Fissure

“It shouldn’t be physically possible for your stomach to be able to fit that much food in it,” Emma said, chucking the second empty pizza box on top of the other one.

I went all out and made reservations at the best place in town, the beachfront bonfire pit in front of my house. A couple of the works pizzas with double cheese from the local surfer hangout, a couple pints of milk, one cozy beach blanket, and we were in business.

It was a late dinner. A late late dinner, like midnight late, but by the time we’d finished lounging in the sun, packed our crap back to the house, showered up, and hmmmm’ed and haaaa’ed over what to order, it was well past my neighbors’ bedtimes.

“It’s all in space efficiency and compression. Think of a garbage truck and all that junk that fits inside that small space. One would be overflowing after half a mile if it wasn’t for a well designed compression system,” I said, folding the crust of the last slice of pizza and stuffing it in my mouth.

She shook her head, tossing her crust into the fire. “Anyone ever tell you that you draw really odd parallels?”

I gulped down the wad of dough in my mouth. “All the time.”

“Glad I’m not the only one.”

“Moving onto dessert,” I said, grabbing a paper bag.

She stopped in the middle of pitching her paper plate into the fire. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I never kid when it comes to dessert.” Upending the bag, the makings of s’mores spilled between us.

“Peanut butter cups?” Emma said, picking up one of the dozen packages. “I’ve had s’mores all of one time in my life, but I distinctly recall a square of chocolate bar sitting between the graham and the mallow.”

“One square of chocolate?” I said, making a face. “Who were the chocolate bar Nazis you were with?”

“My parents,” she said, looking into the fire.

I was a spew-the-first-thing-that-comes-to-mind idiot. “Em, I didn’t mean . . .”

“Patrick, it’s fine. Really. I’m not going to break down bawling because I remembered something from way back when.” Grabbing the bag of marshmallows, she tore an end open. “The last thing I want you to do is treat me like I’m this fragile thing you need to tip-toe around, okay? Just treat me like you treat everyone else,” she said, stuffing a marshmallow whole in her mouth. “Think normal when in doubt,” she advised through a gob of mallow.

“Got it,” I said, offering her a roasting stick. “Normal, I think I can remember to treat you like that.”

There was that word again. The wedge that was driving the fissure between us deeper. Soon there’d be a valley split too wide for either of us to cross.

“So you use peanut butter cups instead of chocolate bars in your s’mores?” she asked, tearing open one of those too. We were a couple of sugaraholics in confection heaven.

“You’ve never lived until you’ve tried it.” Although, I had to die and exist another hundred some years before peanut butter cups were even on the market.

“So what would our esteemed psychology professor say that says about you? Because we know he’d have something juicy to say.” She bit a morsel of peanut butter cup.

“He’d probably say it means I’m uber cool, a great catch, and hands down, the best kisser on the western seaboard.”

“That’s very creative of you,” she said, squishing up one side of her face, “but I think he’d say it highlights your propensity for non-conformity, your life or death need to stand out in the crowd, and, let’s not miss the big one, the triple crown underlying reason . . .”—she exchanged a conspiring look with me—“you really like peanut butter cups.”

Shaking the last cup out of the package Emma had opened, I peeled back the wrapper and popped it in my mouth. “Golly-gee, I do like peanut butter cups. What do you know?”

“I know, my drug store diagnosis is most impressive.” She smirked at me as she speared her stick into a mallow.

“No, really, all jokes aside,” I said, breaking a couple grahams in half. “I know you’re undecided and everything, but you should strongly consider majoring in Psych. That was some professional sounding stuff for someone who’s sat through a few weeks of an intro class.”

“We’ll see,” she said, turning her stick over in the fire. “I suppose one trainwreck can relate with another, right?”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling another darned if I do, darned if I don’t predicament, “I’m not going to answer that.”

“Smart man,” she said under her breath, pulling her stick from the fire. “S’more me,” she said, settling her mallow above the peanut butter cup topped graham.

Sandwiching it all together, I smashed it tight. “Enjoy the ride,” I said reverently, handing the masterpiece over. “You can thank me later.”

She thought I was exaggerating, I could tell from the tilt of her neck, but all that changed one bite later. “Holy crap,” she said, taking a heftier bite.

“Don’t say anymore,” I said. “I get it. The crazy insane is strong with this dessert,” I said in my best Yoda voice.

“This is like a party in my mouth,” she said in between bites number two and three. “And not like some little kid birthday party at the roller rink—this is a full-blown, bead throwing, mask-wearing Mardi Gras party in my mouth.” She looked at me like I’d just saved the world from nuclear disaster. “You are a genius.”

