’d get played. And yet, I’d pick it up again like an old habit.

I’m about to turn off the app when a message pings. Rolling my eyes, I open the inbox with my finger on the trigger, prepared to send yet another potential suitor to the abyss, when something catches my eye. 

It’s really cool that you got to meet Stan Lee.

Odd. Not even a single mention of what I was wearing or some pun about how if I were a vegetable, I’d be a cute-cumber. However, I’d eventually learn that was, in fact, his sense of humor.

I type: Yeah! You know Stan Lee? 

Of course! He’s the Marvel guy.

Marvel guy. I smile at my phone. He was really nice, honestly.

That’s awesome. I’m glad to hear that. :) Tell me more about the convention. Who else did you see? 

Something about the interaction was different, like this guy actually wanted to know more about something I did, rather than simply wanting me wrapped around his finger the moment he pinged hello.

So I told him. And not once did he ask me what I was wearing.

We chatted for awhile, as in two weeks, before we decided to meet. His name was Eli, he liked to sail and cycle (which was entirely different from biking, apparently), and worked on an oil ship. He was home for a few weeks before heading out on another tour.

I deflate at this news like a balloon whose air has been slowly let out. That meant he’d leave soon, right before I started school again. Just my luck.

But I don’t let the news defeat me. Instead, I say:

Sure, let’s get coffee.

*

When Eli walks into the coffee shop a few days later, my heart jumps to my throat. My cheeks grow hot while the air is pushed out of my lungs in a breathless, “oh.” He’s dressed in a neatly pressed suit, head to toe, smoke-gray that matches his eyes. His shoes, the color of sweetened caramel, click loudly against the tiles, announcing his approach. 

There’s something about the way he carried himself, tall with purpose, not a single arch in his straightened back, as if he’s well acquainted with the term all eyes on me. He combs his fingers through his wheat-yellow hair, smartly cut without a single strand out of place. He smells like sun-warmed bark and sweet grass.

“Hi,” he greets with a smile that could brighten up the deadest of rooms. 

I swallow the lump in my throat. With that single word and disarmingly charming smile, I knew he had me, despite my better judgment. Hook, line, and sinker. 

He asks if the seat in front of me is taken. He already knows the answer.

“You must be Eli.” He nods. 

The smile hasn’t left his face, and my stomach twists. He seems almost too eager. I can’t help but wonder if he’s put on a mask for me, hoping I’d believe the charade of his perfection. How long would it take for it to slip off and reveal his true identity? 

I grip the edge of my chair, hoping to keep up pretenses. I didn’t want to seem so instantaneously pleased by his presence. My heart thumps, and breathing is a chore. I want it to be. It meant that I was present, in control, and not totally lost in the vision before me. I gesture politely towards the seat and look to the side as he takes it.

Eli scoots his chair forward. The metal floats over the floor, whereas mine scrapes loudly, disturbing the closest patrons. I wince, but he seems unfazed, waiting expectantly for me to say something. Anything.

“Hi,” I reciprocate, immediately regretting the simplicity of the greeting. I pivot, gently touching the back of my neck. “So should we get some coffee?”

“Sounds good to me. Have you been here before?” I shake my head. “Oh, I think you’ll really like their stuff.” Eli rises from his seat and points at me, an eyebrow cocked. “Lavender mochas, right?”

I do a double take. He remembered. A throwaway detail from one of our first conversations. My shoulders drop slightly. I didn’t think he had. 

Eli returns soon after, and, before I know it, my elbows are propped on the table and my chin rests comfortably between my palms. I lean forward, absorbing the cadence of his voice as he tells me something as trivial as his day. His voice is music, husky and gruff in the lower registers, but dappled with tender tendencies. There’s a melodic quality to it, the gentle ebb and flow like water, rippling with excitement when the story gets interesting.

As he talks and his voice wraps around me like a hug, a weight lifts off my chest. My breath doesn’t feel forced. It’s easy now, like a reflex I’ve always known. It’s a surrender. It terrifies me.

I sip my coffee to distract myself, my eyes downcast. I can’t look at him. Eli cocks his head to the side, waiting patiently as I collect myself. “Hey, I have a question.”

I peer up at him from behind my glasses, the coffee still pressed against my lips. My heart is so loud. I hope he can’t hear it. “Yes?”

