The night was during one of the first weeks of summer. I had just finished my senior year of high school when he popped up in my world and turned everything on its head. It all sounds terribly cliché, but it was true. We met on the steps of a local restaurant. I was sitting there waiting for my friend to pick me up. He exited from the door behind me and sat a couple of steps above. The night was cold and quiet, with only muffled music that could be heard from the restaurant. I felt a waft of air and could smell cigarette smoke. I turned to look and saw that he had indeed lit one. “Wanna’ smoke?” he asked between long drags. I gave a slight shake of my head. He must have noticed the look of disgust on my face, for then he held up his hands as if in defense, the cigarette resting at the corner of his mouth between his lips, and said, “Hey, I was just asking. I won’t make you do it.” I don’t know if it was the cold, the fact that my friend was late, or because he looked slightly like James Dean, but I held out my hand palm up and decided to take him up on his offer.
He was twenty-two, four years older than me, and my complete opposite. Where I was reserved, he was open; where I carefully planned, he was spontaneous. But we were inseparable and spent the first month of summer with what only felt like driving. We drove through the hills on roads that barely had any use anymore. We drove through small towns. We drove past people and nature and various fields with livestock. The drives never seemed to get us anywhere, we only stopping to refuel on gas and cigarettes, but that wasn’t the point. They were an excuse to sit close and have a place to share a smoke.
The only time we seemed to disagree was when I decided to talk about the college I was going to in the fall. I would express my worries and nerves, wanting him to listen, but he would just shake his head with his own look of disgust, “You know how I feel about that. It’s a waste of time. If you were smart, you would forget college.” It always created an argument. I just wanted him to understand why I wanted to go, not knowing if I was trying to convince him it was the right thing, or myself.
The month together turned into two, and the next week summer would come to an end. My worries and doubts increased and only seemed to slightly lessen when I was with him. But he was still my escape. My place to go when I didn’t want to go home. When I didn’t want to think about my responsibilities or what I had to do the next day, or the next week, or year. I don’t know what I was to him. I would like to think I was his escape too.
After one night spent with friends, we returned to his house to watch a film where he shared his idea with me. We were sitting on the couch in his living room, when he stood up abruptly, lit a cigarette, and began to pace. “You know I had a thought. You seem so worried about this college thing, and we just seem to have so much fun together, and I was thinking maybe you should take a year off? Or two? Or just never go? I never did and I’m doing just fine. It seems to worry you a lot anyways. Who needs that in their life? We could live together and work, or not. Just don’t go. You can just be with me.” He stopped pacing and sat back down. He put his cigarette out in an empty cup on the table. He turned to face me, took my hand, and with a slight smile on his face he said, “You know I love you. Just think about it.” For a single moment, I didn’t feel the need to think at all.
The next week I sat in my car, lit a cigarette, and pulled the smoke in through my lungs. I watched people walk by on the sidewalk, walking faster than was probably necessary, going who knows where and doing who knows what. It was busy and chaotic, but it looked good. It looked right. I finished my last cigarette and then grabbed my bag from the back. I got out and walked faster than was necessary up the stairs to the building. There was no time to stop and sit to enjoy the warm day.