If He Had Been with Me (6 page)

Jamie and I are holding each other and listening to the rain. My wet hair is splattered across his bare chest and his hand is tucked inside my bikini top. The air is cool on my bare skin.

I’m glad now that it started raining.

I sigh and nuzzle his shoulder. His smell is so familiar to me, so comforting, that my muscles relax even more with every breath I take.

“You sleeping?” he mumbles.

“Not yet,” I say. I’m trying to make my breath rise and fall with his. I’m feeling satisfied, which does not always happen when he and I are together. I’ve never told him this though; since I’m always silent when he kisses me, all I have to do is say nothing when he stops moving against me and he assumes I’ve finished too.

Today though, my toes curled and my fingers dug into his back. Nearly skin-to-skin, it felt so real that I couldn’t think of anything but the moment I was in, with him.

“I love you,” Jamie says. He moves his hand over my breast as he says it.

“Do you really?” I ask.

“You know I do,” he says. I think about our future together, how perfect it will be. We’ll buy a house and have a family and be happy together. Jamie is perfect and his life will be perfect, so if I am a part of his life, then I will be perfect too. I trace my fingers down his chest and he flinches away. “Don’t,” he says. “That tickles.”

“Sorry,” I say. I lay my hand back on his shoulder. There is another silence. My eyes start to drift closed.

“I want you,” Jamie says. I feel my eyelashes graze his skin as I open my eyes.

“I want you too,” I say. “Just not yet.” I feel him sigh beneath me.

“Why?” he says, even though I’ve already told him.

“I want it to be special,” I say.

“It would be,” he says.

“How?” I ask. “Here, in this room?” I look at his room with the rock posters and anime action figures lining the shelves, his dirty socks on the floor, and the view of the back patio from his window. When I daydream about my first time, I see it happening in a beautiful room with a gilt canopy bed and a view of the Eiffel Tower out the window, or in a leafy green forest on a velvet blanket with wild flowers surrounding us.

“Yes,” he says. “Or your room.”

I grimace and struggle for words while trying to control my panic at the very idea of my room or, worse, his.

“No, you don’t understand,” I say. “It has to be
perfect
. Absolutely perfect.”

Jamie shifts underneath me, trying to sit up. I let go of him and sit back facing him.

“If it’s you and me, then that’s all that really matters, right?” he says.

“Yes.” I draw the word out slowly, feeling the incompleteness of my reply, how much it leaves unsaid.

“And nothing in life is ever really perfect. I mean, what are you waiting for?”

“I’m just waiting for it to feel right,” I say. I look down at his comforter and pick at a ball of lint.

“When will that be?” he asks. I shrug and don’t look up.

“Are you mad?”

“No, I’m frustrated,” Jamie says. His voice is hard and sounds as if it’s coming from very far away.

“Are you going to leave me?” I ask. Swiftly, Jamie moves closer to me and pulls me into a hug.

“I will never, ever, never leave you,” he says.

“I love you too,” I finally say.

Sasha and I are sitting on Brooke’s floor with her, reading magazines. Angie is off with Mike. Jamie is spending a week in Chicago with his family. The other boys are off doing something dumb at Alex’s place.

We’re giving each other quizzes out of the magazines. The quizzes are titled things like “
Are
you
a
good
FLIRT?
” or “
Do
you
know
how
to
get
what
YOU
want?
” According to these magazines, we are all amazingly well balanced. They’re multiple choice, and it’s easy to know what the right answer is; one choice will have too much of the trait in question, another not enough, and one will be just right, like a teenage Goldilocks. All afternoon, we’ve chosen the same answers and been told that we’re doing great, that we should carry on as we are and everything will be okay. It should be boring but it isn’t; it’s comforting.

“You aren’t afraid of taking risks but you also know to back down when things get too serious,” Sasha reads. “Because of this, your friends can count on you to be a good time without things getting out of hand. You can use your good judgment to help a Shy Wallflower break out or keep a Wild Child reined in. Though you may sometimes make mistakes, like the night you get pulled over for speeding or the party where you’re too shy to ask your crush to dance, your common sense—and your sense of fun—will always see you through.” She tosses the magazine to the side and stretches her arms over her head.

“When’s Jamie coming back?” she asks. “I want to go swimming.”

“Friday,” Brooke and I both say. We smile at each other. We like to make jokes about being cousins-in-law.

