memories:
“Where do you see yourself ten years from now?” Jenna asks as we stare at each other over milkshakes, the day she leads me to believe we can run away together, a week before my world implodes.
“With you, of course,” I answer, stupidly, before even thinking.
That’s the one thing I learn after she’s dead: I speak before engaging my brain. Early on, it gets me in trouble—sometimes big trouble—and I am never able to talk my way out of it. But beatings make for great teachings. They teach me restraint, diplomacy, the power of silence. But it’s all too late to save me and Jenna.
“Maybe in a house by a lake,” I add, again without giving it any real thought. “With kids and a dog. Yeah, that would be nice, perfect.”
My outburst of visceral honesty makes her laugh. It’s genuine , and without a hint of condescension. Of course, I am heavily biased. I am seventeen at the time, smitten, and Jenna can make cuss words sound sexy.
She smiles. “Okay then, how many kids?”
“I don’t know. Three, four. As many as you’d like! Whatever makes you happy, Jenna. Us happy.”
At this point in our relationship, Jenna and I have been seeing one another for three months. It’s still fun and curious, but we both sense there’s a seam of seriousness underlying our interactions. Don’t get me wrong, we are happy with our slice of the pie. As happy as any dating teenagers with bright futures lighting our way should be. But we’re both aware that dating is base camp and there’s a long, hard climb ahead if we ever hope to reach the summit before sunset.
The views will make it all worth it, won’t they?
Jenna’s laugh settles into a smile, sucking blood into my cheeks.
I love that smile, that pure, brilliant, infectious smile. I can’t imagine thinking anything different, or ever living without it.
Playfully, she reaches across the tabletop and caresses my hand. “Jake . . .”
My skin tingles at her touch, as it always does. The electricity that moves between us is anything but static. Her fingertips dance on the back of my hand, keeping tempo with my heartbeat. Cheesy to the point of puking, I know.
“Exactly how will we live by a lake when you’re a successful New York Times journalist and I’m a trailblazing surgeon?” she asks.
Small town people with big player dreams.
“Well, let’s see . . . for starters I’m pretty confident New York has lakes. We can live in a big house outside the city. You know how much you love the water, the woods. Maybe have an apartment in the city during the week, overlooking Central Park.”
“New York.” She breathes the words with awe, as though this is the first time she’s pictured herself anywhere other than humdrum Harper.
Jenna isn’t intimidated by the thought of uprooting and beginning again. It excites her. And, right then and there, it excites me, too.
At seventeen, we both know it’s a glimpse of a possible future, from a distance, through rose-tinted lenses. We both know there are a million and one obstacles standing in our way, preventing us from ever getting there: detours, distractions, landslides. Journalism is my chosen path—just as hers is medicine. The end of high school is in sight. College is in our crosshairs. We have discussed our dreamed destinies, in depth and in every detail. We are aware of the pitfalls of studying apart, of attending different academies. The general consensus is that long-distance relationships fail. We aren’t naïve. We know the odds are stacked against us. But we have to try. We want to try. How else can we realize our dreams if we never have them to begin with?
“Pulitzer Prize winning journo,” she grins.
“Head of neurological surgery,” I reply.
“Two girls.”
“Two boys.”
“A house by the lake.”
“Don’t forget the dog!”
We laugh and slurp our milkshakes like teenagers without a worry in the world, reveling in escapism and what could be.
A week later she is
“Where do you see yourself ten years from now?” Jenna asks as we stare at each other over milkshakes, the day she leads me to believe we can run away together, a week before my world implodes.
“With you, of course,” I answer, stupidly, before even thinking.
That’s the one thing I learn after she’s dead: I speak before engaging my brain. Early on, it gets me in trouble—sometimes big trouble—and I am never able to talk my way out of it. But beatings make for great teachings. They teach me restraint, diplomacy, the power of silence. But it’s all too late to save me and Jenna.
“Maybe in a house by a lake,” I add, again without giving it any real thought. “With kids and a dog. Yeah, that would be nice, perfect.”
My outburst of visceral honesty makes her laugh. It’s genuine , and without a hint of condescension. Of course, I am heavily biased. I am seventeen at the time, smitten, and Jenna can make cuss words sound sexy.
She smiles. “Okay then, how many kids?”
“I don’t know. Three, four. As many as you’d like! Whatever makes you happy, Jenna. Us happy.”
At this point in our relationship, Jenna and I have been seeing one another for three months. It’s still fun and curious, but we both sense there’s a seam of seriousness underlying our interactions. Don’t get me wrong, we are happy with our slice of the pie. As happy as any dating teenagers with bright futures lighting our way should be. But we’re both aware that dating is base camp and there’s a long, hard climb ahead if we ever hope to reach the summit before sunset.
The views will make it all worth it, won’t they?
Jenna’s laugh settles into a smile, sucking blood into my cheeks.
I love that smile, that pure, brilliant, infectious smile. I can’t imagine thinking anything different, or ever living without it.
Playfully, she reaches across the tabletop and caresses my hand. “Jake . . .”
My skin tingles at her touch, as it always does. The electricity that moves between us is anything but static. Her fingertips dance on the back of my hand, keeping tempo with my heartbeat. Cheesy to the point of puking, I know.
“Exactly how will we live by a lake when you’re a successful New York Times journalist and I’m a trailblazing surgeon?” she asks.
Small town people with big player dreams.
“Well, let’s see . . . for starters I’m pretty confident New York has lakes. We can live in a big house outside the city. You know how much you love the water, the woods. Maybe have an apartment in the city during the week, overlooking Central Park.”
“New York.” She breathes the words with awe, as though this is the first time she’s pictured herself anywhere other than humdrum Harper.
Jenna isn’t intimidated by the thought of uprooting and beginning again. It excites her. And, right then and there, it excites me, too.
At seventeen, we both know it’s a glimpse of a possible future, from a distance, through rose-tinted lenses. We both know there are a million and one obstacles standing in our way, preventing us from ever getting there: detours, distractions, landslides. Journalism is my chosen path—just as hers is medicine. The end of high school is in sight. College is in our crosshairs. We have discussed our dreamed destinies, in depth and in every detail. We are aware of the pitfalls of studying apart, of attending different academies. The general consensus is that long-distance relationships fail. We aren’t naïve. We know the odds are stacked against us. But we have to try. We want to try. How else can we realize our dreams if we never have them to begin with?
“Pulitzer Prize winning journo,” she grins.
“Head of neurological surgery,” I reply.
“Two girls.”
“Two boys.”
“A house by the lake.”
“Don’t forget the dog!”
We laugh and slurp our milkshakes like teenagers without a worry in the world, reveling in escapism and what could be.
A week later she is
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