There.

I took him there.

 

It was you who first showed me that place. An old wooden pier hanging low over the dark water. We left your friend to smoke weed in the truck. I remember your grin and wink as you pushed open the gate that warned us. Trespassing doesn’t count after midnight in this town, you said. You took my hand to pull me through. You didn’t let go as you led me those 80 yards or so out to the edge.

 

I led him there.

 

You kissed me there. It was the second time you had ever kissed me, but this time the moonlight made your eyes shine brighter than they ever had before. And, my God, did I love looking at your eyes. This was the first time I could see your desire for me. You made a high school girl’s dream come true, the way you looked at me that night.

 

I kissed him there.

 

You stood behind me and faced me towards the north. The bridge lights up the water. It’s too far to hear, but just close enough to still be visible from our pier. You told me between breaths down the back of my neck how you liked to come here and watch the headlights pass into the city and back again.  Kept you from thinking too much, you said.

 

I faced him south.

 

You leaned in to kiss me again, and if anyone asks, I don’t really remember it. I don’t remember every way your hands moved to hold my waist. I can’t recall the shock quality in your lips. I don’t still think about how I pulled you closer and closer to me. I can’t remember how it felt when you paused to breathe and smile, the hot air that warmed my lungs. I don’t remember the sound of your laughter when we nearly collapsed off the edge. But you caught me just in time.

 

He held me there.

 

We never came back to that pier. Yet every time I drive by that pier, I think of you. It didn’t feel fair to him, though. That you got to keep that part of me, when I wanted nothing more than to give it and everything else to him. That’s what adult love is. So I took him there. I tried to re-write the memory.

 

It didn’t work.