“I miss him so much,” I say, because I do and I’m enjoying it. “I can’t believe we’ve almost been together for a year.” It’s early August. I have six weeks until our anniversary, and I can’t wait. To me, it will legitimize us as a couple in a new way; we will be inarguably together for the long-term, and our relationship will be worthy of deference over less established couples.

“Yeah, me and Alex too,” Sasha says. I think back to nearly a year before when Sasha and I battled over Jamie, and how he chose me. I smile at the ceiling and feel smug.

“Noah and I will have been together for a year and a half in October,” Brooke says. I feel less smug.

“You guys are so cute,” Sasha says. I have to agree that they are. Brooke and Noah never seem to argue—though Brooke swears they do every once in a while—and they do anything that the other asks them to do, so they’re constantly jumping up to get sodas for the other or to rub their shoulders.

“It’s been forever since we’ve gotten to be alone,” Brooke moans. I pick up a different magazine. Sasha makes a sympathetic noise in reply to Brooke and I glance over at her suspiciously. She’s flipping through a new magazine, looking for the quiz at the back.

“Oh my God,” she says, “Here’s one for Autumn.”

“What?” I ask, sitting up and leaning over. I’m curious and liking the idea of special attention.

“‘
Does
he
like
you
as
MORE
than
a
friend?’”
she reads. I look at her blankly.

“Who?” I ask. Sasha laughs.

“Finn Smith,” she says. “Remember in seventh grade how he used to stare at you during lunch?”

“No,” I say. I remember waving to him across the cafeteria. I don’t remember anyone staring.

“Did he?” Brooke says.

“Yeah,” Sasha says. “But he wasn’t as hot as he is now.”

“You think he’s hot?” I ask. I think so, but I’m surprised that she does as well. Finny is so preppy, and he’s quiet and introverted instead of charming and outgoing like the boys in our group.

“Yes,” Sasha says, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “I mean, I wouldn’t want to date him, but yeah, he’s hot.”

“He’s pretty hot,” Brooke admits.

“Okay, but we’re not friends anymore so I can’t take that quiz,” I say.

“Sure you can,” Brooke says. “Just answer what would have been true back then.”

“I can’t—”

“Number one,” Sasha says. “You call your best guy friend crying after a fight with your mom. The next day at school he, A, asks if you’re okay. B, doesn’t mention it, since he got off the phone really quickly. Or C, gives you a hug and remembers all the details of your conversation the night before.”

“Well, C,” I say. Suddenly the Goldilocks answers aren’t so clear anymore; I don’t know what the right answer is, just what the truth is.

A. He blushed when people asked if I was his girlfriend.

C. He never talked about other girls in front of me.

B. He seemed comfortable touching me.

A. He said I was his best friend.

I look over Sasha’s shoulder as she adds up my score. I’m relieved to see by the numbers assigned to my answers that they aren’t all to one extreme, but many of them still are. When she is finished, Sasha looks up at me triumphantly.

“Girl, are you blind?” she reads. “This guy is jonesing for you bad—”

“Okay, stop,” I say. “We were twelve. We didn’t even have hormones.”

“You were thirteen in seventh grade,” Sasha reminds me, “and you guys were still friends until Christmas.”

“Did something happen at Christmas?” Brooke asks.

“No,” I say. “We just grew apart during first semester.”

Sasha shrugs.

“Well, apparently he was in love with you,” she says.

“Oh come on, half of those questions couldn’t have really applied to us back when we were kids. I mean, ‘How often has he ever broken curfew to spend time with you?’ ‘What would it take for him to run back to his car to fetch your biology book even though his homeroom is all the way across campus?’”

“But you still had answers,” Sasha says, and she has me there. I did have answers.

“I was just guessing,” I say. “Like it matters anyway. He’s with Sylvie Whitehouse—”

“And you’re with Jamie,” Brooke says.

“Exactly,” I say. Sasha shrugs and we go back to flipping through the magazines.

The first day of sophomore year is going to be hot and muggy; I can already tell. I’m wearing a new tiara, purchased along with the rest of my back-to-school items. This one is black with dark stones. I’m wearing a red plaid skirt and black button-up shirt. Instead of last year’s book bag, I’m carrying an army green mail carrier that I’ve covered with buttons. Everything is new.

I’m ready to be a sophomore.

The group at the bus stop is smaller this year; there are only five of us now. Two are Finny and Sylvie. One is a junior named Todd who I have never spoken to before. The last is a nervous-looking girl who looks too young to even be a freshman. I’m fairly certain she is from a private school, and is terrified.

