Chapter Text
I remember the heat, the way your living room was like an oven despite the open windows and we were sweaty. It was one of the hottest summers ever recorded and we had both had enough. Not of each other, never of each other. I remember that the film had just finished and I realised I had not taken in any of it. Despite the heat, we sat close and our knees were touching. I had thought, pathetically, that it was like our knees were kissing. I'm sure if I had said that out loud you would have laughed at me.
"What was that ending?" You had said, incredulously.
"I know right," I'd responded, remembering absolutely none of it.
I'd spent most of it staring at our knees, our kissing knees. Your's tanned and smooth, mine pale and prickly. To this day, I cannot remember the name of the film, to this day I cannot remember the ending. What I do remember is the sound of your laugh, the way that I wanted to touch your hands and your hair, and I didn't understand why. Why I thought about holding your hand, the way it was placed in the small space between us felt like an invitation. Why these thoughts confused me, and scared me.
It was getting late, we should have been going to sleep, but I wasn't tired in the slightest. I worried a lot that summer. I worried that I'd took advantage of your mother letting me stay over so much, but she never seemed to mind. No matter how many times I worried if I'd overstayed my welcome, she would always greet me kindly and offer me a cup of tea.
You kept hinting, with no subtlety whatsoever, that you wanted something to eat. We opened all the cupboards in the kitchen and there wasn't anything you wanted. So we snuck out.
When I say snuck out, I mean we walked not even a minute down the road to the corner shop just before it closed for the night. The tinny little radio started playing a song that we loved and you started dancing at the end of the aisle, your flip-flops slapping loudly against the sticky floor. I knew I was gawking at you, and so was the boy behind the counter. I didn't blame him. You had all of the grace that I lacked, you twirled with a natural poise that trained ballerinas would kill for. I just shook my head and smiled, but I wish I had told you out loud how truly wonderful you looked spinning down the biscuit aisle of that tiny little shop.
"What do you think school will be like when we go back?" You asked me when we were back at the house, surrounded by our snacks.
"Same as usual," I struggled to imagine it would be any other way.
"Don't you want it to be different?" You said.
Of course I did, we all wanted it to feel different. We all deluded ourselves into thinking that a new school year would be different. But every year it was proving to be exactly the same.
Shortly after this we went to sleep, neither of us were tired and I had a lot I wanted to talk about. I always had something I wanted to talk about with you back then and I had to restrain myself. I didn't quite understand why at the time, but of course I do now. We fell asleep mid conversation, with the TV still on. We'd whispered and laughed through whatever it was we were watching. And even after all of that, there was still more to say. I was so eager, so desperate for your attention all the time. And for whatever reason you readily gave it to me, over and over and over again.
When I woke up I wanted to pretend to be asleep until you woke up, to see your reaction to the position we had woken up in. We had fallen asleep in the middle of a sentence, foreheads pressed together from when we had lay close together to whisper. I could smell your breath, and it wasn't pleasant but I honestly didn't mind. Our arms were tangled on the small space of mattress between us and my knees were pressed right up against yours. Kissing knees.
Instead of doing what I had so desperately wanted to, I gently shuffled myself backwards and rolled over to face away from you.
When you eventually woke up half an hour later we ate breakfast together. We were quiet but we were content, we had a TV show playing while we ate too much toast. Your mum was watching us from the doorway and I'll never forget this moment for as long as I live.
Your mum had always liked me, she'd always been sweet to me. She was stood in the doorway with a look of absolute disdain on her face, but in a way it was kind of drew back like she was trying to hide it but failing miserably. She pretended to watch the TV, and when I looked over at the TV I felt eyes shift on to me.
What had I done? What had you done?
I felt a little rushed out of the door that day. You seemed just as confused as I did. We'd hugged goodbye, your mum handed me my bag and our hands brushed as I took it from her and thanked her.
When I took the bag, her hand fell to her side and she wiped her hand on her jeans. As if I had infected her, as if I were covered in grime.
What had I done?
The walk home was typically less than five minutes, but I walked extra slow that day. Absurdly I looked down at my hands. How could they have betrayed me? It was as if your mother had read my palm and sensed that there was something deeply wrong with me. As if she sensed my desires, the ones that I didn't even fully understand myself. Maybe she read my mind when I thought about how I wanted to touch you. Though I had never touched you how I wanted to, and you had never touched me how I wanted you to.
I found myself crying. I was thankful my own mum was at work, my tears had turned into sobs by the time I got in the house. I cried so hard, for a moment I thought the feeling would never fade, that it would burrow down deep in my chest and make a home there.
I washed my hands. I scrubbed and scrubbed my hands with soap until they were red, until they hurt. I let the water run as hot as it would go so I would be rid of whatever was on my hands that caused that woman, who a day previously didn’t bat an eyelid at me walking into her house without knocking, to look at me like I had pissed on her doormat.
I didn't hear from you again for the rest of summer. Not even when I knocked on your door after you didn't reply to my texts for two days.
Your mother answered the door, holding her arms across the doorway as if I would try and break into your house. Maybe I should have. Broke in, ran upstairs and grabbed you and kissed you. But I didn't. Of course I didn't.
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Let the fear sizzle in the acid in my stomach.
"We're busy today." Your mum said to me before I could even say hello.
I asked if you were free to talk, if you wanted to come to my house, if you wanted to go to the beach. Anything. Anything whatsoever. I would have done anything you wanted, gone anywhere.
"She's getting prepared for the new school year, she'll be busy all week." She'd said, smugly. "Maybe you should do the same."
I got the hint. "Can you at least ask her if she can reply to my text, or call me?"
"Sure." But of course I knew she didn't mean it. She was saying it to get me to leave. I gave her what she wanted.
I wondered if you'd have come downstairs to talk to me if your mum wasn't there. If her arms weren't blocking the door, would you have walked through the frame to meet me?
For those two weeks left of summer I simmered, I felt constantly ill with anxiety. I couldn’t stand to eat much and I barely slept. When we went out I would always look at your house as we drove past, in the hopes that I would catch a glimpse of you. I never did. I stopped trying to text, I was getting the hint.