Saturday, 16 May 2009

• A Generic Love Story pt. 3

  Kiss Me As If It Were the Last Time

  The fighting started on Will and my one year anniversary, in May 2007. It somehow came out that he had feelings for his best friend. I don't remember how we got there, but I remember asking, "You love her, don't you?"

  He stared at his shoes - Will does not, as a general rule, enjoy hurting people, and would rather avoid conflict than hurt me - but finally said, "Yes, I do."

  After that, even after I forgave him for it (although... I was young, and hadn't yet learned how to forgive completely - those jealous feelings would forever taint the relationship, and I wish I'd been mature enough to let them go), we fought about everything. I can't even remember most of the fights. They weren't huge fights, but they were numerous, almost continuous.

  I loved Will. I still love Will. I wanted very badly for it to work, for things to change. I stayed. Some weeks, some months, were better than others, and the good times, it seemed, still outweighed the bad. Still... a teenage girl in love for the first time can only take so much on her own.

  I don't remember calling Clayton the first time. Now it seems like I always called him when I had problems, but I generally don't spend much time on the phone, so it would have been out of character for me to call him. There had to be a first time, a process. I know it was after a fight with Will. That had to have been the catalyst.

  Did I spend an hour wondering if I should actually call him, or was it spur of the moment? Was I emotionally drained, or was I distraught and sobbing? Did I tell him everything, or make an excuse - Hey, I just wanted to see how you were? He doesn't remember either, how it started. It feels like it's always been there.

  Either way, it became a habit to call him after fights, and then eventually just because. He'd listen, he'd talk to me. It started out just comfort, but soon it was an almost nightly ritual to call him before I went to sleep, just to say hi. He was busy, and we rarely saw each other, so we kept up this way. The more we talked (and the more Will and I fought), the more attracted to Clayton I became.

  A part of me knew, knew, that it should have stopped, but there was enough rationalizing going on in my head to make the continuation of the Holocaust seem like a good idea. He's my friend, and we never really see each other. Or, I have to ask him about this movie I saw the other day - he'd like it. And eventually, Well, if I didn't call, he'd be worried he'd done something wrong.

  Still, my attraction to Clayton was beneath the service. We didn't discuss it, and if asked I would have denied it. I didn't pay him any more attention than anyone else - though we had returned to our mutually teasing antics - and Will and I never fought about him. We had plenty of other things to fight about, though honestly, if you asked me, I couldn't tell you what they were. We mostly fought because I knew that something was bothering him, but he wouldn't tell me what it was. I just wanted to know. Even now, I still don't know. I never really found out.

  I think it was September when Will and I broke up the first time. I like to think it wasn't for Clayton, but he was there in the back of my mind. And I told Will I just needed to be sure that we were right for each other - we were so young, it seemed foolish to try and plan your life around someone when you didn't know what your life was yet. He agreed (though he told me later he hadn't wanted to). I went home believing it had been a mutual decision, but feeling like I had made the biggest mistake of my life.

  I called Clayton crying. Sobbing. Terrified of the future. He soothed me, told me it would all be okay. We stayed up until 2:00 in the morning, even though we had school the next day, and by the time I went to sleep, I honestly believed that things would be okay, when five hours before hand I'd been ready to embrace Armageddon.

  That Sunday at church, I touched Will on the shoulder, a touch that could almost have been written off as accidental, and he walked out of the service. I followed and he told me he didn't want me to touch him anymore. Astounded almost to tears, I went back to the service, sitting where I had been next to Clayton at the end of a pew. His arms were crossed, and I crossed mine. Our hands brushed together. He grabbed mine - the first time we'd ever touched with something close to affection, beyond the occasional hug goodbye (most of those he pretended he hated and I pretended to be doing to annoy him).

  I've never thought holding hands could be intense, but it that is the only word for it. His fingers explored mine, touching with this heartfelt reverence, like he never thought he'd be able to. I never thought he'd be able to. I hadn't realized how much I'd wondered about touching him, the way his hand might feel in mine, if they were warm (they were), if they were soft (they were - they're still the softest things I've ever felt). Hidden behind our elbows I was free to touch him all I wanted, to revel in it, to squeeze and stroke and tickle to my little heart's content. His hands gave me amnesia - I forgot to hate myself while I held them.

  I remember whispering in his ears and feeling how cold they were. He's always had cold ears, but I'd never noticed before. I wanted to kiss them, but didn't dare do anything but whisper.

  I babysat in a neighborhood nearby the highschool every afternoon. Clayton doesn't live far from the high school, so when we couldn't get a ride, he was in the habit of walking with me. He could have taken the bus, but he, at first, wanted to be a gentleman, and later wanted to spend time with me. To cut through the neighborhood, we took a walking trail that passed a pond. On nice days, we'd stop there and talk for a while. After that Sunday, he took to holding my hand while we walked, though none of us would reach for the other when busses were passing by. Will knew I liked Clayton, but I didn't want him to catch sight of us doing anything, even if it was just holding hands.

  One day, we walked passed a creek that fed into our pond, and he'd just been talking about how hot it was for September. I dared him to jump into the creek. I pulled his hands, coaxing, teasing, and then, when we were close enough, reached up to kiss him. He turned his head.

  "I can't," he said. He was thinking about Will, like I should have been. I was ashamed of myself, but he didn't let go of my hand while we walked the rest of the way.

  I wondered if I'd ever get the chance to kiss him. It was all I thought about - what his lips might feel like, how he might taste. During school, while I babysat, while with friends, before I fell asleep at night. My dreams were stocked with almost-kisses and soft skin and freezing cold ears.

  A week or two later, he was sick. It was a Saturday, and I went to his house on the pretence of taking care of him. I brought Casablanca with me and we sat and watched it in his basement. His mother wasn't home, but his stepfather was in the other room. We ended up closer and closer to each other as the movie progressed, holding hands under the blanket, nervous and happy. Our faces were an inch from each other for the longest time. So, you gonna kiss me, or what? I thought, and then realized I had said it out loud. He smiled slightly at me, and, though he promises me I wasn't, I swear I was blushing - what a stupid thing to say - and he closed the gap slowly and with his usual reverent hestiance.

  I'd always been the one to initiate the first kiss. I'd never had someone kiss me for the first time. Clayton had never kissed anyone before, but you wouldn't know it. His kiss was gentle, delicate, sweet, like spun sugar. Soft, like everything else about him. He kissed with his entire body - his hands, his chest, his hips, his legs, all of them were actively involved. I felt like every inch of him was kissing me, not just his lips. There was a desperation in his kiss - he didn't want to let me go, and I didn't want him to let go, because for all we knew we'd never get the chance to do this again. It was reckless even for us to be doing it now.

  Ingrid Bergman knew what she was talking about. Kiss me as if it were the last time. Those are the kisses that mean something, those are the ones you can't possibly take for granted.

  "What about Will?" he asked before I left.

  "I don't know," I said. "I just don't know."

  To be continued, yet a third time.

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