If He Follows Me

All I could focus on was his eyes. Brown with gold swirled into them, making them the most beautiful things to look into. My eyes slowly moved from his eyes to the rest of his features. Features I have admired thousands of times before. The stubble surrounding his chin and his beautiful lips. Soft and...

“Hello,” he says as he waves his hand in my face, bringing me back to reality.

“Sorry,” I whisper, my cheeks heating up as I look down at my feet. This experience has become more frequent recently. I find my mind wandering off while looking at him. I have always loved how he looked, but he's been getting to me more and more lately. Maybe it’s because it’s our last summer together? But that's the issue. It is our last summer together, and then we are off to different ends of the world. We’ve seen each other every day since 2nd grade, and now that's almost over.

I feel a hand lift my chin; I look at him, “No need to be embarrassed. I know how beautiful I am. Admire all you want.” I punched him in the arm, “Ow, you just punched me.”

“Thank you for stating the obvious,” I said as I walked again. Soon, he stepped next to me, his arm brushing mine.

“So, where are we going?” he asked impatiently. This is the third time he's asked me during our 5-minute walk. He is impatient; this man doesn't know how to sit still or wait. It's infuriating in a way I can't explain but somehow charming.

“We are almost there; calm down.” He walks faster after hearing these words, “You don’t even know where you're going. Slow down.” Suddenly, he is a block ahead of me and not slowing down. I jog up to him and grab his arm to stop him.

“I do not have the stamina for this,” I say, panting with my hands on my knees. He rubs my back, and I stiffen for a second, then relax into his touch. I stood back up, grabbed his hand, and began walking. His hand was so soft; I should've done this sooner.

“OK, close your eyes. It’s just around the corner,” I say with a smile. He sighs, closing his eyes. I guide him around the corner, “OK, open your eyes.” The neon lights outside the bowling alley light up his smile. He looks at me, and for a second, it's not happiness that I feel; it is sadness. Sadness that these two months are it for us. Our time is coming to an end. I push the thoughts away, smiling once again.

“Remember when you came here for your birthday,” I say, facing him. He starts laughing, “You mean when you threw your ball three lanes over and landed right on my foot?” I cover my face in embarrassment.

“At least we got to meet. If I didn’t suck at bowling, this,” I say, pointing between us, “would have never happened.” He wraps his arms around me and kisses the top of my head. I revel in this feeling, knowing that only so many of these hugs are left.

He lets go of me, and confusion graces his features, “What’s the occasion?” Why did he have to ask this? I don’t want to ruin his night for him. “It's our last first day of summer together, stupid,” I say, laughing at his question. My answer did not seem to lessen his curiosity or concern.

“Well, not the last summer. We’re both coming back next year,” I grimace at his comment. “Right,” he says, his smile now entirely gone.

“Well, I,” my words get caught in my throat. His mouth is slightly open, and his breathing becomes somewhat erratic.

“You’re not coming back, are you?” I slowly shake my head at his

comment. He quickly turns away from the bowling alley. I try to keep up with his strides but quickly fall behind.

“Can you just wait,” I scream towards him. His steps halt, and he turns towards me, “Why? You’re just going to leave me, so I should just save you the trouble,” his voice breaks in the middle of his sentence. I take slow, tentative steps towards him. I begged him with my eyes not to run off. I start walking towards him, and soon, I am right before him. I look up at him, “You know this place holds nothing but bad memories for me. I barely got through high school. I need to leave. I thought you would understand that,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Tears fill his eyes, “But I’m here.” This sentence breaks me. I grab him and hold on as if my life depended on it, “You are the only good thing that came out of this goddamn place.” I whisper into his chest.

He pulls away from me, and I fear that this is it. He is going to leave me, hate me until I leave. But instead, he looks down at me and inches his face closer to mine. I go onto my toes, meeting him halfway there. Our lips touch, and I immediately melt into his embrace. He pulls away too soon and smiles at me, “Well, if this is our last summer together, we better make it count.” I smile widely at his words. He wraps his arm around me, and we return to the bowling alley.

-

“I can’t believe you don’t have a passport,” he complains as we stand in the long line at the post office. I leave in 3 weeks, which feels crazy and scary. I have packed most of my things, making my room look sterile and empty. A room once filled with tapestries, journals, books, and memories is now empty.

“I’m sorry, I’ve never been on a plane before,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“I’ve had my passport since I was 3,” he says while holding up three fingers. He’s been everywhere with his parents. I always envied that. Not only did he travel, but he did it with his family.

“Next,” the worker says as we walk up to the screen to take the picture. I fix my hair and look at the camera, “Cheese.” The man yells as I blink from the bright light. I stand up and see the photo. I hear chuckling behind me, and I punch him in the arm.

“Ow, always with the violence,” he says, rubbing his arm. He smiles down at me, and I smile back.

“Your passport will come in the mail in the next two weeks. Next.”

-

Today was my last day, and he has been attached to me like glue. He slept over last night and has barely left my side since waking up. I zip my last suitcase, placing it by the door. I turn around and bump into his chest.

“We have some time until I have to leave, “ I say, looking up at him, “What do you want to do?” He thinks for a moment, then abruptly turns towards the kitchen. I follow him, confused.

“I am going to make you a grilled cheese as your going away present,” he says with a definite tone.

“Why a grilled cheese?” I ask him. He immediately looks offended, and I laugh at his expressions. “Are you telling me you don't remember?” he asks, eyes wide. I shrug my shoulders, and he rolls his eyes.

“When we were in third grade, your parents left you alone for dinner, and you didn’t know what to make. You were too short to get any pans, and even if you did, you were clueless,” he laughs, “You called me, and I walked over and made you a grilled cheese. It was burnt, and I almost set your house on fire, but you ate every bite.” He smiles, recalling the memory, and I smile along with him.

“I do remember that. Please make a better one this time,” I pleaded with him. He looks at me offended, and goes back to cooking. I look around this kitchen, this house, and it only holds bad memories. Memories where I was alone. But when I look at him, I can only remember all the good memories we made together. When he chased me around the house for breaking his legos or when he helped me when I had the flu. Or when he made me that terrible grilled cheese sandwich that, at the time, tasted like gold. He made living in this place bearable.

I am lifted out of my thoughts when a plate is placed before me, “Your grilled cheese, madam.” He says in a terrible French accent. I laugh at him and take a big bite. “Better than the last one,” I say, and he punches me in the arm.

“Thank you,” I said to him. He grabs my hand, “For what?” he asks.

“Everything.”

I hear a honk outside, singling that my car is here to take me to the airport. That honk takes me out of my bubble, and my face falls. I stand up and walk towards the front door. My hands start to shake, and suddenly, this feels like the worst idea in the world; I don’t want to be without him.

I quickly turn towards him, “Come with me.”