And he is—Oh well! He is just himself, and I miss him, and miss him, and miss him. The whole world seems empty and aching. I hate the moonlight because it's beautiful and he isn't here to see it with me. But maybe you've loved somebody, too, and you know? If you have, I don't need to explain; if you haven't, I can't explain. ╱ Jean Webster
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It was my sixteenth birthday. Lucky was wearing one of his cashmere sweaters even though the high was eighty-five that day. It was a light blue, matched his eyes perfectly. He paired it with khaki shorts, like a madman. With August coming to a close, our sheens of sweat sparkled against the surfacing moon.
A brown paper bag was crumpled between his clipped fingers. Golden bands encompassed them, decorating his tawny skin. We laughed as we crossed the ravine on the outskirts of my family's ranch, hand-in-hand, our sneakers scraping over the rock formations acting as a makeshift pathway for us.
Lucky's grip loosened once the soles of our shoes reunited with the soil. He tugged me toward him, unraveling the bag to reveal a forty-ounce container of liquor tinted a light shade of pink. Celebratory, of course. It was something we'd only made attempts to try once before during a dinner party his family hosted in their forty-five thousand square foot lake house.
That time it'd been a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon that was tucked away in their wine cellar, long forgotten. We sat beneath the wooden pillar, barely thirteen, taking baby sips of the stout liquid, letting it coat our adolescent throats. We pretended to be wine enthusiasts, swirling it about within the curvy bottle with pursed lips and scrutinizing eyes.
He led us further until we came upon a clearing. Pasture Five. It was devoid of cattle, only a small grape vine and a few sparse apple trees. There was a small-scale pond with a family of ducks nestled beneath an English Oak. He ushered us over until we were brushing arms, bottoms sinking into the dampened sod. It left stains on his khaki shorts and my favorite patterned sundress. It was worth it, all things considered.
He tore the cap off with his perfectly aligned, white teeth. I slapped his arm gently, my eyes widened, but a smile on my lips.
One graced his as well, "How else was I supposed to open it, Mags?" he had asked with a chuckle, his eyes glistening with mischief.
"Not with your teeth! Your parents spent thousands of dollars on those." I exclaimed, watching him carefully as he tilted the bottle toward the sky and took a massive gulp.
He hadn't even made a face, didn't so much as wince. He had spent a lot of time going to parties then, urging me to tag along "Just this once!" but I never did. I heard a lot of rumors about the going on's at those functions, specifically when it involved Lucky. I never asked him about the hearsay. I don't think I wanted the answer at that time, and even still.
There were plenty of reasons as to why I always declined tagging along. Mostly, because of the crowd and the noise. The people. God, the people! I knew Lucky wouldn't stray from me and leave me at my own disposal as he mingled at one of those gatherings, but just the thought of attending used to raise the hair on the back of my neck, sending my stomach into a tizzy. He was always such a social butterfly, while I was a misanthropic moth. We balanced one another out, no less.
He'd given his neck a twist, encouraging me to take the elixir with the slight shake of his wrist, "Don't remind me. I can still taste the metal if I think about it too much." He shivered, coasting his tongue along his teeth, reminded of his teeth's lengthy stint behind bars. I finally took the forty-ounce from him.
I spun the tip of my index finger around the rim, contemplating. I silently motivated myself and tilted my chin upward, marking each and every star and trying to etch it into my memory, accounting for every constellation.
I felt his eyes on me, perusing and studying in that way he had made a habit. He did it with everyone, intent on knowing what lingered in the minds of others. It was an inherited trait of his. His dad was the same way, always silent and watching. Observing. Except his dad was more brash about it. Beneath the older man's glare, you were made to feel like a bug being dissected beneath a microscope. Picked apart and prodded at with a focused scowl.
I tipped the bottle upward, swallowing large gulps of the liquid until my throat flared, heating my chest with the force of a thousands suns, smoldering my stomach and clouding my vision.
Through watery eyes, I'd glanced over at Lucky to find a grin splitting his face into two perfect halves. Slow, astounded chuckles departed from his lips. I settled the drink between us and rested my hand against his knee while I sputtered out breaths.
I felt his hands against the nape of my neck as I clutched my chest, "Damn, are you gonna be alright?" he asked through stifled laughter.
My eyes became progressively hazier, my brain already surfacing on the cusp of inebriated. When I finally regained some sort of equilibrium, I slumped backward. I could still feel the heat of his palm along my neck. He lingered there for a moment then edged it away from me with a few gestures.
One hand shifted at the base of my skull. Relaxed fingers tangled in the loose strands of hair that had unraveled from the single braid down my backside as he detached himself from me. Lingering touches along my arm. Shared sighs. Stolen glances of assurance. His pinky jutted outward, barely grazing my own as he eyed me, carefully monitoring my state.
Satisfied enough, he'd slumped back against the tree trunk as well, releasing the bottle from my hold and assuming possession.
A goofy smile had come to life on my lips, now varnished in a sour raspberry glaze from the forty-ounce, of what I now realize was rosé.
We polished off the bottle, draining it completely in less than an hour. I don't recall talking much, just laughing childishly about things I can't possibly recall.
Regrettably, it was a night I longed to remember, because I'd tasted his lips. My best friend and I had shared a drunken kiss beneath the stars. My best friend. Luther James Sommers.
The boy it has always beat for, the boy my heart can't seem to escape, the boy who ended up breaking it with a single phone call the day after my twenty-fourth birthday, the boy whose wedding I'm essentially planning.
A wedding I had always anticipated being in, and not by headlining as the best woman. It sounds a little crazy in retrospect, doesn't it? Maybe because it absolutely is.
