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That summer was the summer of drive-in movies.
Dani and Jamie went almost every weekend. They closed the shop early, packed up their things, jumped in the cab of the beat-up pickup truck that they shared, and cruised through town with the windows open and the wind in their hair. Jamie always drove. Dani put her hand out the window and allowed her fingers to trail over the air currents as if she was reaching out for an imaginary friend.
Whenever Jamie caught that glimmer of movement in the corner of her eye, she stole a sideways glance, furrowing her brow as she wondered whether it was a behavior rooted in Dani's whims or in a ghost's desire to reach beyond the veil.
She never figured out the answer.
That summer was the summer of finding the perfect fit.
For the first several weeks, they experimented, parking their car in different spots to find the best view. When they finally found the perfect place to park, they kept it, arriving extra early to claim it before anyone else could.
It was nice to have a regular routine on which to hang their hats.
Especially since their both their world and Dani were becoming increasingly unsteady.
That summer was the summer of bare legs and loose-fitting tanktops and the feeling of soft fabric sliding across skin.
Dani and Jamie spread ragged quilts over the bed of the truck before cuddling up together. They were sweat-drenched and dirty, and so were their blankets. There was soil scattered in their hair and baked into the lines of their hands, evidence of their work at the flower shop, but it was so much more than just dirt. It was evidence of love, perseverance, hard work, and sacred vows. It was the foundation upon which they built their relationship all that time ago, made of moonflowers and soft loam and starlit eyes.
Stale popcorn built up in the corners. Tiny kernels got caught in knitted stitches, woven into the blankets forever. Dani kept saying that she'd clean them, but she never did.
Water had already become too difficult to bear.
That summer was the summer of clear skies and full moons.
There was always a long time between night falling and the movies starting. For both Dani and Jamie, that was often the best time. That was the time for giggling and gossiping. It was the time for sweeping soft fingers through tangled hair. It was the time for stealing kisses in secret. It was the time for admiring the way moonlight draped across the other's features, skating over nose and cheeks and lips like a soft veil.
They both tried not to think of burial shrouds.
That summer was the summer of arguments won but not lost.
They bickered about whose turn it was to begrudgingly get up to turn the key, kick on the radio, and slide the back window of the cab open when the previews finally filled the screen.
In the end, Dani always capitulated, because seeing the contented smile on Jamie's face after a hard-won victory was worth the effort.
She never knew which smirk might be the last.
That summer was the summer of adventure, romance, and comedy.
With every new movie, Jamie would mutter something under her breath about how there just had to be a bomb on the way. Every year before, there was always a bad movie, and those were always fun to laugh at.
As a child, Jamie had learned to make the most of what she was given, to find the brightness in dark places, to build a home even where there wasn't one. It is an unfortunate skill to have to master, but an incredibly useful one nonetheless.
However, that long-awaited dud never came.
Jamie didn't need to find a silver lining, because for the first time in her life, there weren't any clouds.
But every drought had to end eventually.
That summer was the summer of lingering long past the time when the other patrons left.
Gasoline filled the air as engines turned over. Sleeping kids were buckled into their carseats. Headlights fought for space in the humid, crowded air. The concessions guy packed up his cart, locked the shed, and called it a night.
But it always felt too early for Dani and Jamie. The only thing better than watching a good movie was talking about it afterwards. They picked each other's brains and guessed each other's favorite moments and did their best impressions of the characters.
It was easy, sitting together in an empty field with no witnesses left to judge them except for, perhaps, a ghost.
That was the summer of accidentally falling asleep.
They slipped away beneath a blanket of moonlight and the twinkling dazzle of the constellations, lured towards their dreams by the hum of crickets and the whisper of wind through the grass.
When they woke, they always asked how they made the mistake of sleeping at the drive-in again, but secretly, they both knew that it wasn't a mistake.
They meant to do it all along.
They didn't like goodbyes.
That was the summer of long, winding drives back to their apartment in the warm light of morning with Dani's hand still hanging out the window.
Though both Dani and Jamie complained of tiredness that day, they always counted down the days until the next showing.
Time together was both valuable and limited -- tied to a clock that never stopped ticking.
That was the last summer they spent together.
Next summer, Jamie walked through the drive-in alone -- without a car, without the pile of blankets, and without her other half.
That was the summer when the full moon watched her as she wept.
That was the summer of early nights and late mornings.
That was the summer of trusting that Dani was still by her side, even though she couldn't see her.
That was the hardest summer of all.
