Please note this is a work of fiction!This is the writing prompt for today's day 15 of 21 challenge:
If I squint, and look really hard into the distance, I can see him. It is always his back, for that is how I last saw him. As he walked away. On the other side of the wooden walkway is his house. Or it was his house. I don't know who lives there now, because in all these years I have never had the courage to go any further than this. This is the spot where he left me, and this is the spot where I return.
Oh, not that often anymore, I do have a life after all. A good life, a full life. Just not the life I thought I was going to lead when I stood here summer after summer after summer.
Where I stand is the beach, or a part of the beach behind dunes. If you don't know where this walkway is, you can't find it. It is quite hidden between the marsh grass and the side facing the beach is hidden behind dunes and a slatted fence that has a faded out No Trespassing sign. The fence leans into the dunes in one spot so you can walk right over it. But unless you know what lays behind the dunes, there is nothing indicating that it would be worth your while to trespass.
It is hard to imagine that right now I am trespassing, because for all of my childhood I was a welcome visitor. The house in the distance is not a mirage, though the hazy day can play tricks on the mind. I have seen him more than once today. He is floating above those marsh grasses, he is in the trees, his sneakers are slapping against the wood as he rushes home to dinner. Or runs toward me. He is so heavy on my mind today because he is the same age that my son is, the last time I saw him.
I have an 18-year-old son now. I had an 18-year-old boyfriend. We thought that when we turned 18 our lives would begin. This makes me laugh now, and really, the trauma I experienced well over 20 years now is long healed. Corey and I found each other on the beach when we were both three. He had walked over to where I was building a sandcastle and grabbed the pail I was using right out of my hand. I jumped him and we rolled around in the sand until our mother's pulled us apart. That is, of course, family lore. I have no recollection of that particular event, but I can recall many, many other times throughout our childhood when he took something from me and I tackled him to get it back.
The only time I didn't was when he broke my heart and took it with him as he ran from me with great assurance. Up until then it had been a game -- we had enjoyed the physicality of our playful banter. That day I knew it was over, and after careful reconstruction of that last year, I realized there had been a lot of signs.
My family did not have a house on the beach. We had a smallish cottage several blocks from the beach, which we still all pack ourselves into, my two siblings and all of our families, summer after summer after summer. It's what we do. We pitch tents in the backyard for the kids and when it rains they sleep in sleeping bags on the living room floor. There are four small bedrooms in the cottage, and we each have the same one we had as kids. The fourth we use as the kids closet -- there are six teenagers now -- and the room is always in use, with someone changing into a new outfit. They all have summer jobs at the beach, just as we did when we were their age.
Corey lived in a mansion, alone with his sister and his parents. The house was always quiet, and he preferred to hang at our cottage, which was always bustling with activity and laughter. Of course, when we grew older we took advantage of his parent's long absences on business trips, and it is memories such as those that make me shudder every time I see my own son Bart go out the door. He is tall, blonde and handsome and has his share of dates, but he's never had a serious girlfriend. Not like Corey and I were.
We only saw each other during the summer. His family lived in Connecticut and we lived outside of Boston. Cape Cod was our mutual home town, where we spent our entire summers on or near the beach. During the rest of the year we wrote letters to each other and I was permitted to call him once a month. It is one of those hindsight things that brought forth the realization that he could have called me whenever he wanted to. His parents did not go over their phone bill with color coded highlighters like my father did, so he could rant and rave about how we all talked on the phone too much.
Corey's birthday was in June and mine was in September, so of course he lorded it over me that he was older. We always celebrated his birthday at my house, with a cake and ice cream and the usual things like pin the tail on the donkey and musical chairs. His family birthday was always on a Sunday afternoon following his actual birthday, on the front lawn, with his parents, his sister and his grandparents. I would wait on the beach until he would come down, usually quiet and sullen because he'd been talked to by his grandfather about shaping up. It would take a long time to get him back into his usual good mood. He didn't go into details about what had taken place, but I could tell that it bothered him. And the older he got, the harder it became to cajole him out of these moods. His 18th birthday he didn't even come down to the beach. I didn't see him for three whole days -- something that had never happened before.
For a moment I lifted my foot as though I was going to step upon the walkway and make my way towards the house. All those summers I had set up my towel right in the same spot that I had when he would always come to meet me, but he never did after that last summer. All that waiting. And wondering why he'd never written me back or taken my calls. All he had said to me was that he was breaking up with me and he was sorry. That is all he said. He had shrugged and then trotted off to his house. He hadn't looked me in the eye. I hated him eventually, after I realized he was never coming back.
