Love and Other Words by Christina Lauren
The food comes, and it’s so good but I eat it without giving it any attention, because I can’t seem to get enough information, and neither can he. College years are outlined in the monochromatic ways of hindsight, graduate school horror stories are exchanged with the knowing laugh of someone who has also suffered and seen the other side. But we don’t talk about falling in love with someone else and where that leaves us now, and no matter how much it’s with us in every breath, and every word, we don’t talk about what happened the last time I saw him, eleven years ago.
then
monday, july 28
fourteen years ago
O
ur first summer with the cabin, my dad and I were there nearly every day, with only one trip home, late July, for a visit from his brother, Kennet.
Kennet had two daughters, and a wife, Britt, whose idea of affection was a cupped hand around my shoulder. So when I came to her, whispering in mild horror that I thought I’d started my period, she handled me with the anticipated emotional sterility: buying me a box of pads and a box of tampons and having her younger daughter, Karin, awkwardly explain the basic application process.
Dad was better, but not by a very wide margin. Once we returned to the cabin that weekend, he referred to Mom’s list, where, at position twenty-three, she had written:
When Macy starts her period, make sure she doesn’t have any questions about what is happening with her body. I know it’s awkward, meu amor, but she needs to know that she is amazing, and perfect, and if I were there I would tell her the story in the envelope marked 23.
Dad opened it, his cheeks pink. “When I —” He coughed, correcting, “Your mother first started her… ah…”
I grabbed the letter from his hands and jogged upstairs, to the comfort of my library.
I used to have the worst cramps, it began, and the sight of her handwriting made my breastbone ache.
They would hit me at the most unexpected times. Shopping with my friends, or at a birthday party. Midol helped, when I discovered it, but what helped the most was visualizing the pain evaporating from my stomach.
I would imagine it again and again, until the pain subsided.
I don’t know that it will work for you, or if you will need this, but if you do, imagine my voice, helping. You will be tempted to hate this thing that your body does, but it’s your body’s way of telling you everything is working, and that is a miracle.
But most of all, meu docinha, imagine how proud I am to share this with you. You’re growing up. Starting my period was the process that eventually let me get pregnant with you, when I was ready.
Treat your body carefully. Take care of it. Don’t let anyone abuse it, and don’t abuse it yourself. Every inch of your skin I made diligently; months I slaved over you. You are my masterpiece.
I miss you. I love you.
Mãe
I blinked up, startled. At some point while I’d been reading, Elliot had materialized in the doorway, but he didn’t see my tears until I’d turned my face to him. His grin slowly melted away as he took one step, and then two, closer to me, kneeling on the floor beside where I sat on the futon.
His eyes searched mine. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, shifting in my seat as I folded the letter. He eyed it before looking back at me.
Nearly fifteen, and he was already too perceptive.
More and more it bothered me that our daily lives were these odd unknowns to each other. We gave updates whenever we met in here. Who we spent time with, what we were studying. We talked about who irritated us, who we admired. And, of course, we shared our favorite words. He knew my two closest friends’ names – Nikki and Danny – but not their faces. Although I’d seen their faces in the photograph in his room, I had the same limited information about Elliot’s friends at school. I knew Brandon was quiet and calm, and Christian was a criminal record waiting to be written. In here, we read, and we talked, and we learned about each other over time, but how could I tell him what was happening to me?
It wasn’t just that I got my period so much later than all my friends had, or even that Dad was struggling to relate to me, or that my mom was dead, or any of it. Or maybe it was all of it. I loved my dad more than anything, but he was so ill-equipped for some of this. Without a doubt, I knew he was downstairs, pacing, listening for the sound of my voice to know whether he had been right to let Elliot upstairs, or whether his instincts were all wrong.
“I’m okay,” I said, hoping I’d spoken loud enough for the words to reach downstairs. The last thing I wanted was both of them up here, worrying about me.
Frowning, Elliot took my face in his hands in a move that shocked me, and his eyes searched mine. “Please, tell me what’s wrong. Is it your dad? School?”
“I really don’t want to talk about it, Ell.” I pulled back a little, wiping my face. My fingers came away wet, explaining Elliot’s panic. I must have been really sobbing when he came in.
“We tell each other everything in here, remember?” Reluctantly he shifted back. “That’s the deal.”
“I don’t think you want to know this.”
He stared at me, unfazed. “I do want to know this.”
Tempted to call his bluff, I looked him dead in the eye and said, “I started my period.”
He blinked several times before straightening. Color spread from his neck to his cheekbones. “And you’re upset about it?”
