Looking At Us

45. cris

For twenty minutes, I waited at the bus station, and I thought of the time Megan and I had taken Jari for a walk. I remembered the smell of the rain, the autumn color of Jari’s raincoat, the sound of Megan’s laugh. 

     ‘‘Jari, don’t step in the pud—oh, okay . . . Yup. Get your jeans wet. Amanda won’t mind at all.’’

     She was wearing a thick blue hoody and Adidas sweatpants, though I hadn’t known Megan to play shorts. ‘’I don’t,’’ she explained when I asked, ‘’I tried volleyball this year, and then I broke my ankle, and now I’m kinda done.’’ 

     I picked Jari up from the puddle and put him on my shoulders; his small fingers knotted themselves in my hair. 

     ‘‘Gentle, Jari,’’ Megan said. 

     Jari said, ‘‘Kiss!’’ which was his way of saying Cris. 

     ‘‘Really, Jari?’’ I asked, grinning up at the kid. ‘‘You want me to kiss Megan? Are you sure?’’ 

     ‘‘Kiss!’’ he squealed. 

     Megan laughed and said, ‘‘That’s not what he—’’ and I shut her up with a kiss. Somehow, Jari knew what we were up to and he started clapping and shrieking.  

     Megan’s lips were soft and cool. She tasted like peaches. 

     I love you.

     Now, at the bus station, a silver Greyhound pulled in and the passengers loaded off. I watched for her. I watched for springtime. 

     The feeling of Megan and Jari seemed like nothing more than the whisper of a memory that I’d only wanted to happen.