Things I Can't Forget

I press my face against his chest, and he tucks my head under his chin, holding me tighter. “I know what you mean,” I tell him.



“Kids at school were picking on me about my clothes from yard sales and my songwriting. I didn’t want to give up my music but people kept making fun of me. And I didn’t know what to do…but that week at camp, you wanted to hear my music.”



I smile and shut my eyes.



“And then Jenn was born and I was the only one who could get her to stop crying,” he says. “And she made me feel good again. I figured if Jenn liked me…and you liked me, I could like me too…So I started living for me. I joined the track team because I love running, and I kept writing music. And then in high school, I started making friends who liked the same stuff I do.”



But what if I would rather have a relationship with God than friendships with people who don’t believe in him like I do?



Why is it cool for some people to do what they want to do, but uncool for others? Why is being on the football team considered cool while being on the math team is not?



“I’m really happy you figured that out about yourself,” I tell him.



He holds me closer. “I’m just glad I met you.” His voice is filled with emotion. “I’m not sure I’d be where I am today,” he whispers.



We kiss gently, a fire blazing in my lips as I try to keep this slow and steady.



That’s when his sister, Lacey, appears in the basement with her friends, and they take one look at me and Matt cuddling and start going, “Woooo!”



He grins and blushes, and his mouth gently touches my earlobe. “We’d better escape before an Apple Pie Water Gun Attack happens. Want to see my room?”



Deep inside I know it’s not right but I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than see his room. Smell its smells. See if he puts his clothes in a laundry basket or leaves them scattered across the rug. Sit on his bed and hold his hand and be closer to him than to anyone else.



I nod slowly, and we make our way past the five giggling girls throwing popcorn at each other and climb three flights of stairs to reach the attic area. His door opens to reveal T-shirts and boxer shorts draped everywhere, dirty dishes sitting on the dressers and end tables, and Jeremiah lounging on one of the two twin beds with a car magazine in one hand and a cell phone in the other.



“Out,” Matt says to Jeremiah, who gives us a knowing smile.



He points at Matt with his cell phone. “Annabelle’s coming over tomorrow after church. I expect reciprocity.” He tosses his magazine on his bed, stands, and struts out of the room.



“Reciprocity?” I ask.



“Jere likes big words…So, this is where it all happens,” Matt tells me, flopping down on his twin bed. He knocks a pile of clothes onto the rug and pats his blue-striped comforter, indicating I should sit with him. I weave around teetering piles of books to join him.



“All what happens?” I ask, pulling my knees to my chest. “Do you have girls over a lot?”



“Nope.” He gives me a mischievous grin. “I don’t think I’ve had a girl here since high school. Since Sarah.”



“Were you really close?” I glance around at the posters of women and cars on the walls.



“We never had sex, if that’s what you mean,” Matt says quietly, falling backward onto his pillow.



Is he a virgin? Did they really date for three years and manage not to have sex? Hearing that makes me really happy.



“Nah, I wasn’t wondering that,” I reply, even though I was. This relationship (or whatever we are) will never work if we aren’t truthful. I inhale deeply through my nose. “Okay, so I was wondering that.”



Matt chuckles. “I know. I can see right through you.”



“Great,” I say in a sarcastic voice, laughing. I’m shaking as I lie down next to him.



“Can’t you see through me too?”



I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “Sorta…”



“Well, if you can’t see through me, here you go. I want you bad. Kiss me.”



We’re laughing as we stretch out on his bed. His hands are in my hair and I play with his T-shirt. He positions himself between my legs as we make out. All I can think about is how I want to press my chest to his, my skin to his skin.



Then the door opens.



“Oh!” his dad exclaims.



Matt suddenly rolls off me. “Dad! Why didn’t you knock?”



“Sorry, son,” Mr. Brown says, grinning. “Your mom sent me up here to make sure your brother didn’t have any girls in your room.” The door clicks shut.



“That was so mortifying,” I groan.



“At least we have our clothes on.” He chuckles, pressing his forehead to mine. “One time Mom caught Jeremiah and some girl completely—”



A knock sounds on the door.



“Who is it?” Matt yells, exasperated.



“Your father.”



“What do you want?”



“Can you mow the lawn tomorrow after church?”



“Daaaaaaaad.” Matt’s shaking his head and laughing. My mouth has dropped open. “Couldn’t you have waited until after Kate goes home to ask me?”



“I didn’t want to forget,” Mr. Brown says from behind the door.



Matt whispers to me, “This is his way of saying we shouldn’t be in here alone together.”



I nod.



Matt yells to his dad, “Fine, I’ll mow the lawn. Now go away.”



I smack his chest.



“What?” Matt asks, clutching my hands so I can’t hit him again.