“Not upset.” I bit my lip, thinking. “Relieved, mostly. And then I read a letter from my mom, and now I’m a little sad?”
He smiled. “That sounded an awful lot like a question.”
“It’s just that all your life you hear about periods.” Talking about this with Elliot was… actually, not that bad. “You wonder when it’s going to happen, what it will be like, if you’ll feel any different after. When your girlfriends get theirs, you’re like, ‘What’s wrong with me?’ It’s like a little biological time bomb sitting inside you.”
He bit his lip, trying to stifle an uncomfortable laugh. “Until now?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, do you? Feel any different?”
I shook my head. “Not really. Not like I thought I would, anyway. It sort of feels like something is trying to gnaw its way out of my stomach. And I’m a little testy.”
Elliot lifted the blanket and scooted next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. “I’m not going to be any help, but I think I’m supposed to be happy for you.”
“You’re being very mature and un-boy-like about this. I expected less compassion and more bumbling.” I grew light-headed from the warmth of his body and the feeling of his arm around me.
He exhaled a laugh into my hair. “I have a baby sister on the way, and a mom who insists it’s my job to show her the ropes, remember? So I need you to explain everything.”
I curled into his side, closing my eyes against the sting of tears I felt there.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked quietly.
A weight settled heavily in my chest. “Not unless you can bring my mom back.”
Silence pulsed around us and I heard him inhaling in preparation a few times before speaking. Finally, he settled on a simple “I wish I could.”
I nodded against him, breathing in the sharp smell of his deodorant, the lingering smell of his boy-sweat, the wet-cotton smell of his T-shirt from the fifteen-foot run through the summer rain from his porch to mine. So weird that just hearing him say that made me feel a million times better.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he whispered.
“No.”
His hand made the gentle path up and down my arm. I knew, without having to look too far and wide, that there were no other boys like Elliot, anywhere.
“I’m sorry you’re grumpy.”
“Me too.”
“Do you want me to get a warm water bottle? I do that for my mom.”
I shook my head. I wanted Mom to be here, reading her letter to me.
He cleared his throat, asking quietly, “Because it would make it feel like I’m your boyfriend?”
I swallowed, and the mood shifted in an instant. Boyfriend didn’t seem to cover it. Elliot was kind of my Everyfriend. “I guess?”
He sat up, still all skinny arms and long twisty legs, but he was becoming something new, something more… man than boy. At nearly fifteen, he had an Adam’s apple and faint stubble on his chin, and his pants were too short. His voice had deepened. “I guess we’re too young for that.”
I nodded and tried to swallow, but my mouth had gone dry. “Yeah.”
now
friday, october 6
E
arly-morning light filters in through the gauzy curtains, turning everything faintly blue. Outside on Elsie Street, garbage trucks rumble down the asphalt. The squealing of metal on metal, the crash of the bins against the truck, and the sound of garbage cascading into the compactor carries up from outside. Despite the way the world continues to move forward on the other side of the window, I’m not sure I’m ready to start the day.
My ears still ring with snippets of conversation from dinner last night. I want to hold on to them for just a little longer, to relish the joy of having my best friend back in my life before all the complications that come along with it make their way to the surface.
Sean turns to me, pulling me right up against him, pressing his face to my neck.
“Morning,” he growls, hands already busy, mouth on my throat, my jaw. He works my pajama shorts down my hips, rolling over onto me. “Did you actually get a full night’s sleep?”
“Miracle of miracles: I did.” I run both hands into his hair, digging in the thick tangle of salt-and-pepper. Hunger flushes through me; we haven’t had sex in over a week.
We’re still so new, I’m not sure we’ve ever gone that long before.
When he reaches my mouth, I kiss him once before hesitation spikes in me, and I pull back a little. “Wait.”
“Oh. Period?” he asks, brows lifted.
“What?” I say, and then shake my head. “No, I just wanted to tell you about last night.”
“About last night?” he repeats, confused.
“About my dinner with Elliot.”
Sean’s dark brows pull down now. “It could wait until after…?” He presses into me, meaningfully.
“Oh.” I guess it could. But the reality is that it probably shouldn’t.
Elliot and I didn’t even touch again after I hugged him hello. It’s not like anything happened. But it feels like I’m lying by not telling Sean who Elliot is. Or, rather, who he was.
“It’s nothing bad,” I say, but Sean rolls off me anyway. “I just… one of the challenges you and I face is that we have these enormous histories that we couldn’t possibly have laid out in the amount of time we’ve been together.”
He acknowledges this with a little nod.
“I told you I was having dinner with an old friend last night, and that’s true.”
“Okay?”
