I lean over the edge of the balcony and peer down at the garden below. I’d take a moment to enjoy the cool Wilmington wind against my flushed face if I could breathe. For a solid minute my vision swims as I struggle to suck in enough air to keep from passing out. The sound of my pulse rushing in my ears begins to ebb as everything starts to calm and I thank my lucky stars. Soft strains of music slowly drift free and steal the silence I rushed up here to find, as the patio doors beneath me open. I can hear fractured snippets of people regaling fond stories of Mrs. Adkins. I move slowly backward into the shadows and watch as he steps out onto the deck, running his hands through his hair. I should take the opportunity to leave while he’s out here, but I can’t seem to make my legs work.
I watch as he links his hands behind his neck and stares out at the sky. My heart rate begins to accelerate again when I remember idly how I used to love running my hands through his messy blonde locks. He looks exactly the same and yet somehow completely different. The natural, infectious energy that used to surround him has disappeared, but I guess prison will do that to you. The boy I last laid eyes on has long disappeared, but the man that’s taken his place bears all the resemblances to my first love.
I wish I’d known he was going to be here—I could have avoided him. I’m not ready to see him, and as he stands looking out into the night, I can’t pull my eyes away. I’ve practiced every day for ten years what I would do in this situation. I’d ask him why he didn’t come clean. Why he lied. Why he shut me out and ruined what was left of my already broken heart. I was positive I’d be able to deliver it spurred on by anger alone. I was wrong. I assumed I’d be furious, but now that it’s actually happening I’m not.
The floorboard creaks when I jerk as a cold shiver races to the base of my spine. I quickly step behind the curtain, worried he might have heard me jump, but when I peer out he hasn’t moved a muscle. My body temperature suddenly feels as though it’s dipped to ten below zero and I’m trembling, despite the mild night. He’s so still it doesn’t look like he’s breathing. I can’t see his face; I should at least thank the universe for that small mercy. I shiver violently again and fold my arms tightly under my chest, trying to get a hold of myself. The sight of him has knocked out the little air I’d managed to suck in clear from my lungs, and my body’s decided to betray me yet again. I shouldn’t be surprised; it’s nothing new. I’m trembling uncontrollably now, and I try to relax and take some deep breaths like I’m supposed to. I’ve seen people shake violently with anger before, but I know that’s not what this is. This isn’t rage or hatred—it’s an acute realization.
I’ve missed him. I’ve missed the one person in this world I should hate.
1990
You’re not supposed to find your soul mate until you’re a respectable adult. Or at least until you’re done with college hook-ups, and are ready to settle down and choose a partner based on compatibility and a mutual appreciation for the same things in life. Not based on how hot they look in a hockey uniform, and certainly not when you’re still a pre-pubescent ten-year-old.
Little girls should be obsessing about ponies, jumping rope and prancing around the house in fairy wings, plastered inch-deep in glittery makeup and wearing their mother’s heels. Much to my parent’s dismay, I was far too preoccupied with trying to keep up with my brothers to act like your average ten-year-old. I didn’t play with dolls, and I despised anything even remotely girly.
I grew up in a house filled with so much testosterone it’s a wonder I didn’t choke to death on it. With two older brothers, our three-year age gap had me idolizing the twins from the moment I could walk. Jared and Jake were superheroes in my mind. Wherever they were, and whatever they were doing, that’s where I wanted to be. My mom mourned the daughter she hoped I would be. All ideas of shopping trips and makeovers were quashed at an early age when all I wanted to do was play paintball, roughhouse, and climb trees.
There wasn’t a single photograph in our home where I wasn’t sporting some injury, be it scraped knees or a broken arm. If my brothers could do it, well then, I could too. That was my motto growing up. The boys loved how much I idolized them, and in real big brother form, used it to their advantage. I was basically their slave: when they said jump, I’d ask how high. I didn’t mind; honestly, I didn’t—not in the slightest. I’d do anything they asked if it meant they’d let me join them. As soon as they worked that out, their twosome became a trio.
I didn’t really have any girlfriends; I wasn’t quite sure how to properly relate. Two girls my age lived on our street: Molly and Sarah. We were in the same grade at school, and while they were nice enough, we didn’t play together. They had no desire to make skateboard ramps and throw themselves off the rope swing over Mr. Anderson’s pond. I had zero interest in painting my nails, or whatever it was they did to occupy their time. All my friends were boys older than me who were friends with Jared and Jake first.
Except one.
Ellis Hughes and I were the exact same age; our birthdays were on the same day. He’d moved in next door with his folks after Mrs. Anderson died, and Mr. Anderson had to go to an old persons’ home. I’d always liked Mr. Anderson; he’d let us play in his backyard for as long as I could remember, and he was the one who helped my brothers build the rope swing out back, along with my dad. Mrs. Anderson would watch us like hawks whenever we’d play there, often saying we’d be the death of her, swinging out from the big knotted old oak that hung over their pond. We were all good swimmers, but she’d insist that if there weren’t an adult to watch over us, then we weren’t to go near the water. We honored her rules—most of the time.
Ellis was my first real friend rather than a buddy by association. He dismissed me at first sight, of course. He wanted to make friends with my brothers until I shot him in the knee with Jared’s BB gun. That got his attention. I was grounded for two weeks and not allowed to leave my room from the moment the school bus dropped me home. It was the longest fortnight of my life.