I turned and walked away, towards the ocean. I am sure I sat down in the exact spot I always had, because your body stores those memories deep inside. I stared out at the water, my face cupped in my hands, and breathed in deeply. I don't know why I came here today. Once I met Bill, we'd created our own memories on this beach, though quite a bit further down, closer to our cottage. I guess it was seeing Bart, sitting at the picnic table and blowing out his 18 candles plus one for good luck, and remembering that Corey had done the same thing, in the same spot. And we had changed our relationship that summer into something far more intimate and intense. And then he'd dumped me.
I stood up and brushed the sand off my pants. It wasn't a beach day and there was no one else out here. It was cold and foggy and damp. For a short while the sun had tried to burn through, but it was now long gone and it was time to go home. Back to the crazy, cramped, loud cottage full of grumpy adults and bored teenagers. I started to walk when I heard it. That unmistakable sound I'd strained my ears to listen for all the time. Someone was pounding on the wooden walkway, and I could feel my heart racing. And then a form sprang from the dune and landed smartly on the beach and turned in the direction I was headed. My heart actually stopped, for it looked exactly like Corey. I leaned over to catch my breath, my hands on my knees, my hair trailing into the sand.
"Are you okay?"
It was a man's voice, and I looked over at the shoes. They were nice spiffy sneakers, and I took another deep breath and stood up. I don't think either of us expected to see the other, and yet, there I was in front of his house, who else could we be?
Our eyes locked and in that span of time I read everything I'd been hoping to know ever since that horrible day.
"Hi," I managed to say, and I looked away for a moment.
"Jesus, Jane," his voice was gruff. "You look amazing."
It was such a sweet thing to say, I felt myself flooding with gratitude. I examined him a bit then smiled, I was completely flirting with him. I was that teenager, I could feel myself blushing. "You look pretty good yourself."
He reached out and took both of my hands and smiled at me. "Wow."
He was wearing running shorts and a faded green t-shirt that had Dartmouth blazed across the front of it.
"You end up going there?" I asked, pointing to his shirt. He glanced down then shook his head. "No ..." he trailed off. "My son," he indicated with his head toward the disappearing form down the beach. "He went there." He squeezed my hands and I involuntarily squeezed back. We stood there for awhile, just staring at each other.
I had a million questions but not one that jumped into my mouth. How was it possible that this meeting hadn't taken place before this? I had certainly frequented this part of the beach well into my 20's. Where had he gone to school? Why had he left me? Had he ever loved me?
"Jane," he said, and gave me the most amazing smile. I felt myself melt and my cheeks burned hot. His eyes were the same. His eyes were the same eyes that had told me they loved me. They were not the eyes that had told me they never wanted to see me again. I wanted to kiss him, I wanted him to take me into his arms and hold me. I felt my eyes grow wet and I looked away. It was ridiculous for a grown woman to show this much emotion to someone she hadn't seen or heard from in close to 25 years. We both had children the same age that we had been.
"Everyone said the kindest thing was a clean break," he murmured, and dropped my hands. "Jane," his eyes implored mine.
I couldn't take the intensity of his gaze, so I swept my eyes down the beach. I could see that his son was now headed back towards us, and I looked back at Corey. "I don't know what that means," I hissed. I felt angry all of a sudden. How dare he look at me like that. He left me, brokenhearted, and he never looked back. I had written, I had called, and I had returned to this spot on the beach.
"I know you wrote and called, and I used to watch you out here on the beach," he said softly.
That took me by surprise and I glared at him. "So why didn't you respond to me? Or come out here and talk to me?"
His son came running up and stopped. "Dad?"
Corey turned and looked at his son, then he turned back to Jane. "This is my son, CJ. CJ, this is Jane, an old friend of mine."
I shook the hand of the mini-Corey and was happy to note that his eyes were a completely different color. It was unsettling to be confronted with both the old Corey, and the older Corey, and I wondered if he saw my daughter Beth if he would see me in her as acutely.
"Why don't you go on," Corey told his son. "I haven't seen Jane in a long time, I'd like to catch up."
CJ gave me the once-over and I felt myself squirm. Then he grinned and waved at me with a quick "nice to meet you," and off he went. I looked back at Corey.
"He looks just like you did."
"He's a good kid."
I had noticed that he was quite mature. "How old is he?"
Corey licked his lips and looked at me. "He's 24."
I quickly did the math in my head. We were both 42, my son was 18 and I had had him when I was 24, and there was a six year difference, which ... I gasped and covered my mouth with my hand. "I don't understand."
Corey sighed. "Do you want to go up to the house? We could talk?"
"Is there anyone there?"
He looked at me quizzically. "Oh. You mean, like a wife?"
"Yeah." My cheeks were burning again, I think more from anger now than flashback teenage angst.
"You've caught me on an off-wife year," he flashed that old deprecating grin of old and held out his hands. "Just hear me out. The house is empty, CJ won't be back for a little while ..."