“But he was really like my old… everything.”
I meet Sean’s eyes and melt a little. They’re the first thing I noticed about him because they’re so deep, and soulful, and glimmering. His eyes are amazing: brown, thickly lashed, and the way they lift gently at the outer edges easily makes them the best flirty eyes I’ve ever known. Right now, though, they’re more guarded than playful.
I shrug, amending, “He was my first everything.”
“Your first…”
“My first true friend, my first love, my first…”
“Sex,” he finishes for me.
“It’s complicated.”
“How complicated?” he asks, gently. “Everyone has exes. Did he… hurt you?”
Quickly, I shake my head. “See, after Mom died, Dad was my whole world, but he still didn’t know how to nurture the same way Mom had. And then I met Elliot and it was like…” I search for the right words. “I had someone my age who really understood me and saw me for exactly who I was. He was like a best girlfriend and a first boyfriend all rolled into one.”
Sean’s expression softens. “I’m glad, babe.”
“We had a fight one night, and…” I realize now that I’m going to shut this down prematurely. I’m not sure I can finish the story. “I needed some time to think, and ‘some time’ turned into eleven years.”
Sean’s eyes widen a little. “Oh?”
“We ran into each other a few days ago.”
“I see. And it’s the first time you’ve spoken since.”
I swallow thickly. “Right.”
“So there’s some baggage to unpack,” he says, smiling a little.
I nod, repeating, “Right.”
“And has this relationship been hanging over you all this time?”
I don’t want to lie to him. “Yes.”
Other than the deaths of my parents, nothing looms larger in my life than Elliot.
“Do you still love him?”
I blink away. “I don’t know.”
Sean uses a gentle finger to turn my face to his. “I don’t mind if you love him, Mace. Even if you think you might always love him. But if it makes you wonder what you’re doing here, with me, then we need to talk about it.”
“It doesn’t, really. It’s just been emotional to see him.”
“I get that,” he says quietly. “It brings up old stuff. I’m sure if I saw Ashley again, I’d struggle with all of that. Anger, and hurt, and yeah – the love that I still have for her. I never got to fall out of love. I just had to move on when she walked out.”
It’s a perfect description. I never got to fall out of love. I just had to move on.
He kisses me, once. “We’re not eighteen, babe. We’re not coming into this without a few chinks in our armor. I don’t expect you to have room in your heart for me only.”
I’m so grateful to him right now I nearly want to cry.
“Well, work on the friendship. Do what you need to do,” he says, his weight returning above me, his body pushing against mine, hard and ready. “But right now, come back to me.”
I wrap my arms around him, and press my face to his neck, but as he moves over me, and then into me, I have a brief flash of bare honesty. It’s good – the sex has always been good – but it isn’t right.
It doesn’t set off alarm bells in my head, sure, but it doesn’t send goose bumps across my skin, either. It doesn’t make my chest ache so deliciously I’m nearly breathless. I don’t feel urgent, or desperate, or too hot in my own skin because I’m so hungry for him. And in a tight gasp that Sean reads as pleasure, I worry that Elliot is right and I’m wrong and – like always – he’s taking care of both of our hearts while I flop around, trying to figure it all out.
I feel my thoughts circling something, the same thing over and over: how Elliot went home after seeing me and broke up with Rachel.
He only had to see me to know, whereas I can barely trust a single feeling I have.
then
wednesday, november 26
fourteen years ago
D
ad pushed the cart down the aisle, coming to a stop in front of a freezer case full of enormous turkeys.
We stared down at them together. Although Dad and I carried on many traditions since Mom died, we’d never done Thanksgiving alone.
Then again, we never really did it with her, either. With two twenty-first-century, first-generation immigrants as parents, Thanksgiving wasn’t really a holiday any of us had cared much about. But we had the cabin now, and nearly a week off with nothing else to do but capably chop firewood and read in front of the flames. It felt wasteful, in a totally illogical way, to not at least attempt the holiday meal.
But standing here, faced with the prospect of making such an enormous production for two, cooking felt decidedly more wasteful.
“These are thirteen pounds,” Dad said, “at minimum.” With an expression of mild distaste, he hefted a bird out of
“Don’t they just have the…” I waved my hand toward the butcher, to the breasts displayed there.
Dad stared at me, not getting it. “The what?”
“You know, just smaller parts?”
He guffawed. “The breasts?”
I groaned, walking past him to find a bone-in turkey breast we could roast in less than half a day.
Coming up behind me, Dad said, “These are a more appropriate size.” Leaning in, he added with a repressed laugh, “Decent-sized breasts.”