three memories
I never believed in love at first sight; I still didn't, after meeting you. If nothing else, it wasn't actually the first time we saw each other. Do you remember? It was some house party or other, back when my life was spent going from class to class and party to party, and you showed up a few hours in, having just gotten off shift at the bar you worked at on weekends, downed a beer, looked me in the eye, and said to the host, "Aren't you going to introduce us?"
My heart started racing, because I knew then that I could dedicate my entire being to keeping up with you and only just manage, the same way that a rabbit knows that it must run from the fox. And before I could say anything, the host said, "Oh, this is Moxie. I'm surprised you two haven't met."
And you said, "Moxie? That's not the name that's on your ID" and laughed at my stunned silence. "You were at the bar last weekend. I thought Whitney Rose was such a lovely name."
I am nothing if not adaptable. I found my footing. "Oh dear. We've only just met and I'm already a disappointment." And I flashed my best smile, and our host patted me on the shoulder and said something I doubt I even heard at the time, and we began our dance. You asked how I had come to be called Moxie; I told you it was a secret. I asked, since you knew several of my names, if you would give me yours; you said you had already given me your name at the bar last week, if only I had cared to pay attention. And on and on we went. We spent the night coincidentally running into one another, and I don't remember which one of us first decided to venture accidentally brushing against the other. I just remember the thrill of that touch, your hand on my arm, and how if you had asked me my name at that moment I don't think I could have told you what it was.
Then someone mentioned that you sang, and I grabbed your arm like we were a couple and said, "You have to go to karaoke with me," and you said, "What, like, right now?" and how my heart exulted that I could say "Yes! Get your coat!" and you made your excuses while I put my boots on.
There was a winter storm on the way--due to arrive in an hour or two--but at the time it was just wind and rain, and we laughed in the cold, and I waxed poetic about never saying goodbye. "I want people to think of me as a force of nature. A storm doesn't say goodbye and give everyone a hug; it shows up unexpectedly, fucks shit up, and then disappears."
"Most people are glad the storm is gone."
"I don't believe it. I think, after a storm, everyone secretly wishes it would have gone on forever."
And then we were at that little karaoke place nearby, and we sang until the storm came and shut the streets down, and then kept going until our voices went out and we couldn't tell if the sky seemed to be getting light because the sun was coming up or because of the snow. You were certain sunrise wasn't for another hour or so; I was beyond confident that the glow of night snow looked different than that.
"Either way," you said, "I think if I don't go home soon I might just pass out in the snow." And you squinted at the street signs in the blowing snow. "It's only about half a mile from here. Where are you headed?"
"Oh, I'm north of the river. It's fine, I'll walk."
"I'm not sending you home in a blizzard. You can stay at my place."
We walked in silence back to your little apartment, just the crunch of our boots and the sound of the wind to keep us company. It had been a wonderful night, but this here was something dangerously close to slowing down. But--you took my hand in yours, and though my hands were freezing and I could barely feel it, my heart was pounding. If you were anyone else, if I had not fallen in love with you that night, I would have left, or tried to make it something cheap.
So instead, I said, "Thank you," and kissed you on the cheek.
Your apartment was a cozy little place, and you made tea and fell asleep on my shoulder as we sat on your couch, wrapped in blankets, with the lights turned low watching the snow blanket the city.
The absolute thrill of firing on all cylinders--that's what you gave me, that night. Some asshole at a job interview once told me "You're either running towards something, or you're running away from something," and she was wrong. I was more than capable of doing both. Yes, if I slowed down, the crushing weight of living would catch up with me; but also, if I kept moving I just might run into someone amazing.
I didn't sleep well that night--I've always been a light sleeper. So when I did wake up I was still pretty exhausted, and a bit hungover, and my memories of the previous night kept my thoughts too occupied to panic more than a little bit when I realized there was no reasonable way to wake early and let myself out. It had snowed too much, was still snowing, and you were so warm next to me.
You finally woke up, startled, I think, from not being in your bed, then blinked at me and smiled. "I thought for sure you'd slip out after I passed out," you said.
"Hard to when you're asleep on top of me," I said. "Besides, look outside."
"Mm. I guess you live here now." You pulled me into a kiss. "But I think we can find some way for you to earn your keep."
I'm certain you remember the rest of our little winter holiday, or at least the broad details. Storm after storm kept coming, and I ended up staying for four days. It was so lovely, being trapped in that little apartment with you, that I forgot that I was running from this very thing, making my entire identity depend on someone else. Because by the time the streets were clear enough that I could take the bus back home--"I'll be fine, I need to prove to my housemates you haven't murdered me or something"--I was well and truly yours.
The thing is, I don't really believe in "love" as some profound metaphysical thing. My sister asked me more than once "Do you love her, Whit?" and I still couldn't tell you if there is an answer more precise than "I am happy when I see her, and when she is nearby my thoughts don't spiral nearly as often as they do when I'm alone." Did I understand you? Of course not. You were working on some computer science I could only barely understand. Did I know what you wanted? How could I have? I didn't really even know what I wanted.
But we were great together. We were a force of nature. I had never, will never, so thoroughly lost myself in someone else as I had in you--never been so happy. And maybe that's not healthy, maybe I should have fought to preserve some idealized image of my self--I didn't care, and it doesn't matter now. I would have done anything you wanted, and I would have done it with a smile no matter what it cost me.
Still, I kept having this intrusive thought: If you leave now, it will have been perfect the whole time. If you run she'll never find out what a fuck up you are. And some mornings when I woke up alone I found myself almost nodding along.
You showed up at my apartment one afternoon looking . . . lost. Afraid. "Moxie, hey. Just found out I have to leave town for a while."
It didn't sound like you. It didn't even feel like you. "Okay," I said. I tried not to let my confusion, my hurt, show on my face. My guilt, at entertaining that thought. "Is everything okay?"
"It's fine. I can't talk about it." You pulled me into a hug, pushed your face into my hair, and I swear I could feel you holding back tears. "Take care of yourself, okay?"
"You, too. Love you." I'd never said that before to anyone--never thought I'd have the occasion to. It felt right. And you smiled and kissed me, and I would have burned the city down if it would make that moment last forever.
Then you were gone.
I didn't find the note you'd slipped into my pocket until later, didn't realize that would be the last time we saw each other until they found your body. Your father's the one who called me--how strange it must have been for you, I thought, as he broke the news, to have family who loves you for who you are. I don't remember much of the next several weeks. But numb as I was, I still had classes to go to.
In the years since then, I have often wondered if it's possible to lose someone without guilt. To have held something so bright and beautiful so close, and to have it slip away, and to not feel as if there was something you could have done to hold it in your hands forever. And I wondered, stupidly, selfishly, if the intrusive thoughts had been right all along, if it was better to be filled with this bitter yearning for a future that could have been than to live and, inevitably, see that dream destroyed by the weight of years.
It isn't. It wasn't. I know that now. But for all my bravado, all that burning energy, I was always, at heart, a coward.