I wish I could talk to him about digging Sugar Bay but missing Spokane. About Piper and my conflicted feelings. Not that I’m conflicted abouther. I like her a lot—that’s easy—but I’m conflicted about pursuing something with her.
Opening up’s just not in my DNA.
“I’m taking Tati to dinner tomorrow night,” Dad tells me.
“I thought you and I were going bowling.”
He sits up straighter. “Shit, Henry. I forgot. I’ll reschedule. Tati’ll understand.”
“No, no.” I temper a smile. “Go with her. You and I can bowl anytime.”
“Really? Thanks, buddy.” He relaxes into the couch again. “You should do something with Piper. She’s obviously taken a liking to you.”
“Oh yeah? You gathered that in the seven minutes you’ve spent with us?”
He shrugs, shooting me a lazy smile. “You’re my kid. What’s not to like?”
Piper
I dream about Henry and our first kiss: two fourteen-year-olds with no experience and little to lose, who won’t see each otheragain until we’re seventeen, with plenty of experience and loads to lose.
In the morning, I try to convince myself that I’ve built it up, spent years fantasizing about a connection that was, in reality, rushed and immature. But I’m not sure that’s the case. Our connection has survived time and separation. It doesn’t feel rushed anymore, and I don’t think it’s immature.
Three years ago, I made the first move. After we watched the mama turtle, I reached for Henry’s hand. His palm rested against mine, unmoving, as if the touch surprised him, as if he wasn’t sure what to do about it. I gave him a chance to pull away, laugh it off, change our course. Instead, he laced his fingers through mine and held on.
He talked about snow skiing, something I’d only ever imagined doing. He talked about his friends, a couple of guyshe ran cross-country with. He talked about his parents, but only in generalities: His mom liked to bake bread on Sunday mornings, and his dad, who’d once been his skiing buddy, was taking up golf. I didn’t know they weren’t married or that they lived thousands of miles apart. I didn’t know that Henry’s time in Florida had already run its course.
He took his cues from me. The way I avoided talk of my family, the way I spoke vaguely about friendships, the way I referenced school like I was an observer, not a registered student.
He gaped when I told him I’d never seen snow. “How is that possible?”
I shrugged. “We have frosty mornings every once in a while during the winter, but the sun melts it almost right away.”
“Do you want to see snow?”
“I want to see a lot of things,” I said softly.
All that time, he kept my hand in his. Kept my mind busy. Kept my tears at bay.
When the sun announced itself on the horizon, he said, “I’ve gotta get back.”
We turned for the Towers.
I was grateful for this brown-eyed boy who’d come out of nowhere. We hadn’t even parted ways yet, and I couldn’t wait to see him again.
The beach was empty except for a few early joggers and a host of trawling seagulls, and he pulled me in. Shyness heated my face. I remember worrying that he could feel the fierce vibration of my heartbeat.
He looked deep into my eyes. “I’m glad I met you.”
In retrospect, it was a goodbye.
Later, I called Gabi to gush about the rendezvous, which I’d inflated to romance-novel status. Sheoohed andaahed as I divulged every detail: the way Henry had leaned in; the way he’d pressed his lips to mine, an innocent kiss that became less so as it gained traction; the way he’d released my hands to find my waist, drawing me gently forward, until I wrapped my arms around him. I told her how it had felt as though static were popping and snapping in the air, the energy he and I had created together spilling over.
“Oh, my god, Piper!” she squealed. “I’m beyond jealous, but so, so happy for you. I can’t wait to meet him!”
It wrecks me, knowing that she might never.
My first kiss with Henry was a string of moments that stayed with me. A kiss that started nervously and ended gratifyingly. Three years later, we’re staring down adulthood. We’ve got hours of deep conversation behind us, and we rarely let a morning pass without texting. But last night, we let a follow-up kiss slip out of our grasp.