Jake had ratted me out to my mom the second I’d pulled the trigger. It wasn’t premeditated, and I certainly wasn’t aiming to shoot Ellis. The boys and I had been taking turns shooting cans from the back fence when he’d rounded the corner, asking if he could join in. It was the first time I’d really gotten a good look at the new kid that had moved in next door. I’d seen the back of him as he’d been walking towards his house talking to Jake. I had tried to say hello, but he’d only given me a half glance, immediately dismissing me as he carried on walking after my big brother.
I swung around to see who the unfamiliar voice belonged to. The sun was glinting off his golden-blond hair, and he was beautiful. I’d never thought a boy beautiful before, and it caught me off guard. The BB gun was still in my hand, my finger gently squeezing the trigger. I wasn’t thinking about what I was doing, my mind was too preoccupied with Ellis standing twenty feet away looking directly at me. Staring at him felt like trying to look at the sun. I shuddered, his gaze had made my tummy feel funny, and then BANG!
His even regard morphed instantly into a furious scowl before the pain registered and his eyes scrunched up tight. He dropped to the floor hugging his knee to his chest and screaming, “YOU SHOT ME!”
My brain took a little while to catch up with the events I was witnessing. I dropped the BB gun on the grass in front of me like a hot coal. Realizing I was the one who’d shot him sent my pulse skyrocketing, and I quickly looked around frantically, waiting for someone to signal what we should do. Jared busted out laughing, I burst into a fit of panicked tears, and Jake ran to the kitchen door shouting at the top of his lungs to my mom that I’d shot the next-door neighbor.
It wasn’t all as bad as it sounds. As it happened, I hadn’t even broken his skin, just caused an angry purple welt to appear.
“Harlow Marie Stevens, what on God’s green earth have you done?” The shrill sound of Mom’s flustered voice reached me from the back stoop. She raced past me, her eyes fixed on the strikingly attractive boy writhing in pain by the fence. After Mom had tended to him, she marched me around to his house by the collar of my shirt. My mother—Dianne Stevens—was a tall, lithe woman with delicate features and a kind face, but when she was mad it always amazed me that she didn’t Hulk out, turning green and growing an extra ten feet. She was terrifying.
“Harlow is here to apologize to you,” she began as Ellis’s mom opened their front door. Ellis didn’t say a word; he slipped in quietly behind his mom with what I was starting to suspect was an exaggerated limp. She was an equally stunning blonde and was proving to be an excellent human shield between her son and me. It was easy to see where his good looks were spawned. Ellis and his mom looked like an airbrushed advertisement for good healthy American living, and I was genuinely surprised I didn’t hear a ping when Mrs. Hughes opened the door and flashed us her pearly whites.
From the two minutes I’d known him, I was sure Ellis hated me already. And for reasons I didn’t quite understand, it bothered me a whole lot more than I cared to admit. My face burned with the heat of his eyes searing a hole into my cheeks as he studied me astutely. I was doing my absolute best to not look him in the eye. I was embarrassed, and I knew my face was blotchy from crying, I most likely resembled a panda bear.
It took a lot to make me cry, mainly because I knew that once I started, there was no hiding it. My eyes would be red, and my lids swollen and puffy for at least an hour. I was supposed to be one of the boys, and they almost never cried—especially not in front of strangers. They’d have a field day teasing me once I got home. I was normally much better at dampening down my emotions; growing up with two older brothers it was kind of necessary—you should never show weakness. I learned that lesson young.
Ellis’s mom looked slightly mortified that the sweet little girl with strawberry blonde pigtails from next door had shot her only son, and mildly relieved once I’d clarified it was only a BB gun. From the way her eyes swelled to the size of saucers I could tell she saw me as the shotgun-wielding hillbilly I most likely resembled. I was wearing my blue and purple plaid shirt, and grass-stained shorts, which did little to cover my muddy knees. I’d pulled my old red rain boots on in haste when Mom began to drag me over here. As first impressions go, I probably wasn’t making a good one.
Still, Mrs. Hughes seemed to appreciate my apology, and even invited our family around for dinner to get to know us. It was most definitely not the reaction I’d expected on the hundred-meter walk over there. That walk had felt more like a mile, my stomach twisting in guilt-ridden knots with each hurried step. My mom promised they’d set a date and said she’d bring a pie before hurrying me off their porch and ordering me home. I’m not sure if it was the circumstances or my appearance that embarrassed her more, but she chattered on about “a fine way to make a first impression with our new neighbors” all the way home. When I glanced back to the Hughes’ porch I caught sight of Ellis watching us leave, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. I assumed it was because he could hear me being scolded; it wouldn’t be until much later that I’d find out that wasn’t the case.
That was the day I met my best friend, and it was many more years before I realized it was also the day I had stumbled upon my soul mate. Some people describe finding love akin to being shot through the heart with Cupid’s arrow. Ellis Hughes was shot in the knee by a skinny almost eleven-year-old wielding a BB gun—but I’d decided it was pretty much the same thing. Falling in love is supposed to hurt; otherwise, it wouldn’t be called falling.