these summer storms

part one

“Listen - it’s not going to be tomorrow, and it probably won’t be even six months from now. But if there ever comes a time in the future where both of us want to make something work, I think it’s worth us sitting down and having a conversation.”

There is very little hesitation before he says, “I’m scared.”

“Of what exactly?”

“That you don’t fully know what you’re getting with me.”

-

It’s a long weekend in August. It’s almost 7 pm and the sun hits my barely there dress and the sparkles in my new body oil. My hair is reaching a length where everyone is complimenting me on it, but there’s a part of me that knows it needs to be cut.

I can count magic on my fingers. It’s one of my superpowers. I start with the free products I’ve accumulated at work - a new self tanner and a pink shimmery nail polish. My bedroom and bathroom are an extension of my workplace - 2 beauty closets that are filled with endless serums and masks and creams and oils. I’ve shortened my summer skincare routine to three key products, but my body routine will always remain extensive.

Dry brushing in the morning. A gentle exfoliation every second or third day. A bar of oatmeal soap to soothe redness. Followed by a body butter and body oil to finish it all off.

I order a sparkling lemonade with extra ice on this patio. A book is half open on my lap. I’m trying my best to focus on something else, on anything else. My hangover from happy hour the night before is slowly leaving.

“Guess who I ran into on Friday.”

“Stop.” My friend’s face drops. “Are you serious?” He looks around the restaurant that we’re in. I’ve already downed my first dirty martini.

“Does he have an AirTag on you?”

-

Friday Evening

It’s our usual routine. I throw my arms around his neck and we hug tightly once, then once again. I’m happy to see him.

“You’re so smiley.” He tells me.

“I’m so drunk.” I tell him.

“And you’re published.” And he’s proud. He pours us two shots. We cheers. He downs his, I sip mine, and he rolls his eyes.

“You’re going to nurse that?”

“I’ve been drinking since 5.” It’s my roommate’s birthday. A red, then a sparkling red, a white was thrown in there somewhere, as well as a few drunken cigarettes.

I haven’t felt this drunk and this carefree in a while. I had a massage in the morning, which always makes the alcohol hit quicker. I let him spin me around in my navy blue polka-dotted dress. Not even five minutes in to our run-in, and he is kissing me in front of everybody.

His dad dance moves make me laugh. He goes to pick me up, I shriek from both laughter and from embarrassment. He immediately puts me down and we kiss instead.

His best friend puts his hand out to shake mine. I’ve met him a handful of times, back in 2017.

“Heard you’re a writer.”

Jesse rolls his eyes. “You know exactly who she is.”

He takes out his card to pay, then tells me he wants to show me his new house.

I give my roommate a hug before taking Jesse’s hand and leaving.

“You know she told me you had a beautiful mind.”

“And?”

“I have to agree with her.”

I like holding Jesse’s hand. I feel proud to be next to him. I like how safe I feel and I like how he towers over me and I like how we fit together. We always have dopey grins plastered all over our faces, and I also like to imagine that people stare at us and wish they had whatever it is that me and him have.

He hails a cab and opens the car door for me. I slide in, he follows, and I drape my legs across his lap.

“The last conversation we had…”

“When you told me to tell you that we’re never going to be together?”

“Ya. It didn’t really feel over though, did it?”

He sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know, Em. The problem is - it always feels fated.”

“Do you really want me with another guy?”

“No.” It’s an immediate hard and clear no.

I rest my head on the glass. The city lights are blurry and everything is dizzying. I focus on the way Jesse’s hand feels on my leg.

“Do you want to get married?” He asks.

“I mean, generally speaking - ya. Silk dress, candles instead of flowers for the ceremony.”

We turn down a street corner and pull up to his new house.

“Well. I think it’s cute that you have our wedding planned out.”

I roll my eyes. He taps his card and opens the cab door. I slide out, he continues. “It has to be in a church though.”

I open my mouth and then close it. I always question the contradictions of us searching for closure and ending up at a point where we’re questioning a life long commitment instead. Case in point: our last conversation that ended up with me asking if we should just co-parent a child.

I look up at the cream coloured brownstone in front of me.

“Jesse…” I tilt my head to the side and smile. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

He’s proud. He opens the door, and I walk into a foyer with a staircase. He shows me the first floor - a laundry room, a bathroom, his office, his bedroom. We then go to the second floor.

“I haven’t even seen the kitchen yet. They finished the reno’s and the painting today. You would have loved the woman who picked out the paint for my cupboards - very witchy.”

The cabinets are painted a blue-grey. The rest of the living room is white, with a beautiful bookshelf and a fireplace in the middle. There’s a massive white sofa that’s still wrapped in plastic.

I’m quiet as he shows me around. “And a farmhouse sink. I always said I wanted a farmhouse sink.”

I smile. My mom always loved a farmhouse sink. There is something so European about them. It’s an art form, what they do - holding bowls of fresh vegetables and fruits and stacks of breakfast dishes and plates and coffee cups.

We go to the third floor. Two bedrooms and two bathrooms. One of the bedrooms has a terrace.

I still don’t say anything, but I think about my daily walks. I think of how there was one year in Italy that I moved about 14 different times. The AirBnB’s, the cities, the experiences, and how the Man at the Front asked me what I really wanted - because what if someone wants to build something with me?

I also think about how I can routinely stretch $1.28 for three days. How there isn’t the money in my bank account that allows me to do what Jesse and his circle does.

But I can walk for hours. And I am recognized in my community. The baristas who routinely give me free coffee. My friends who insist on covering every single happy hour. It’s the way I can wander through this world, with no purpose at all. And yet, somehow, I have found fulfillment.

There is an art to having nothing.

“I think I want to make one of the bathrooms into a sauna.”

He lifts me on top of one of the bathroom counters and starts to kiss me. This moment reminds me of Plan B night, and I immediately start mentally preparing myself. I do the calculations in my head - my period is almost done, am I in that window? I’m back on my St. John’s, which means 1 pill isn’t effective, I’d have to double my dose…

And as if reading my mind, he pulls away. I can’t read his expression. “Maybe we should move to a bed.”

“Well. There are many options in this place.”

We go back down the two sets of stairs. The house still smells like fresh paint.

To be continued <3