“Do you want to get out of here? There’s a beach nearby and …” He hesitates, a flicker of uncertainty flashing in his eyes as he turns his head aside. I tilt my head, too. My gaze catches him picking at his nails. A ghost of a smile tugs at my lips.

“Yes?” I press him. Now, I’m waiting for an answer.

“There’s a beach nearby.” he resumes. He’s still fiddling with his nails, scratching at the cuticles. “I have my car. I could drive us.”

My coffee cup tips slightly, but I catch it just in time. “Sorry, no, no.”

Eli holds his hands up, a universal sign of peace. If he could physically recapture the words, I think he would have. His temple shines with a subtle clamminess. “Oh my god, that’s not what I meant. It’s just that …”

“I’ll drive myself,” I quickly interject before he can say anything further. My cheeks burn, but I suspect so do his.

“Yes, yes, of course. No arguments there. I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not ready to say goodbye yet.”

I blink and set my cup down, his words replaying in my ear like an echo. It takes me a moment to process his words. Stealing a glance at the clock on the wall, I read the time. 2:30 P.M. We’ve been together for two hours already, and yet it felt like no time had passed at all.

And in that moment, a realization hits me like a gust of wind. I knew what I wanted, more than anything. I wanted time with him, even though I knew he’d be gone soon and become no more than another summertime memory.

Eli’s Adam’s apple bobs. When I take too long to answer, his smile wavers ever so, and my heart patters apologetically for making him wait so long. Finally, I smile at him, rise from my seat, and nod towards the door.

*

We have no destination, just a mutual desire to lengthen our time together before the opportunity closes. 

The sun warms my skin as we walk along the boardwalk, the water eagerly lapping at the shore. Beachgoers wander the beach, sharing stories, a meal, a kiss. A young couple sits with their backs to us, fingers inching closer as the girl turns, eyes shining, and leans forward to press her lips to the boy’s. 

Before they completely close the gap between them, I look away and feel Eli’s eyes on me. For a split second our eyes meet, and a ghost of a question passes between his lips. His fingers twitch next to my hand like a spark courses through it. However, before I can say anything he clears his throat and his easy smile returns.

“Come on, I want to show you something.” Eli’s eyes twinkle, gesturing for me to follow him.

“Oh, sure. What is it?” I have to skip and double my steps just to keep up with his pace. 

The click of his heels slows down as he waits for me. He stops so suddenly, I nearly bump into him. I squeak and close my eyes as I lose my balance, awkwardly trying to regain my composure. When I open my eyes, I find him looking at me again, his hands outstretched like he wants to steady me. 

I almost take them. I wanted to take them. They looked big and welcoming, a place where mine could easily slide into and imagine how they belonged in his. The way he held them out, like an invitation for me to accept. But I dash that thought away as a familiar feeling carves into my stomach, and I regret letting that fantasy go, even if it was only for a moment.

Looking around, I notice we’re standing on a dock, a line of boats gently rocking on the midday waves. Most of them look older with matrices of scratches and barnacles plastered on the bottoms. Some of the logos have been rubbed out too, but he seems to be able to find the one he needs.

“Have you ever been on a boat before?” I shake my head and I can’t help but laugh at his baffled expression. “These are one of the boats I used to sail on.”

My laugh stutters to a stop when he offers his hand again, and I quietly curse him as the feeling inside me deepens. The space it creates becomes more defined as, this time, I take it.

He pauses for a moment and looks down at me, a knowing yet apologetic look in his eye. "What is it?" But by the time the question comes out, I realize why he’s stopped.

There isn’t a ramp, nor stairs, leading onto the boat’s deck. The only way to get on is for him to physically carry me onto the boat.

My body tenses, my brain screaming at me to be careful, but I didn’t want to deny him. I didn’t want to deny myself. I wanted his hands on me, to feel his muscles wrap protectively around me and to feel his heart beat against my chest as he carried me princess-style. I rail against the feeling growing stronger within me every minute. Ultimately, I knew I was going to get hurt, but I didn’t care. I wanted this time, this moment with him.