Bowing my head, I replied, “Good of you to finally admit it.”

Taking the last bite, she flopped back onto the blanket like she was exhausted. “That was incredible,” she said, touching her forearm to her forehead.

I couldn’t tell if she was being intentional or accidental about the way she was reacting to the s’more, but either way, I didn’t miss it.

“Why thank you,” I said, stacking another s’more. “I got another one here with your name on it.”

“Thanks,” she said, lifting her hand, “but I’m going to have to pace myself here. Too much of a good thing is—”

“A great thing,” I said, adding my sentiments.

I munched away on my s’more, savoring it, which wasn’t generally my thing. I tended to devour the things I was most attracted to—savoring took too long, was too permanent. Emma stayed quiet for so long, I had to check to make sure she hadn’t fallen asleep.

Her eyes were open wide, the fire’s reflection scattering over her eyes. She was looking at me.

“Thank you, Patrick,” she said. “The past twenty four hours have been . . .” she paused, hanging on an unspoken word, “perfect. I didn’t think anything close to it existed in this life, but you’ve shown me I was wrong. So, thanks.” Her face lined in a grimace as she sat back up. “I know that sounds incredibly lame, but that’s the truth. And I know how important honesty is to you.”

This was my opening, my segue, my in, if ever there would be one between Emma and me. This was my chance to open my mouth and tell her everything I was feeling, everything I’d felt, everything I wanted to feel forever.

But that’s when she slipped her hand into mine, studying our entwined hands. And then her conflicted eyes flickered to mine and there was only one thing to say. A single thing I was capable of in that emotion charged stare.

Scooting over a barricade of boxes and wrappers, I didn’t stop until the length of my side was running down hers. Her eyes held mine, but there was a shift in what they were conveying. I didn’t care—it was too late for me. It had been too late for me one first day of class and one sweet smile ago.

Forming my hand over her cheek, I closed the space between us. The final space between us, letting my lips take the lead.

My mouth was greeted with a swish of air and a tense cheek where a pair of lips had been one bad decision ago.

“I can’t,” she whispered into the fire. “I mean, I could, but I’d regret it in the morning. And so would you.” She glanced at me from the side. “I couldn’t stand anything ruining this day when I look back and remember it.”

“Em,” I started, not knowing where I was going with this.

Shaking her head, she said, “I wish I could be that girl I see reflected back to me in your eyes. But I can’t. It’s a mirage, what you see.”

“No, it’s what you are,” I replied, folding my hands together, but I didn’t move a sliver away from her. I wasn’t going to make this easy on her. She felt something too; I was now convinced of it. I couldn’t let it escape.

She exhaled the breath of a person who doesn’t believe a word being spoken. “If you didn’t devour them all, could you toss me a peanut butter cup?” she asked, everything about her voice and expression pretending nothing significant had happened between us.

I fumbled around for one and handed it to her, feeling the pricks of numbness entombing me. This had been the first time I’d gone in for a kiss and been denied, and I was surprised it didn’t only suck, it hurt like a cannon had just blasted out a crater in my gut. It ached because this had been the one kiss above all the others where the intensity of my feelings for the other person were guiding me. This wasn’t just sheer physical need, this was an expression of everything I felt at the core of my soul.

It had been rejected.

And that hurt.

Biting into a cup, Emma tossed the rest of the carton aside, staring unseeingly into the fire. I didn’t know what engineering feat could build a bridge long and strong enough to cross the distance keeping us apart, but I wouldn’t give up. I never would, as long as there was hope of my feelings being reciprocated.

And from the tears I saw about ready to spill down her face, I knew there was just enough hope to keep me going. When they fell, Emma swiped her arm over her face before they could travel far, but fresh ones replaced the vanished.

“Hey,” I said, nudging her, “you want to talk about this?” I motioned between the two of us and whatever she was or wasn’t upset about.

Shaking her head, she sniffled. “Definitely not.”

“All right then,” I said, wrapping my arm around her and tucking her close. “Let’s just let the stars and silence do the talking for us.”

Her head nodded beneath my chin.

The embers of the bonfire were smoldering when her breathing steadied from the passage of sleep. Tucking the blanket around us, I leaned back into the driftwood log behind me, just needing to catch a few winks. A few minutes of recuperative sleep to wake up refreshed and ready to continue the fight of forcing Emma to admit there was something special between us.

And then I fell into the deepest sleep I had in decades.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

As peacefully as I’d lost myself to sleep last night, I jerked awake as violently. I didn’t need to check the location of the sun in the sky, or consult my cell phone, to know what time it was: 7:12 a.m. Too bad I’d forgotten to place a wake up call with my internal clock.