Looking At Us

31. cris

The nice thing about Megan was that she didn’t complain about the weather. It was May, and it was windy and gray outside, and she was wearing jean shorts (these tiny blue things that barely came back her thighs and I thought she looked awesome in them) and a tank top, and she didn’t say anything. Her hair flapped aimlessly around. 

     ‘‘Let’s go to the beach,’’ she said in a singsong voice, taking my hand. I watched her skip beside me, like a kindergartener coming home from school. ‘‘Well, that little sandy place that looks like a beach but isn’t really a beach.’’

     ‘‘Megan,’’ I said, and we reached this giant oak tree and I folded my arms around her shoulders, because I was in love with her and I wasn’t going anywhere else. 

     You’re my angel. 

     ‘‘Don’t let go of me,’’ Megan said quietly, ‘‘but let’s keep going.’’

     So we shuffled awkwardly down to the beach that looked like a beach but wasn’t really a beach, and I didn’t let go of her but we kept going until our feet hit the sand. I kicked off my socks and Nikes and Megan pulled her toes out of her flip-flops. I stepped in the water; Megan didn’t. 

     I said, ‘‘It’s cold.’’ 

     ‘‘Yes,’’ she replied. 

     I waded around in the water for a bit, watching out for rocks and tiny crabs, and I gazed at Megan. Most of the time she was on her phone, taking Snapchats of herself and sending them to her friends, but she talked with me about movies and life and dogs. Random little things that seemed impossible to let go of. 

     ‘‘What’s your favorite music?’’ I asked. 

     She looked up. ‘’Um. Ed Sheeran. Down With Webster. Ellie Goulding.’’ 

     I pulled out my phone and played Ellie Goulding’s I Know You Care. The words slipped into the air and wrapped around our arms, fingers, legs, hearts. 

     Her smile was warm. 

     My toes were cold, cold, cold. 

     When I came out of the water, I got sand all over my feet and my shins, but I walked over to Megan and stuck my tongue out as she sent a Snapchat to someone called Paige. 

     ‘‘Who’s Paige?’’ I asked. 

     ‘’My friend in Ontario,’’ she answered. ‘‘She doesn’t know who you are.’’ 

     ‘‘Oh, yay. ‘Cause too many people know who I am.’’

     Megan laughed and then she looked at me, our noses inches apart, and I leaned in and kissed her. It was a bit different than last night—for one, I had to bend down to really get my lips to hers, but that was okay—and the atmosphere and mood was different, but Megan’s ringtone went off halfway through the kiss and she laughed with her mouth still against mine, and that was what made it perfect.