Hoping to not seem so eager, I nod and lift my arms, wrapping them around his neck. My fingers lock as his arms slide under my body and the ground immediately disappears under my feet. It feels like I’m floating, suspended in air, as my breath lodges in my throat. My body rotates towards him and his heart hammers against mine, both falling into an excited rhythm.

Carefully, Eli lifts me over the boat’s railing and gently lowers me onto the deck before he hauls himself over. He clears it effortlessly like a hurdler, seemingly flying over in his business suit, a juxtaposing image in my brain. Landing in front of me with a boyish grin, he dusts himself off and motions for me to follow below deck.

Below deck, there’s a single small bench, bed, and table. Not only are the furnishings small but so is the space, making every interaction intimate. Our shoulders press together as we take a seat on the bench. He shifts next to me. The hairs on my arm stand on end as an itch travels towards my fingertips, compelling my hand to slide towards his, but, to my dismay, I can’t find his hand. I inhale sharply. Drawing my hand back into my lap, I shoot him a sidelong glance, and recognition replaces my dismay. 

I couldn’t find Eli’s hand because he was reaching for my face. His fingers barely graze my chin as an invisible force pulls me towards him. Eli’s hands are rough, like they have seen their fair share of hard labor, yet soft as he guides my face closer to his. I reach up, as well, and rub my thumb over his cheek. His eyes drink me in and absorb every facet of my face. We are mere breaths away from each other, and, in that moment, we have the same thought.

We could go further. Our lips could be pressed together, tasting the sweetness of the other’s lips and memorizing them as clearly as our own and searing it into our consciousness. But despite the pounding of our hearts and closeness of our bodies, we don’t and let the palpable silence speak for us.

“I have to go.” I say finally, my voice loud inside our quiet haven, indicating the sands of time have officially run out for us.

Eli says my name. And never in my life have I ever felt it sound so beautiful, so familiar yet foreign, like it no longer belonged to me, but to him. It made it difficult to leave. Impossible, even. 

The space in my stomach welcomes a familiar devil, the feeling finally manifesting into what I had feared all day. Disappointment.

I know this game. It always ends the same.

“When can I see you again?”

I blink and level my gaze to his, searching it, almost hoping to catch him in a lie. A lie would make this feeling more palatable, but I find none. Not a twitch or a tic. Nothing but the truth swims in his gray eyes. 

Not once in my life has someone asked me that question before and meant it. Eli means it. Really, truly means it. 

Nothing about what we experienced together was a game to him, I realize. He took this day between us as seriously as life itself, as seriously as a promise. 

The red devil inside me screams as if it has been stabbed with the injustice of feeling something else, of something other than disappointment. I couldn’t place it, but it was almost hopeful, an eagerness in the face of trying something new.

*

Now, more than five years in, the promise grows stronger but so do the demons. It’s a challenge to keep them at bay sometimes, to not let them crawl up my skin and sneak in between the space between my ears. It’s a different feeling than the one that used to sit in my stomach. It’s mental now, the doubts that threaten to cloud my mind. Steal me away from him.

But, when they come for me and I feel myself sinking to their level, he looks at me and pulls me back up out of the darkness. Even when I don’t understand why he does it or how he can manage to look at me with those gentle, gray eyes, he always surprises me.

The words fall easily from his lips, but not in a frivolous way, not like they're scripted. Yes, they are words he has told me over and over and over again. And each time, the demons have my hand. But like the stubbornness of rock, he refuses to yield, to break, to let me succumb to the treachery of my own mind.

In spite of it all, he stays and means what he says. Eventually, I believe him. 

The world hammered us, creating invisible bruises only I could feel beneath my clothes. At times, we were the cause of the bruises scattered across the other’s body. But at the same time, we were the salve, the only one who could heal the other and hold them together when they couldn’t do it themselves. To fill the other so fully and help them believe, truly believe, that the intertwining of souls was possible like kissing puzzle pieces. 

I have memorized every inch of his body beneath my fingertips, caressed every callus, carried every memory, and held every unshed tear. Every breath he takes is as synonymous as my own. Reading him is like reading braille, delicate, an artform.

They said this game would never work, that it was more of a failed experiment. But we’re proving them wrong each time we go to bed, our heads pressed together in the darkness of our sanctuary, murmuring goodnight as sleep wraps us in her warm embrace.

…For my husband.