"Oh, because he is accustomed to being your wing man?" Sometimes I didn't know where these things that popped out of my mouth came from.
Corey just laughed. "Yeah, something like that. You game?"
I followed him down the wooden walkway and noted that his step was much lighter all these years later. He was still in very good shape, had all of his hair and it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps this wasn't such a great idea. I stopped.
He turned and looked at me, then reached out and grabbed my hand. I followed obediently as he dragged me. Well, not really, because as he held my hand, I kept close so as not to be dragged. We reached the house and he led me to the adirondack chairs that looked down the expansive lawn into the manicured woods. He pushed me gently into the seat. "I am going to go get a bottle of wine. This calls for a bottle of wine."
I nodded and watched as he left. For a brief moment I wondered if I would be missed at the cottage. But no. It was too crowded to begin with -- Bill would assume that I was staying away on purpose; my sister would assume that I was out buying dinner, which is something I would do, and my brother wouldn't even think of me. Nor would my children. I chewed on a thumbnail and considered the circumstances I was now (I will admit) quite happily ensconced in. Corey returned with a bottle of red and two glasses, which I took from him. He opened the bottle of wine and poured it into the glasses. All the time the sexual tension, the haven't seen you in 25 years tension, the ohmygod we are alone at this house again after all these years tension, throbbed a steady beat in my head and I must admit, I gulped my wine. Corey settled in next to me and for a few minutes we inhaled our wine in silence. It was good. I am a wine snob, so my opinion has merit.
"I was 18," Corey began. "I know that is no excuse, but it really is the foundation of everything."
I looked at him and the earnest look upon his face made me want to reach for him. I took another sip of wine instead. "It's good wine."
"Jane."
"I'm sorry," I took another sip and felt a tear roll down my cheek. I actually wasn't really emotionally fit for this situation. I was somewhere between 18 and 42, and the scale kept tipping to the left. I'd carried this with me my whole life. I'd convinced myself somewhere along the line I was over it. As I took the last sip of a rather generous pouring of wine, I realized I'd been lying to myself all these years. I guess that is what we do.
Corey noted my empty glass and picked up the bottle and poured more in. This was all new. We had never shared a bottle of wine together. Sometimes we had gone to parties on the beach and had beer from plastic cups. But this was a new experience and it brought to mind that I was really sitting here with a stranger.
He studied me for a long moment, then he leaned over and wiped the tears from my cheeks with his thumb. "That year before that summer, in school, I was seeing a girl. That is the first part of the story that I couldn't tell you. I felt such guilt. I know that at the end of every summer we swore we would remain faithful to each other. And up until that year, it was exactly what I did. But..." he hung his head. "I figured you would never find out."
My mouth felt dry. I took yet another sip of wine, and then a very deep breath. "If you had told me this, it would have been much easier to take than the absolutely nothing you told me. You just broke up with me, Corey. You hurt me."
"I know." He took my hand in his and squeezed it.
I wanted to snatch my hand back. But my soul needed this. This was retribution -- right? This was the story that explained that none of this was my fault. That I was a good person and I was mistreated and left to rot. But I didn't rot. Eventually I flourished, I went to college as planned, the first semester was difficult, but I had a tenacious roommate who did not suffer fools lightly. And while summers sucked for a long time, eventually, after dating many, many men, I found Bill. And he lit up the same candle inside of me that Corey had.
Except all those other boys between Corey and Bill did not find me on the beach before his house, waiting for him to show up. I looked at him, hard. "Just tell me."
"That summer was the same as they had all been. I know it was a little more intense, because we were having sex, but ..."
I had grabbed his arm and he had stopped talking. I knew, like only a woman can know, the rest of the story. I took several deep breaths and then recalled it all in my head. Our first time had been in the rec. room over his garage. It had been wonderful and kind and sweet and ... when I had told him that I had always known we would be each other's firsts -- he had given me a look.
At the time I had thought it was a look that a man smitten by an amazing women would give her. Now, all so many years later, I knew exactly what that look meant. I took another deep breath and looked at him. "So, when did you find out she was pregnant?"
He wasn't even surprised. We'd always had something between us that didn't require a lot of excess words. It was that kind of telepathy or whatever you wanted to call it that had made our relationship so easy. And so real.
"Her parents drove up here that last weekend, and had a powwow with my parents. My grandparents also happened to be here." He turned to me. "They were a proper Catholic family and there was no question what was going to happen." He shook his head. "I wish I could have talked to you about it, but no one wanted it to get out." He turned to me. "She was a proper Catholic girl from a family that could not withstand such a scandal. We were married that same week."
