See Dot Smile

Kindling

Maybe starting over was the wrong choice of words. Starting over suggests starting something. After three weeks of rekindling our friendship, Joshua and I haven't started much of anything.

The biggest hurdle is his emotional state. And I get it. His heart was smashed into guacamole after dating someone exclusively for three years, which is the high school equivalent of being married for fifteen. 

It would be one thing if Ali was no longer in the picture, but of course, she's still around. They even have a few classes together this semester. So, the process of getting Joshua "over" Ali has been ... slow. 

Again, I get it. I just wish we could get through one conversation that didn't end with him descending into tears and begging my forgiveness for some slight against the vast collection of childhood promises we made to each other, back when we were clueless about life, and love. Because he pretty much broke them all. Everything we promised to do together for the first time, he did with Ali instead. 

Attending our first high school dance, and our first high school party. Taking driver's ed, smoking pot, camping on the beach, getting tattoos. Falling in love.

He did all of it. Without me. 

* * * * *

The first time we get through an evening without him crying buckets all over me is when our families get together for dinner at his house at the end of September. His mother bursts into tears when she sees me. It's been ages. She can't get over how pretty I am and how grown up I look, and oh, how she's missed having me around to take care of Joshua for her and keep him out of trouble. Haha. 

I'm not sure how Ali fit in with the Jamesons, but something tells me Mrs. J. wasn't a huge fan.

Joshua's dad is equally thrilled to see me. He wants to talk about my plans after graduation, but not in a "why no college?" pressure kind of way. He's really impressed I've decided not to go yet. He says he wishes someone had given him the option of waiting a year or longer after high school. He was clueless about what he wanted to do when he was eighteen. He says he still kind of is at forty-five.

After we gorge ourselves on dinner and dessert, the legit adults start in on their traditional "what's the world coming to?"--laced with ample church member gossip--discussion, and Joshua and I make our traditional "you guys are bumming us out" excuse to leave the table and go hang out on the back porch swing together. 

The swing creaks the way it always did. High on the way back, low on the way forward. It smells the same, too. A mix of cedar, wood stain, and mildew, from the weathered cushions. The only thing missing is Joshua's border collie, Josephine, curled up between us. She died two years ago. 

I felt helpless when I found out from my parents. I wanted to come to Joshua's house and hug him and cry with him, because he loved that dog like crazy, and I did, too. But I didn't come because I was afraid Ali would be here. I should have stopped by anyway. She hates dogs.

With Josephine gone, Joshua and I have more room on the swing, but we don't use it. We're hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder, and after several minutes of listening to the creaking swing and the muffled voices of our parents inside, he reaches over and takes my hand.

"My mom was really happy to see you," he says.

"I was happy to see her, too."

"I missed this," he says. "Our parents hanging out. You and me. It feels good."

No. It feels amazing.

"I know it's been weird," he says, "being around me while I'm trying to get my head straight about everything. But I want to thank you for being here anyway. It means a lot to me that you're here right now."

A burst of laughter floats through the screen door beside us. Joshua wriggles himself even closer to me and runs his thumb over my knuckles. He's quiet for so long, I worry he's about to start another crying jag, but he doesn't.

"When my mom was sick, she used to talk to me about being brave. About how I needed to take charge of my life and go after what I wanted. To not be afraid of the unknown. She said that's where the best stuff hides out. The stuff that's worth being scared for."

I lean my head against his shoulder and tilt my face toward the warm skin of his neck. 

"I feel like I let her down," he says.

"Why do you say that?" I ask.

"Because I've never taken charge of anything. And I've let plenty of stuff I wanted slip away because I was scared of what would happen if I went after it."

Joshua has a way of speaking so esoterically I can't come up with any kind of response. It's like he's being very general right now, but at the same time very specific.

"I want to make her proud of me," he says.

"She's already proud of you," I assure him.

"Then I want to make you proud of me."

"Okay."

"I notice you aren't arguing with me on that one," he says with a smile in his voice.

I press my lips together.

"You're disappointed in me," he says.

I bury my face in his shoulder and squeal uncomfortably to avoid answering him.

He laughs. "It's okay. You should be disappointed in me. I am. But I want to do better. I don't want to screw this up, Dot. Not again."

My skin prickles and I take a deep breath in. "Okay." I exhale. "Don't screw this up, then."

He pulls me into a long hug. My heart is pounding so fiercely, he must feel it against his chest. His mouth finds my ear, and he whispers, "We'll get there. I just need time. Okay?"

My insides smoulder at the sound of his voice. The closeness of his body. He hugs me harder, then pulls away, reluctantly, and I let him. Because now's not the time for me to tear his clothes off and mount him on the porch swing. Not when our parents are in the next room anyway.

He gives me a warm smile and tucks a piece of hair behind my ear. It might be the most intimate way he's ever touched me. "You look really good," he says, letting his eyes graze the landscape of my face. "If I haven't said that out loud, I've definitely been thinking it. For like ... ever." He meets my eyes and I give him a flirtatious smile. He laughs softly. 

"You scare me," he says. "But I think you might be worth it."

* * * * *