“You shouldn’t treat your dad that way.”



“I like her,” Mr. Brown says from out in the hallway.



“Daaaaadd, stop eavesdropping!” Matt jumps to his feet and grabs his keys from the nightstand. “That’s it, I’m taking you home. We’ll never find any peace around here.”



I can’t stop laughing.



I get Emily’s voicemail. Again.



“Hey, um,” I say into the phone. “It’s me. Again. I’m just calling to say that I miss you. Call me or my mom if you need anything. Really—anything. Okay, well, bye.”



I push the end call button.



On Sunday evening, everyone’s heading for Dogwood, and I suck in a breath when Matt sweeps me into his arms. I’m afraid he’ll ask me to sleep in there with the other guy counselors.



I’m afraid I’ll say yes.



“I got a surprise for you,” he whispers.



“What?”



“Come on.”



He leads me out into the big field where we do field games, where he and I run every morning. The stars shine brightly on the patch of grass where he’s set up a campfire and has stretched the giant parachute across the grass. Two thin mattresses and our sleeping bags rest on top of the parachute.



“Thought we could sleep out here tonight,” he says, squeezing my hand.



The air is warm and just right for camping. Our mattresses are about ten feet apart. I glance over at him. I want to lie close enough to whisper to him.



“You can move your mattress closer to mine if you want.”



His face reddens, and he smiles. We move our mattresses, so near they are kissing, but I decide to lie down with him on his, and his hands are shaking and mine are shaking but we’re laughing.



“You’re awfully presumptuous,” he says, as I cuddle up next to him under a sheet he brought. It smells clean and crisp and feels cool against my skin. I twine my feet with his; his blue hospital scrubs tickle my legs.



We begin kissing gently. More slowly than we did last night in his bed. He keeps touching my face and my hair and I find myself wanting to get as close to him as possible. I press my chest to his and kiss him harder.



“Wait, wait,” he mumbles, pulling away, our sheet tangling around his body. He rolls onto his back and brushes the hair out of his eyes, staring at the sky.



“Did I do something wrong?” I whisper.



“No, no…It’s just, what are we?” He looks over at me.



“Huh?”



“Are we, like, together? Or dating casually? Or what?”



A lump fills my throat. “Um, what do you think we are?”



“I guess I’m hoping this isn’t just a casual thing for you…”



“For me?” I blurt. “Never.”



He laughs and props himself up on an elbow to stare down at me. “You want to keep me around for a while?”



“Yes, please.”



He drums his fingers on my rib cage. It tickles. “Are we giving a relationship a try?”



“Yes, please,” I say, laughing.



He grins. “Okay, now that that’s settled, I can permit you to have your way with me.”



I flick his forehead. “Oh, whatever.”



“Oh, whatever?” He starts tickling me and I squirm around. “Oh, whatever? You were the one all pushing up against me a couple minutes ago.”



“C’mere,” I say, pulling him in. He touches my bare stomach as we kiss. His fingers inch higher and higher until they reach my bra. I’m about to shove him away from me, but his blue eyes catch mine, and they are so warm and tender, and I just want us to be happy and close as can be.



He brushes his fingers across my breast and pushes my shirt up. Matt focuses on the little white bow between my breasts, taking it between his fingers. Then he’s kissing me through my bra. He shrugs out of his T-shirt, pulling it over his head in one motion, and I can’t stop touching his strong, smooth chest, and then we’re moving in tune with each other. He presses himself against my cotton shorts.



“Does this feel nice?” he whispers, rocking his hips against mine.



I can barely nod because it’s like every nerve ending in my body is primed to explode. And then they do and I feel like I’m falling away and I’m shuddering and gasping for breath.



We cuddle in silence until he falls asleep next to me, his warm breath tickling my neck as he snores softly.



The stars above me are blurry because my eyes are watering.



I don’t know what makes me feel more guilty: that I love how he touched me when I should hate it, when I should have pushed him away, or how I couldn’t hear God’s warnings because of the way Matt made me feel.



sketch #362



what happened on june 19



I’ve always worked hard to control my temper.



I’m sketching a picture of every happy thing I can think of. Fudge, sunshine, kittens.



Grandpa Kelly always says, “Never let anyone see your weak point. It’s the opening they’re looking for, to do more damage.”



So that’s what I’m trying to do during lunch: Not get angry in front of Megan or any of the other counselors. Earlier today, she humiliated me.



“Is this really an art project?” she had asked in front of fifty campers, staring at my decoupaged Coke bottle.



“I like the footballs!” shouted Liam, an eight-year-old.



“Art is about expressing yourself in whatever way you want,” I told Megan, digging my thumbnail into my hand. “Self-expression is an important thing to teach the kids.”