I gasped. I had figured out that I hadn't been his first to have sex with. I had even done the math and knew that he had been 18 when he had his son. But I hadn't really thought that he had broken up with me -- his girlfriend for 15 years -- one day and married someone else the next.
I thought of Bart, and how I would feel if a couple showed up at my door and told me that he had gotten their daughter pregnant.
"I didn't know how to stop it," Corey told me. "As soon as my grandfather heard the news, it was as though I had proven to him what he had already known: That I was a failure. He took over, and my parents didn't really do anything to stop him. Her name was Angie. Her parents and my grandfather figured it all out."
I looked at him. "Did you ever go to college?"
He shook his head. "No. I was headed to Dartmouth, as you know. But my grandfather had found the perfect way to get me into the family business." He laughed wryly. "Listen, Jane. I've gone over this a million times in my head. I've had a bajillion conversations with you, other than the one we had. I didn't know what to do, and everyone, my parents, my sister, my grandfather, they all said just said to give you the facts straight and make a clean break." He got on his knees and looked up at her. "I did the clean break part, I just forgot all the facts."
He was so young looking, kneeling before me, his eyes earnest, open and true. For a brief moment I wondered if he had told me then, if I would have patted him on the head, as I felt like doing now, and telling him that it was alright. But no. I had been 18 too, and I would have freaked out. I should be freaking out now, but time, experience and maturity does have its benefits.
I ached. Don't get me wrong. I wondered in a millisecond of time if we could go on from here -- and pick up where we had left off. I wanted to get on my knees beside him and go back and love him as purely as only one can do their first time.
But then I remembered Bill. My husband of 19 years, who I had met somewhere after getting over Corey and not getting over Corey. I had told him about him, and he had become sufficiently upset about him and said that if he ever saw him he would punch his lights out. Which had made me laugh, because Bill is really the most docile human being you will ever meet. He watches sports, but he doesn't play them. And the one thing he does with complete precision is love me.
"I know," Corey said humbly. "I have seen you, you know. When I grew up a little and realized everything I had done was wrong, I went to find you at the cottage. CJ was five and Angie and I had put our divorce into effect. It was one of the few times I came to the house -- all the years leading up to that I was working, and I was working hard. No one works harder than the grandson of the owner of a company." He laughed bitterly. "I would have enjoyed college."
"You know what?" I asked with a lot of malice.
"I know you found a guy who loves you, and you love him. I stood behind the bushes and I watched you. And I knew that if I had walked into that, it wouldn't have been good. Jane."
I looked at him, his tone was almost commanding.
"I loved you."
I swallowed, hard. "I loved you."
We stared at each other for a long time, and then I held out my glass. He filled it and grinned at me. "You are quite the lush."
"Seriously, don't you think the situation calls for massive quantities of alchohol?"
He poured the rest of the bottle into his own glass and we sipped in silence.
"So you divorced after five years?"
He nodded. "I'm not really sure how we lasted that long. I worked all the time and eventually she ended up meeting someone that she actually loved."
"You never loved each other?"
"No," he shook his head.
I couldn't breathe. He was not the person I'd known, because that person would not have been so complacent and let things happen to him. And yet, that is exactly what had happened. I stood up. He looked at me, surprised. For a long moment I thought I would sit back down, but I knew I was done here.
He stood up and followed me as I walked toward the wooden walkway and he put his hand on mine when I placed it on the railing. "Don't go," he pleaded.
"We could talk for hours," I began, "and I could tell you all about my life and you could tell me all about yours. I could explain that I have a son that reminds me of you; I could tell you that deep in my heart there is a hole that you made and it will never be filled. We could talk all night, and maybe we could repair a few of the wrongs ... but ultimately I will walk down this bridge and I will return to my husband, whom I love with all of my being, and to my children, who have given me more joy than I could have ever anticipated."
I turned to him and ran my fingers lightly down his cheek. "I am sorry what happened to you back then, and I am sorry for what happened to me. But you could have answered my letters, my phone calls, or come down to this beach and spoken to me. You made your choices, for whatever reason, a long time ago."
I started walking away from him, my head held high, and I could hear him following. I broke out into a run and the marsh grasses fanned away from me. I broke out onto the beach by running up the dune and jumping. It felt good. It felt right. As I ran with all I had, toward my cottage, towards my life, my husband, my children, all that mattered to me, I didn't look back. When his son and I passed each other, I only gave him a passing glance.
I entered the cottage and sat down, exhausted on the couch. My sister asked me if I had any plans for dinner. My brother glanced at me and told me I looked drunk. My husband came and sat down next to me and kissed me on the cheek and told me I looked beautiful. A few minutes later my son came in with a girl trailing behind him. He looked shy and anxious and I took a deep breath. The best I could tell him was that it all works out the way it is supposed to.
Right?
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