CHAPTER 6 |

Swings & Lame Irishmen

We said, “I love you” when we were sixteen.

It wasn’t until we were fifteen that we decided to be boyfriend-and-girlfriend. Never mind that we were already making out any chance we were alone, which wasn’t often after his mother had caught us that day on his couch. Giving ourselves that official title of exclusivity though, brought its perks: bragging rights among friends who mattered at the time and never again, and the freedom to flaunt moral displays of affection in public without our parents scolding us to “behave ourselves.”

We went through the first year of our “relationship,” simply liking each other, and only teasing one another with the more serious L Word to make the other blush the way our annoying siblings did. I wasn’t sure throughout those 365 days that I would ever confess how I truly felt. I didn’t know if he would ever learn that I laid awake in bed most nights, thinking about how hot he had become and how much I loved hearing him laugh.

And God, those eyes. I could circle the globe and never find another pair of eyes quite as full of everything as his.

I never would.

But anyway, every night, I agonized over my confession. Wringing my cat-printed comforter in my hands, playing my Backstreet Boys love songs, while practicing my lines. Imagining the day I would have the courage to tell him.

Until I finally did.

We were kicking at the grass below our feet, dangling from the swing set in my backyard. Our eyes stared, as they did. Sometimes, we didn’t talk for twenty minutes at a time. We just … stared, figuring things out without the hindrance of words. I found my heart not pounding, but singing—full, warm. My chest felt as though it had grown three times its size with every gentle sway of my swing past his, and I couldn’t stop the words as they pushed upward from my chest.

“I love your eyes.”

Wow, how stupid.

I turned away, breaking the spell, and looked toward the backdoor of my house. What was I looking for? Maybe I was worried my parents or sister had heard. Stupid Kinsey, opening her stupid mouth and saying stupid things to the neighbor boy. Ruining good friendships with silly words.

The worst thing? It wasn’t what I wanted to say. It was close, but it wasn’t quite there. If I had said it minus the “eyes” and the extra “r,” then … Yep, that would have been it, but God, what a scary thing. The things it could create, the things it could destroy ...

We’re taught that love is a serious thing, but that’s where the teaching seems to stop. When we find it, we’re left to handle it on our own. We’re left to question if we have, in fact, found it, because nobody can definitively describe what love really is anyway. We’re left to wonder if it’s real, if it’s fake, if you’re only simply in love with the idea of someone …  

But no. Fuck that. At sixteen, I knew, that I was in love with Patrick Kinney. Maybe I had fallen before then—maybe even on that Magical Couch in the living room. But I didn’t know it, didn’t really know it, until I was dangling from those swings in my backyard, because he had those eyes and he made everything all right.

But, he was also a stupid boy, and he didn’t say a damn thing in response. So, I defended myself by getting annoyed.

“Forget I said anything,” I snapped, gripping the chains of my swing.

“Why would I do that?”

“Because it was stupid.”

I nudged a tuft of grass from the ground with the toe of my sneaker. The soil beneath it was black, still moist from when it rained the day before. I stared at the clump beneath me, wondering if I’d get in trouble, when Patrick gripped the chain of my swing and pulled me toward him. I turned my head to look in the eyes I had confessed my love for, and he pressed his forehead into mine.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hi.”

“So, if you think that’s stupid, then you’ll think I’m a feckin’ idiot.”

“Why?”

Without checking to see if anybody was watching, or if we would get caught and scolded for being inappropriate, Patrick kissed me.

He had kissed me hundreds of times over the years since that first time on the Magical Couch, each time seemingly better than the last. Less clumsy, less sloppy. More sensual, more practiced, and this time, on the swing set in my backyard, we had taken a turn toward a rating teetering between PG-13 and R.

It wasn’t a tender soft-lipped kiss, or a gentle touching of tongue-on-tongue. No. Patrick Kinney went in for the kill.

He pressed his lips to mine with an impure determination, running his hand through my hair and gripping the nape of my neck. He pulled me against him and made me feel for the first time that what we were doing wasn’t enough, but I wouldn’t dare say it or act on it. Not yet.

I was left panting, breathless by the time he had released his claim over my mouth, and he looked back and forth between my eyes.

“Kinsey, I love everythin’ about you.”

He pinched his eyes shut, shaking his head, as though to say, “No, that wasn’t right.” When he opened them, he kissed me again, holding my cheek in his hand. It was somehow more romantic, more intimate than before, when his tongue was in my mouth and his hands were in my hair. He held the kiss for only a few seconds, pulling away to smile and bring those dimples to life.

“I love you.”

I bit my bottom lip to control the quivering, after hearing his voice say those words I had practiced on so many emotional, hormone-tormented nights. He knew I would say it back, and he waited for my composure to return as his thumb stroked against my cheek.

“I love you too,” I finally said, the words floating from my mouth on an airy sigh.

He released the breath held in his lungs to mingle with mine, and I think we both understood that we had just closed the door on only like-liking each other. We opened the door to being in love, ready to drop to the floor and wrap ourselves in each other for a planned eternity.

God, if only we had remembered to lock that door.

❧

“You’re so lame,” I said, hushed against the chirping crickets.

“Maybe, but it’s my favorite. I like to think that first ‘I love you’ was the moment I really made you mine.”

Mine. The word struck a chord in my heart, as his eyes flitted, dancing around my face. He was searching for something, something he had lost. The question was, would I let him find it? Would I let him uncover that part of me, the one that was right where he had left it?

“That’s pathetic, considering you were married for ten years,” I retorted, lacking the edge I had intended on.

“I never loved her, Kinsey.”

My brow furrowed and my hands came up, pushing against his chest, pushing him away. “You are not allowed to say that, and try to make this better.”

“I’m not tryin’ to make anything better. I know I can’t do that, but I’m just sayin’, I never told her I loved her, not even once, because I only ever loved you.” His eyes reflected sincerity, and I knew he was telling the truth.

But it wasn’t enough.

“Maybe,” I said, allowing my bitterness to drip a little on the word. It was sour in my mouth; could he taste it, too? “But you still let her win.”