Window In

Something in my drafts I never finished. Works for W. The tenses may be wonky

–

I don’t know what made me show him my old room. It was a cluttered mess, this weird combination of growing girl and storage space for my many moves. I’m surprised my mother tolerated the state of it.

“You were cute.”

His tone was warm. I glanced over at him as I fingered a dusty tea pot I liked to collect as a young adult.

“And a pack rat.”

I laughed at that. I liked my stuff, never really grew out of that. What girl didn’t like to collect a few things? I glanced at my dolls, picking up an old beanie baby without its tag. A travesty.

“So you were a diary keeper.”

That made me swing around, embarrassed to find him holding one of my old journals. I hadn’t read them in years, but I couldn’t just throw them away. They’re a collection too. A reminder of how much I needed to write through my angst.

“Journal. Diary sounds way to high school girl crush for how I felt.”

He smiled at me and walked over to sit on my old bed. The book looked tiny in his hand, but it felt larger than life to me. Writing then, writing now, felt like my only outlet. I revealed so much of myself and I felt vulnerable just seeing him hold it. It was a testament to how I felt about him that instead of snatching it out of his hands, I sat down on the bed bedside him.

“Man, you’re handwriting was terrible.”

I stuck my tongue out at him before leaning into his side.

“I don’t know why he asked for my picture. Is he laughing with his friends or keeping it for himself? It makes me feel weird…”

I remembered that. One of the popular kids in middle school asked for my picture. I never did figure out why he wanted it.

He flipped to another page and started reading. “I wish I looked like her. She’s pretty and sweet and blonde, and and and everyone loves her. No one wants me.”

We sat in silence, both of us lost in thought. My mind turned to that time and how I felt. It shocks me how much of that hurt bleeds through even know. I felt invisible then, and if I’m honest to myself, I feel invisible now.

“I want you.”

I laugh. “I hope so or our relationship could be weird otherwise.”

His hand is at my nape, turning me so I’m looking at him and not my hands. He’s serious in a way I rarely see from him. The joker, always laughing, seeing the way his eyes held mine sobers me up.

“I want you, baby. I always want you.”

I wasn’t going to cry over this, but tears prick my eyes anyway. He pulled me into a kiss that was so sweet it makes the tears I’m holding back fall in earnest. I can’t explain why, but he speaks those words to some part of me that felt fragile.

Hugging him close, I let him deepen the kiss. We fall back on the bed, turning so he was on top of me. I part my thighs, allowing him to rest in between. It felt more than good.

I was contemplating how to get him out of his jeans when there was a knock at the door. We both freeze, mortification written on both of our faces when my mother cracks open the door.

“I don’t think you have enough time for that before dinner. Not unless he’s a fast one, in which case–”

“Stop it right there.” He’s already scrambling off me before she even starts speaking. I cover my face. “Don’t even finish that sentence, mom.”

“I’m just saying. Some things are important.”

God in heaven. “We’ll be out shortly.”

We sit still for a few moments before he speaks again. “I last longer than a few minutes. I kinda want to make us late for dinner.”

My face feels so hot I feel sweat forming. Arriving late to dinner and than sitting across from my family when my mother knew why? I wasn’t that brave even at this age.

“You should’ve seen your face just now.” He starts laughing and I want to smack him. “Don’t worry, we’ll break in your old bed later. Let’s go to dinner, pretty girl.”

I let him pull me up and out the door we go.