Finny and Sylvie are holding hands. The cheerleading uniform has been redesigned. I like it better than the old one, but I have no desire to be wearing it myself.

The new girl eyes me suspiciously when I stop at my regular spot at the curb. Like always, I am hit with the memory of flying down this hill on my bike. Finny was never afraid. I always was.

“Hi,” I say to the new girl and smile. She mumbles something and smiles back, a small grateful smile. “I’m Autumn,” I add. I’m feeling generous today. I also have a plan.

“We’re going to have so much fun in chemistry together,” Sylvie says.

“I’m Katie,” she says.

“Did you go to St. John’s?” I ask Katie the New Girl. She nods.

“Did you?” she asks, frowning.

“Oh, no, not me,” I say. For one moment, I have an urge to glance behind me at Finny. In fourth grade, my father wanted me to transfer to St. John’s, and it might have happened if I hadn’t cried every night at the dinner table and refused to eat. I wanted to stay at Vogt Elementary with Finny. At the time, I thought separation from him would be the worst thing that could happen to me. I lay awake at night wondering how I could survive without him. Knowing that Finny was there in the room with me made every test less scary, every taunt less painful. I would look over at him sitting at his desk and know that everything was okay. The thought of enduring every day without him took away my sense of self, of balance, of hope. It all finally ended when Aunt Angelina told my parents that Finny was just as distraught and begging to be transferred too.

I’m so distracted by the strength of the memory that it takes me a moment to realize that my plan is far exceeding my expectations.

“Yeah, he was in my class,” Katie the New Girl is saying.

“Oh really?” Todd the Junior says. “Did you know Taylor Walker too?” Katie the New Girl nods again. “That’s my cousin,” he says. They talk about Taylor, and then more people who they both might know. Somewhere behind me, Sylvie is talking too, but the plan has worked; it’s all a jumble of voices now and when I tune out Katie and Todd’s conversation, Sylvie’s voice fades to the background as well.

By the time the bus pulls up, I have not learned anything else about the fun Finny and Sylvie will be having this year.

I have Honors English with Jamie and Sasha, the only class I have with either of them. They’re both taking all Honors this year; I only have the one. Finny and Sylvie and several of their other friends are in our class.

Because we’re a small class, and supposedly the smart ones, our teacher lets us get away with a lot in there. It’s delightful to us, this special treatment, this freedom. Jamie is frequently hilarious. I’m more proud when the others laugh at his jokes than I would be if they were my own. He’s handsome and funny and mine.

The teacher, Mr. Laughegan, likes me; English teachers always do. Sometimes after this class, I worry that I talked too much, that I sounded like a know-it-all, yet the next class I can’t keep my hand out of the air again.

The third week of school, I see a book on Mr. Laughegan’s desk. He isn’t in the room, but the bell will be ringing soon. It’s
David
Copperfield
, a book I’ve long been meaning to read. I pick it up and begin reading. I’m absorbed by first page. I sit down at his desk and continue reading.

“What are you doing?” Jamie says.

“Reading Mr. Laughegan’s book,” I say. Someone in the class laughs. Jamie snorts. It’s hard to predict when Jamie will approve or disapprove of any eccentricity of mine. I’m guessing this is borderline; perhaps he wishes that he had done it first.

“She is so weird,” Jack says. I feel the usual swell of pride and shame, and I am determined to stay at the desk and read.

I’m still reading the book when Mr. Laughegan comes in.

“Hello, Autumn,” he says. “Do you like Dickens?” I nod. “I’ll loan that to you after I finish writing my paper if you like.” The surprise must show on my face, because he adds, “I’m taking night classes for my Master’s.”

“Oh cool,” I say. The bell rings and I go to my seat without being asked.

Mr. Laughegan makes good on the loan; Jamie teases me about my new best friend the English teacher and mocks the length of the book. I make a habit of sitting in Mr. Laughegan’s desk before class, reading his books, sometimes going through the drawers. He never minds. I question him about the contents of his first aid kit and his preference for blue highlighters.

I think Mr. Laughegan gets me. One day he asks me if I write. I tell him I do. He asks me if I know about the creative writing class for seniors that he teaches. I do.

