Brian had taken me out to dinner at our favorite restaurant before he planned to go to yet another party at his friend Cooper’s. I didn’t want to go, feeling more and more that Brian was starting to get annoyed when I’d inevitably wind up in a corner somewhere, reading on my phone or otherwise avoiding the crowd. So, when his halfhearted invitation came, sandwiched between comments about needing to “put in time with the boys,” I took the hint. He was leaving for Dartmouth in just a few months, after all, and while I knew I’d be missing him more than I could even imagine, he had all kinds of people he’d be missing—his family, his friends—and it didn’t occur to me that I should have been his first priority. That night more than ever.
His parents had been away, and we decided to go back to his house to fool around, which went pretty much as usual, at first. But much like Brian’s patience with my flaws and quirks had been waning, his patience with the progression of our physical relationship was, too, and as much as he tried to hide it, his frustration had more than begun to show.
And I didn’t even blame him for it. He was almost eighteen, and we’d been together long enough by most high school relationship standards, but a part of me was still holding out for something I didn’t understand. And I still don’t, even now. Brian loved me—he said he loved me. I loved him. Or I thought I did.
But, that night—that night, his talk of Dartmouth and leaving…it got to me. It ignited old fears and insecurities. Brian kept telling me how much he loved me, and how badly he wanted to prove that to me—physically. “The only thing I know right now, Bethy, is that nobody will ever love anyone as much as I do, right now, in this moment.” And what’s a puppy love-struck fifteen-year-old girl to do?
Like I said, I thought I loved him. I did love him. I…don’t know anymore.
Brian took my virginity in his childhood bedroom, between his dinner date with me and his appearance at Cooper’s party. It had been painful but it was over fairly quickly, and I’d been scared but Brian said all the right things.
He’d promised to meet me in our gazebo after the party—the one in my family’s backyard where Brian and I used to meet in secret the summer before, with blankets and wine coolers for slightly more innocent sleepovers, back before Sammy had become more tolerant of our relationship. But it turned out Sammy had been right about Brian all along. I never should have trusted him.
I fell asleep that night still waiting for Brian, hours after he said he’d come. I awoke in that gazebo early the next morning, wrapped in the blankets from his truck, but I was utterly alone. In Brian’s place was a note—one that appeared to have been hastily written on a piece of paper presumably torn from the notebook he kept in his backseat—both swearing his love for me, and breaking up with me.
He was doing it for me, his note said. It wouldn’t have been fair to trap me in a long-distance relationship, to hold me back from living my life, and he loved me enough to let me go, and make a clean break before it’s too late.
But it was already too late for me.
I was in denial at first, sure it had to be some incomprehensible, exceptionally un-funny joke, or something. But Brian didn’t take my calls, or return my texts, and I started to unravel.
Then he changed his relationship status on Facebook, and I could actually feel my heart shatter into pieces, the wreckage sinking into my stomach and making me sick.
It was all a misunderstanding—it had to be. I didn’t feel held back by our relationship, or want him to let me go, and I was pitifully certain that if Brian would just give me the chance to explain, that I could sort everything out between us.
It was when I saw him at school on Monday—when he looked right through me as if I were a ghost, refusing to even acknowledge that I still existed—that I finally understood. There was nothing to sort out. Brian was done with me. He’d finally slept with me, and now he was moving on to the next conquest. That’s when the rest of me shattered, too.
Brian was out of school for over a week after that, rumors and the sight of Sammy’s, David’s, and Tucker’s knuckles making sure I knew that Brian had been punished—whether for fucking me, or breaking my heart, or dating me in the first place, I never really knew.
But he never spoke to me again.
Even when I continued to call and text, even when I begged him for just a single minute of his time.
Even when I told him it was life or death.
But Brian couldn’t be bothered with me then, so what could he possibly have to say to me now that three years have passed?
I sigh out loud. I guess I’m about to find out.
My phone is close to dying, so I power it off, saving the last of the battery for my walk home. I make my way to Jazzy Java, the coffee shop just off campus where I’ve agreed to meet Brian, fully aware that David prefers the more straightforward Coffee House. The last thing I need is another confrontation between him and Brian. I agreed to meet him, after all—his excessive persistence notwithstanding. Even if it’s only to tell him to leave me alone.
I walk briskly, gathering courage, squaring my shoulders and straightening my spine to feign what I can’t muster. I enter the shop with an artful portrayal of confidence, surprised and pleased to realize the majority of it is earnest.
My heart—though still not fully healed and permanently scarred—continues to beat, despite Brian so expertly coaxing me to hand it over, only to toss it in a Dumpster. But my heart is my own again. It hasn’t belonged to him in quite some time, and whether that’s because he threw it away like he never wanted it in the first place, or because I finally gathered the strength to pick it up off the floor, the fact remains—I’m over Brian.
I push through the crowded entryway, unconsciously reaching into my bag for my phone, absently scrolling or checking for messages—a tool I often use to distract myself—not expecting to see Brian yet, as he’s never been punctual for anything in his life.
But I’m wrong, because he’s there, perched anxiously on a royal purple, tufted velvet sofa in the corner, with two large cups of coffee. He looks handsome—he always has—and his obvious anxiety does nothing to mitigate his all-American good looks. His hair is still buzzed short on the sides, but kept longer on top, and his blond streaks are lighter at the ends. He runs his fingers nervously through it. My confidence drains with the color in my cheeks, and my stomach rolls with anxiety.
This was a mistake.
I’ve spent the past three plus years growing and healing, and I thought I was strong enough for this. But it only takes one moment for me to realize I’m just the same naïve little girl I always was. Vulnerable. And I need to get out of here. I’m just about to turn and flee when his eyes land on me.
Shit.
Brian’s hand shoots up, but he thinks twice and retracts it halfway, waving uncertainly, his face contorted with a grimace of a smile. He’s beyond anxious—he’s completely frazzled. And surprisingly, it eases my own nerves marginally.
I take a hesitant step toward him, and then another, until I’m approaching the purple couch in the back of the shop. Brian stands to greet me and when he leans in to kiss my cheek, I let him. His lips feel as unsure as the rest of him.
