MyPlotTwist

“The first boy who loves you wears floods because he can’t afford a new pair of jeans. He can’t look you in the eye. Not until he asks you out your sophomore year. Sweaty palms. A crack in his voice. Don’t say no. I know you want to. I know your friends are snickering about it in some corner. But I also know that you like the way he is kind and gentle and quite. Even if you won’t admit it. Even if you introduce him to your parents as a friend for the first five months of your relationship. He is real, and he is here, and he is asking you to dinner from behind a greasy mop of hair. Yes, you say. You’ll go. The first boy who loves you picks you up late in a car with chipped paint, but apologies fall off his tongue like rain from the sky. Genuine apologies. He takes you to a place way off the grid. Some total dive. You order the pasta carbonara, and he smiles with all of his teeth when you tell him it’s the best damn food you’ve ever had. He says sweet things. Funny things. You forget that he’s weirdo boy. Lonely boy. Sad boy. When he says he likes you, has liked you for years now, you tell him you might be starting to feel the same way. Might. But when he kisses you, just barely fucking kisses you, your insides scream at the sudden rightness. The first boy who loves you asks you why you never talk about your family, and you tell him all of the gory details. The fighting. The drinking. The divorce. And he holds you until you forget where your limbs end and his begin. Eventually, into the skin of your neck, he tells you that he loves you. You don’t say it back, but you pull him close. You lose your shirt somehow. And then the rest of your clothes. And then your mind. It’s painful and awkward and wonderful before it becomes something more. Much more. And when you let yourself relax, arching into his touch, it’s very nearly everything. But the first boy who loves you will not be the last boy who loves you. And he is not an idiot. The first boy who loves you will not let you push him aside when you need space. He will not let you break without trying to fit you back into place like a puzzle. And when everything falls apart, he is the only thing you know how to destroy. The boy with bright eyes and bad hair and the strongest arms will stay by your side through anything. But when you ask him to leave, rip his hands from your waist and edge him towards the door, he will go. Even though you wish he wouldn’t. Even though you don’t know why you’re doing this. He will go. Because the first boy who loves you is kind and gentle and quite, but he is not an idiot. When you look back at him, sweaty palms, a nervous crack in his voice, you will still remember everything. He called you sweetheart. And babe when he was angry. And your full name when he was feeling especially affectionate. And even though it’s over, even though other boys have loved you, the first boy who loved you will be the only boy who holds your heart in his hands, feels it beat and breath without possession or power but a reverence you still struggle to understand, and then places it back into your chest and whispers, “Live.””

“I used to make you promise you’d tell your kids about me one day, and you’d roll your eyes and tell me to fuck off, but what you really wanted to say was, “Why do you always do this?” "This?“ I’d tilt my head like I didn’t already know. And you’d say, “Yeah, this. You find little ways to remind me you don’t plan on sticking around.” On days like that, I’d kiss you just to shut you up, and you’d let me. You always let me. Teeth and tongue frantic to translate nothing into something. Somewhere in the middle of it all, a whisper against the skin of my thigh: “I’ll take what I can get.” Translation: you’re on thin ice. And on days like that, I’d drag you to the car and drive until the sun set on some town we’d never heard of. Pull off the road and fool around like teenagers tip-toeing at the edges of adulthood. We’d eat at whatever mom n’ pop shop we could find, and on the way back, we’d sing old Frankie Valli songs, hitting notes only dogs could hear, laughing so hard I could hardly control the wheel. You’d say, “God, I love this,” only “this” would sound a whole lot like “you.” And on days like that, I’d pick a fight for no reason. A comment about that Halloween party two years ago was usually a good start. Your mother, if I was feeling particularly cruel. Sometimes you’d fall into the trap, and then you’d say something horrible enough to allow me to leave for the night. Hook, line, sinker. But then, oh God, then there were the times you knew me too well. Hands in my hair. On my back. Tracing the line of my spine. You’d say, “Just stop. Stop being afraid of this.” And on days like that, I loved you. I’d make coffee and eggs the next morning and scoff when you asked what I’d done with your girlfriend. We’d eat in bed bare naked and watch the morning news, ragging on the rigid politicians for building such a broken world. Inevitably, we’d trade hypotheticals. What if we were in charge. What if we knew a damn thing about anything. What if we could make this last. Later, you’d drag me close, my ear to the thump of your heart. The sound like a song playing in the apartment upstairs. If you make good on your promise, I hope you tell them about days like that. Every laugh and sigh and long night of too much wine. I hope they listen with wide eyes. Your eyes. Or hers, I guess. It doesn’t really matter. Here’s what matters: that you tell them about this. That even if we don’t end up together, I still have a place in your story.”

I call bullshit.

To my daughter I will say:

The difference between being loved and being fucked,,