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That should have made me feel like the king of the world, but it didn’t. The sharp sting of her rejection still lingers after all this time and I am struggling to let it go. Maybe it’s because my last relationship ended so spectacularly badly that seeing the woman I once thought was mine forever feels like a knife to the chest.
Her hips are fuller, and her boobs seem a little bigger, but those legs, many a night I’ve dreamed of those legs wrapped tightly around my waist. I’ve never been all that particular about looks, but I’m a sucker for Mollie James. It’s been 17 years and she’s crossed my mind more than I’d like to admit.
My therapist thinks this is why I struggle to find someone, because she’s this unrealistic ideal in my head that no one can compare to, even Mollie in the present is different. 18-year-old summer of 2005 Mollie is perfect and even when we argued or had misunderstandings, we worked it out. It was all her, she made us talk shit out, be completely honest with each other and built that trust. I just followed her lead.
Because of this, I’ve preemptively killed any chance with other women—not realizing it until it was way past over. In the hopeful part of my brain, I want it to be because she’s my soul mate, and we are destined to be together someday. This is the terribly romantic part of me that secretly loves a happy ending. Not a good look for a big bad defense lawyer, I know.
Is it possible? Can I see myself with her, or is it all something I built up in my mind? One summer when we were barely adults shouldn’t rule my relationships and I know it. One summer, even as great as it was, doesn’t mean we can get past the hurt and betrayal, not to mention the near 20 years of life without any significant contact.
The morning is nice, she shares her coffee and snacks, we chat and nap a little. Then, I almost ruin it.
“Liking you has never been a problem,” I say, the cool water lapping at my feet, bringing my internal temperature down but not enough. “Remember the turtle?” I ask her, changing the subject.
“Oh my gosh, yes,” she says and her smile shoots straight through my heart. “Big Al was the best turtle.”
“I can’t believe we thought naming him Big Turt-Al was funny.” He was a big sea turtle that loved to ride waves with the swimmers.
“I loved watching people riding waves with him—especially the clueless ones.” She splashes her feet and laughs.
“My favorite was the dudes that would see him mid-body surf, freak out, then speed walk out of the ocean, like—nope!”
“That was me with the skates earlier. I wasn’t afraid but they startled me and made me feel small.”
“I hate that feeling, but I understand what you mean.”
We stand staring out at the horizon, two sailboats and a fishing boat moving along leisurely.
“I’m going to head to the house for lunch,” she says turning to walk back to our chairs. I follow her, watching as she throws her cover-up on. On our days off I was always excited to see what she’d be wearing over her swimsuit. Obviously, I was interested in the swimsuit, but the cover-ups were all her personality and humor and I learned something about her with every different option.
My favorites were the funny oversized t-shirts but when she would wear a fancy or sexy one that was just as interesting to me. Today she is wearing a gauzy, short, green and blue dress thing and I’m not mad at it.
Am I staring at her? Yes. When I realize that, I turn and find my own shirt to put on.
“Want to join me?” she asks and I’m genuinely surprised but happy to be invited.
“I’d love to,” I say, grabbing her bag from her to carry and she rolls her eyes.
“Do you want turkey or ham?” she asks, standing at her fridge.
“Can I have both?” I ask and she shakes her head, smiling.
“Of course, I don’t know what I even asked.”
“I’m sure knowing that I always say yes to all the lunchmeat is not a core memory for you,” I say and we both laugh. “You only having meat and cheese on your sandwich is for me though.”
“I’m a purist,” she says shrugging as she lays out sandwich stuff.
“I believe we call that a plain Jane,” I tease her and it feels so familiar. “A sandwich is all about the toppings, I mean would a pickle offend you?”
“A pickle would never. I adore a pickle, but on its own. Pickles are born to shine, they shouldn’t have to share the spotlight with lettuce and mustard.”
“You’re so weird still. I’m glad adulthood didn’t cure you of this weirdness.” She throws the loaf of rye bread at me and I laugh.
“You’re the weird one with your ketchup and mayo mixture and 40 tomatoes.”
“I’d say touché but I’ll have you know they sell Maychup in the grocery now.”
“Gag,” she says, pointing her finger down her throat. “I’ve seen that with the sacrilege that is Kranch right next to it.”
