Page 2 of What We Had

A familiar opening drumbeat to a song kick-started my heart into a frenzied pulse. The unmistakable first measures of “Dreams” by Fleetwood Mac. Nostalgia hit me like a tidal wave. I was a victim to the sudden rush of yesteryear’s memories. All at once, it was early summer in Massachusetts, high school graduation only two weeks away. I sat in the back of my friend’s convertible as we cruised down a back road. Twilight fought valiantly against the looming night, but the battle was quickly being lost. A warm breeze whipped over the car.

A snapshot, a brief moment in time. I remembered looking over to see Bennett—Benny—his head tilted back, the wind whipping his blond hair. He had his mouth slightly open as he lipped the opening lyrics to the song.

That image had seared itself into my brain, as indelible as a birthmark. Appropriate, because somethingwasborn that early evening. Bennett had opened his eyes, head lolling toward me as he looked at me—intome, past the mortal coil of my body and deeper, touching a part of me that had been asleep. Inside, something had awakened when those icy blue eyes of his found mine.

As we drove, the evening had won its fight against the dying light. I could still see the perfect outline of Bennett’s silhouette. An energy like heat lightning flashed between us. No rain to sting our eyes, just raw electricity that burned an afterimage. Barely touched by the light of the console’s panel, Bennett had grown a hungry half-grin and the breath froze in my lungs. When the lyric came, Bennett sang with absolute conviction, as if weaving a white witch spell, asking me of my dreams.

The answer came in a sudden honking as I realized I now stared at a green light. I gave the jackass behind me the finger (yes, I know it was my fault), and sped through the intersection. I toggled off the radio as I passed under the light.

Unlike the audition, I couldn’t shake Bennett’s memory the longer I drove. Driving went into autopilot as I navigated the light traffic on Ventura Boulevard. Bennett’s face, his smile, his body, his touch, all flooded my awareness. He did that, from time to time—the specter of a past life arising from an unwelcome seance to remind me of what we lost. Twelve years had crawled by since we last spoke or had seen each other.

But Bennett was that birthmark on my skin, something to be covered up and yet never removed. A permanence on my heart.

I arrived at the house I rented in Sherman Oaks and punched in the code at the gate. Wrought iron swung inward on silent hinges and my tires went from smooth pavement to time-worn stone. A contemporary and modern house made of white siding and large windows framed in black greeted me. The minimalist design had clean lines, mixing together glass, concrete, and steel.

I put the car in Park and fished my wallet out of my back pocket. An angel on my shoulder prayed for me to stop this, but the devil cooed something beautiful. I pulled out an old photograph wedged deep into one pocket of the wallet. Prizing it free, I unfolded a picture no larger than the palm of my hand.

Benny. His face, iron hard in concentration, looked determinedly at a fixed point in the distance, his square jaw set, full lips pursed. He balanced his body perfectly on a set of gymnastics rings in the L-Sit position, legs rigid, toes pointed. The triceps of his arm was so pronounced it almost looked fake. His blond hair was brushed forward in the style back in those days. I ran my thumb over the center of the photograph.

Teammate snagged this of me. Thought you might like it,he had written to me in a letter twelve years ago. I remember when it arrived. I never received anything during mail call when I was stationed in Afghanistan, but that day, Bennett sent me my dreams.

God, I must have jerked off to the photograph a hundred times when I first got it. Had to hide it from the boys, otherwise things would have gotten awkward really fast. Bennett’s arms, the athletic musculature of his legs, and that face with a jawline that could shave ice. His leotard skintight to a flawless gymnast’s body. My hands had mapped every inch of him the summer after graduation. When I looked at that photograph, the muscle memory twitched like a phantom limb.

I had sent a picture back, though nothing as intoxicating. A silly photograph of me holding my M4, a cigarette pinched between my teeth. I was smiling, though. Thinking of Benny. I told him as much when I sent it to him.

The boys were asking me why I was so giddy. Well, giddier than usual, they said.

I remembered hoping Bennett could read my awful penmanship, a squiggly slant so terrible the ballpoint pen took offense. I could punch out an email to him during my computer time, no problem. Writing something? Actual pen to paper? There was no Delete button. I spent an hour just thinking about what to say.

I hope you know I fell in love with you the summer we met.

I miss you so much it hurts.

I want to live with you.

I always think about how good your body felt against mine.

I ended up with something vanilla yet humorous. Classically me.

Something pinged the passenger side window of my car. I looked up from Bennett’s photograph. The half-wall and fence that divided my house from the next had a gate at the center, which presently was open with a tall man standing at the threshold. I guessed he rolled pebbles in his hand, a grin playing across his face. I stuffed the photograph and wallet into my pocket and got out of the car.

“Only weirdos and stalkers sit in their cars,” my neighbor said, his Greek accent light enough to color his English rather than stain it. “Which one are you?”

I laughed as I closed the door. “A weirdo, through and through. What’s up, Deacon?”

Harry Deacon was a man of many talents, most of which he put to use in ways that would violate numerous NDAs. He stood a head taller than me, broader at the shoulders, hair as black as the finish on my car. He never told me definitively what he does for a living, not that he needed to. Deacon operated as a fixer for a major music industry label. He made problems go away while deftly sliding between laws.

“Aren’t you teaching class soon?” Deacon asked as he remained in the gateway between our houses.

Shit. I snapped my fingers. “Yes, that’s right. Forgot. I hope the morning classes went okay.”

Deacon taught classes at the Achilles Center in his free time, as well. He was a third dan black belt in judo. I once watched him drop a man twice his size with minimal effort. I made him my friend after that day.

“Hey,” Deacon called after me when I turned to head into the house. “Everything all right?”

My easy smile faltered as my brow pinched. “Yeah. Why?”

He turned out his lower lip. “Just checking in, my friend. Any auditions?”

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