Run Away

"Up?" I send a quick text to Jay as I glance at the clock. 3:03 am. It's been around seven months since I've seen him and exactly 13 hours since he's been back. That's enough time right? While doubt should definitely cross my mind, instead I feel nothing but contentment. The kind of contentment that can only be brought by the anticipation of soon being in the presence of Jay's quiet confidence.

"5" Jay responds less than a minute later - only five minutes away. Just as I suspected, he's still up and just as anxious as I am to find an escape.

Our texts used to be longer. After years – eight to be exact – of tentatively asking each other if we were still awake or felt like going for a walk, we cut down our language to the much more succinct form it presently finds itself in.

Jay Morales has been a friend of mine since we were twelve. That's when he first asked me to run away with him.

~~

8 years ago

We had met at the 21st street beach, a local favorite for us who occupied our Southern Jersey shore point year round. My best friend at the time, Sophia, had accidentally kicked the soccer ball we were playing with over to where Jay and his equally tanned buddies were waxing their surfboards or whatever the heck people are always rubbing their surfboards for. These boys were known around the island for being your typical beach-y boys, long, blonde-tipped hair, lean bodies, tanned skin and all. Being a fatal combination of both incredibly shy and overwhelmingly headstrong, I wanted nothing to do with them.

"Sorry!" I yell anyways as I ran up to retrieve the ball. Jay had just picked it up when he turned around and kindly smiled at me, unlike his friends who were already making fun of us for being bad at soccer. A 12 year old's worst nightmare.

"Here you go," Jay says shyly, not correcting his friends for being jerks.

"Thanks," I say as I turn around and quickly walk back to where Sophia and I were playing, making sure to edge a few yards farther away to keep from having to run into those boys again.

Later that day, after Sophia and the rest of the beach-goers were long gone, I was ready to bike the short distance home. When I hopped on my trusty sky blue Schwinn, though, I knew I wasn't going to make it far. My front tire was completely flat. When I got off to take a closer look, I noticed a nasty gash in the rubber, meaning someone had slashed my tire. My blame instantly jumped to the group of boys from before. Just as I was about to swear off boys for life, a voice came from behind me causing me to jump.

"Do you need a ride home?"

I turn around to see Jay just a few feet behind me, standing way too confidently for a 12-year-old who should be entering the most awkward stage of his life. Looking back, this was always the most striking thing about Jay. Sure, he had the same golden, sun-bleached hair and deeply tanned skin as the rest of his pack of beach boys, but he had a distinctive air about him. He was always calm, as if he had discovered some secret key to contentment that us other angst-y teenyboppers could only dream of achieving some day. Despite his somewhat ungainly, skinny body at the time, he stood with the confidence and security of a well-established adult, yet with an added element of childlike nonchalance that struck even actual adults as charming. Life and living and being Jay just seemed to come so easy to him, like everything in this world was effortless.

"No, considering you and your stupid friends did this to my tire, I think I'll pass," I sassily shoot back at him. I remember being proud of this at the time.

"Did what?" he asks easily, genuine confusion crossing his face.

"My front tire is slashed! What other jerks are around that would have done this?" I snap back. Brilliant.