***

My one-year anniversary with Jamie is on a Tuesday. He gives me three red roses at school. I expected him to bring me a rose; I am surprised by three. The Friday afterward, Jamie and I go out to dinner and make out on my living room couch. I clutch him tighter than ever before and for the first time I forget about everything else while he kisses me. He stops suddenly and looks at me. I’m bewildered, thinking I must have done something wrong. And I’m annoyed, wondering what it is he doesn’t like this time.

“What?” I say before he can speak.

“Do you want your present now?” Jamie says. He smiles and I nod. We sit up and I run my fingers through my hair as he reaches into his pocket. Suddenly I’m nervous that I won’t like what he got me. He hands me a flat white box and I stare at it.

“Go on,” he says. His voice is so eager, I promise myself that no matter what it is, he will believe that I love it. I close my eyes before opening the lid. The room is dark; when I open my eyes, I have to lean forward to see what is lying on the cotton.

A silver bracelet with two charms. I lift it up and try to see them in the weak light. One is a turtle. The other is a heart with something engraved on it. I hold it closer to my face.

“It’s the day we met,” Jamie says. “That starts it. And then the turtle is our first year together. And I’ll get you one every year for the rest of our lives, and when special things happen, like our wedding and our kids.”

My eyes and throat feel tight, like I might cry. I hug him and rest my head on his shoulder. I think about how certain he is that those years together will come. Our age doesn’t matter to him. He never fears that we aren’t meant to be together. He never doubts us; he never doubts anything.

“I love you, James Allen,” I say. My voice cracks. The tears do not spill from my eyes, but I’m still amazed. I’ve never cried from happiness before.

“Are you crying?” Jamie says. I nod, even though it isn’t quite true. His fingers tighten in my hair and I press my face into his shoulder. We sit together like that for a long time. I think to myself,
This
is
it, I really do love him
. Tonight it’s easy to say, to feel.

“Why a turtle?” I say finally.

“They’re slow but steady,” he says. “And I like turtles.” He laughs when I laugh, and we lean our foreheads together. He reaches up and brushes his fingertips under my eyes; I squeeze them closed so that a few tears dampen my lower lashes for him to wipe away.

***

Mr. Laughegan suggests more books for me and loans me several others. I work hard on my first book report for him; I want to impress him.

At lunch, I show everyone his comments on my paper.

“Read this,” I say, shoving it in Brooke’s face. “‘I’ve never noticed that before, Good Job.’ I made a point that he had never thought of!”

“That’s neat,” she says.

“I like Mr. Laughegan too.” Noah says, “He’s cool.”

“Oh, I just adore him,” I say. Jamie rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, you’re in love with him,” he says.

“No, I just love him,” I say, and I realize it’s true. I do love Mr. Laughegan, not like a crush or like a father or a brother or anything that I can define, I just love him. I love him because he said I could stare out the window when it’s raining as long as I’m still listening, and because he said Macbeth was a jerk. I love Mr. Laughegan, and it is a simple and easy thought to have; it is nothing at all to say it.

Jamie rolls his eyes again.

“You’re in love with a teacher,” he says under his breath. I ignore him and read through Mr. Laughegan’s comments again.

***

“Hey, Autumn,” Finny says. I stop in my tracks. His voice is low. He doesn’t look directly at me when he speaks. We’re standing outside the closet-sized classroom. His book bag is slung over one shoulder, and he stands to one side of the door so that he cannot be seen from inside.

“Hey,” I say. I wonder if something is wrong.

“Happy birthday,” he says. He still is looking down at our feet.

“Thanks,” I say. I’m confused. He could have said this at the bus stop this morning. He could have waited until tonight, when we go out to dinner with The Mothers and my dad. Finny turns away and walks into the classroom. I follow him. To the others, it only appears that we arrived at the same time.

Since it’s my birthday, Mr. Laughegan says I can sit at his desk for the whole class if I promise to behave. I fold my hands and sit up straight, miming perfect attention, as if I would ever give Mr. Laughegan anything less.

And yet I am distracted. His desk is to the side of the room, perpendicular to the board. From this angle, I have an unobstructed view of Finny. By looking at the board, I see him too. I see him only.

And I love him. For all of my memory, I have loved him; I do not even notice it anymore. I feel what I have always felt when I look at him, and I have never before asked myself what it is exactly. I love him in a way I cannot define, as if my love were an organ within my body that I could not live without yet could not pick out of an anatomy book.

I do not love him the way I love Jamie. It’s not the way I love Sasha or my mother or Mr. Laughegan.

It’s the way I love Finny.

And it’s impossible to say and even harder to feel.