august

august slipped away

Parties were never really my scene - and standing there at Betty's open door, I was reminded why. Dozens of dancing bodies spun and stumbled in the hall, and the smell of sweat and booze was a heady scent in the thick air. From somewhere distant, a disco ball reflected sparkles on the ceiling, and the low lights cast shadows on the wall.

I stepped in, and someone I recognised vaguely waved me through to the kitchen. More people spun and laughed, silhouettes jostling in a darkened room. A cold beer was pushed into my hand, and voices lapped over one another like waves.

I passed ten minutes - or maybe it was twenty, or a half hour - talking with people I barely knew, at first simply listening and waiting for the right moment to escape, then, several shots later, engaging with more enthusiasm than I usually have for strangers. I floated around groups of people, at first looking for you, then slowly, forgetting. The atmosphere enveloped me.

I lost myself in it a little.

The next time I checked my phone - stumbling back from the bathroom - it was 11. I think I gasped aloud. I remembered why I was here.

Right.

You.

I struggled through the crowds, searching for your face in the twisting shadows. Growing frantic, filled with adrenaline, I rushed through various rooms, until finally I glimpsed you in the kitchen. Your back was to me - I noticed the square set of your shoulders, the crop of your hair, the steady cadence of your voice as you said something. It sounded like a plea.

I watched as you followed a shadow slipping through the bodies.

I watched as you caught her wrist, as she turned, said something in your ear.

You nodded.

Then the both of you were off, two shadows now, hands clasped, into the garden. Quietly, I followed. I leaned against the other side of the door when you shut it after you, but I opened it a crack, enough to hear what you said.

"Betty," you began. I recognised the drunken desperation in your voice. I'd heard it before.

"Oh, James," she whispered, pity laced in her tone. I couldn't see, only hear, but I imagined her reaching out and touching you - maybe your cheek, or your arm. "I know what you're going to say,"

"What? What am I going to say?"

She sighed. "It didn't mean anything, I swear, I want to be with you." She mocked your voice ever so slightly, but I think you were too drunk to notice. I was just drunk enough to notice.

"Well," you said, and my heart crawled up into my throat, "it's true. Bets, I promise, it was just a fling. Just a summer thing, I swear. I'm into you. I wanna be with you. Please."

I think I made a noise like a whimper, pitiful and dying. I covered my mouth, but of course you hadn't heard. You were too wrapped up in each other's words.

"Sure," Betty said, sounding exasperated, "you say that. Whatever. But how do you think that felt, James? Finding out you spent your summer with another girl? Finding out you cheated? Finding out from someone else?"

It was your turn to sigh, but it was an ashamed one.

"Do you know how - how embarrassing that is?" Betty continued, her voice rising. "To have to find out when it's already a rumour, and it's already gone round half the school? Everyone here probably knows! She knows I know, for God's sake!"

You were silent for a moment.

Then, "Did you - did you tell her you knew?"

"Yes, I did. I'm sorry, should I not have?" I pictured Betty crossing her arms, leaning away from you, brows lifted, a challenge.

"No, whatever, it was up to you," you told her quickly.

"She's here, by the way," Betty said then, and I almost slipped down the door, but I held my breath and forced myself to remain still. "She's at the party. Well, I invited her, at least."

I relaxed a little.

Then you spoke, and you carved another scar into my heart. "I don't care!" I imagined you throwing your arms in the air, desperate again. "I don't care if she's here, Betty. Hell, I'll beg you to take me back in front of all the stupid people here, I don't fucking care! I just..." Your voice trailed off as you searched for the words. I hadn't realised my eyes were welling, but now I felt a tear slide down my cheek, hot and fast. I brushed it away furiously.

"I just want to be with you. Please. One more chance, Bets. For you and me," you said quietly, and I closed my eyes. We both waited for her reply. It was a long time coming. Seconds felt like hours.

And then she sighed and said, "Okay."

"What?"

"Okay, James! Fine. One more chance." I heard the reluctant smile in her voice. "But if you fuck it up, I swear I will leave you for good. Okay?"

You laughed, breathless, desperate, triumphant. "Okay."

My eyes welled pathetically once more. I didn't have to turn around to know that you were kissing under the warmth of the lanterns in the garden.

—

Back home, in the small hours of the morning, I told my mother the full story. This time when she told me it would be alright, I listened, even though I still didn't believe her. It would be a while before I could see the truth in her words.

—

On California's coast, there is a little house by the beach. Its walls are painted blue, the colour of the ocean, of my favourite dress when I was younger, of memories lost somewhere in an August long ago. My bedroom is white and sand-coloured, decorated with shells my love and I have found on the beach, with pictures his nieces have drawn us. I sleep beside the man I love, and when I wake every morning he is still lying next to me.

In the drawer by the bed, I keep a box of memories: postcards my mother has sent me, an origami fox my friend made me, the matchbox I received as a favour from my cousin's wedding, and an anklet a boy I once knew bought me from a beach kiosk here in California. Not too far away, but it happened a lifetime ago.

—

Today is the first day of August, and it has dawned perfectly: blue sky, blue sea, golden sun, golden sand. I walk with my love hand-in-hand down the promenade, and on my finger, there glistens the ring he gave me yesterday. Fourth finger, left hand. Sometimes I can't believe my luck. Sometimes I think about how, at seventeen, I wasted too much time thinking the pains of growing up would last forever.

Sometimes, pain is strong, but it always has an end. That August was the first time my heart broke, and not the last, but it's a time lodged deep in my memory now. It's only days like this, with such glorious summer weather, that I am reminded. And right now, I smile a little bit, because if you had told my seventeen-year-old self about today, she never would have believed you.

And that's okay.