By Angela Gann
My parents
divorced when I was four years old. Within
six months my mother remarried to a man with a large extended family.
Sometimes his brother would come to visit, and bring his son, Jeff.
Jeff was a year or so older than me, but that didn’t keep us from
getting along. Every time they came
over, my younger sister and I would be fully clothed, but as soon as they got
there, we ran off to put on our UnderRoos.
I had Wonder Woman and my little sister had Barbie UnderRoos.
We ran all over the house playing Batman and Robin (and of course Wonder
Woman). We climbed up into my
bedroom closet by putting our feet against one wall and inching our backs up the
other, pretending it was our elevator. We
always had an awesome time. And
sometimes he wanted to play House. I
always got to be the mommy, and he was the daddy. My younger sister got to be the baby. Even then Jeff and I flirted outrageously.
Sometimes we would lose touch for a year or so when our parents didn’t
visit much, but every time we began talking again it was like the conversation
had never stopped. The last time we really started to spend a lot of time
together was when I was 16, probably because by then we both had cars, and
therefore the choice when to hang out. I
don’t even remember anymore which of us called the other, but from that point
on we were virtually inseparable. We
went to the Eat ’N Park for coffee and hot chocolate with whipped cream (I
hate coffee). We went riding around
on the back roads at night talking about anything and everything.
We walked to the mall together and spent hours loitering there with
friends. He introduced me to a
friend of his, and the three of us went out every night. But his friend, Tom, was just along for the ride.
I really wasn’t very interested in Tom, and I think Jeff knew it as
well as I did. Tom and I stopped
seeing each other after about a month, but Jeff and I continued to hang out on
nearly a daily basis.
My heart fluttered when I looked at him, which was often.
He wasn’t conventionally handsome, but he was oh so sexy.
He had rich dark hair and lovely brown eyes that flashed with topaz
sparks according to the light. His
nose was too sharp, but his smile more than made up for it. I wanted to run my
fingernails over the whipcord tightness of his body. And
to top it all off, he had a wicked sense of humor that I found very attractive.
Surely he felt the weight of my stare as I fantasized what a relationship
with him would be like. Unfortunately,
something always seemed to come up, and we always knew his parents would have
hysterics if we began dating. After
all, we were cousins, if only by marriage. We
weren’t blood-related, so I never understood why it was such a big deal to
them, it wasn’t as if we would have three-headed children.
Maybe it was me they objected to, the stepchild of their poor brother.
My step-uncle hardly visited at all after we moved from our split-level
ranch home to a shabby single-wide trailer when I was 12.
And it wouldn’t do at all to have his youngest son dating trailer-park
trash.
Once during the summer when I was 17, we were driving
along a back road headed towards the Horseshoe Curve.
The night was fragrant black velvet, filled with the sounds of crickets
and trees as only central Pennsylvania can.
The cool air whistled softly as it came in through the partially open
windows. Were those chills running
down my spine from the air or something else?
I watched his profile in the dim orange glow cast by his dashboard lights
as the conversation became more serious. And
eventually we began to talk about us…not as friends, but as more.
He seemed tentative, and nervous, neither one of us quite brave enough to
make the move from our very serious flirting to more.
We drove to the elementary school near my house to talk, away from my
nosy parents and my younger sister. Finally
he dared me to kiss him. And I did.
I leaned in slowly, giving him the chance to change his mind while my
heart thundered in my ears. Our lips met and parted as the kiss deepened. It seemed to
last for an eternity, though it really only lasted a few minutes.
It felt so strange! We had
been friends for such a long time, practically since we could walk.
He pulled away, surprised that I had actually kissed him.
Neither of us was sure what to say.
We didn’t speak of that incident for a couple of weeks after that,
until we went camping with some friends. My
mom allowed me to go because she thought he would “protect” me.
The irony of that almost made me laugh myself silly.
We found ourselves in the quiet of a friend’s truck, away from the
mosquitoes and the prying eyes of our group.
Unfortunately, I was unsure of myself and so was he.
We stopped after a few minutes of making out, both of us frustrated and
confused.
After our interlude he seemed uncomfortable around me, and as we both got busy with school and other things we lost touch. Then he got back together with his ex-girlfriend, and I met a guy where I worked. I moved 300 miles away the next summer, eager to get away from my sense of loss as our friendship drifted away. I still miss him sometimes. In many ways he was my best friend, but now he is gone. I wonder if it was worth it, a few stolen kisses for the loss of a friend. I also sometimes wonder if maybe I read a little (a lot) more into it than there really was. And maybe I did. The only way I can judge is by what I know happened, the sweetly serious look on his face as we talked by the glow of the dash lights and the feel of my lips on his. Our friendship is practically nonexistent now that we live states apart. We promise to visit, but we never do. Life moves on, we were torn apart. The reality has replaced the bittersweet illusion of summer, and I no longer dream of being his lover. I only wish our friendship hadn’t proved to be so fragile.