and I wish I had

We were six the first time I realized how good you were at jump-rope. While I struggled to get even one good hop in before hopelessly entangling the rope in my legs, you would swing it back and forth and side to side, your feet drumming an even beat into the pavement. I’d laugh and yell, “faster, faster,” sure that you would trip if you went any faster, wanting to see you land in a sprawl on the ground like I’d done so many times, but you would oblige with a smile and go faster, faster. You never faltered, never hesitated, never even got tired, it seemed.

By the time you got sick of skipping rope and I got sick of counting and the sun was getting sick of the both of us, our parents were yelling at us to leave.

You looked at me then, smiling through crooked teeth and a smattering of dust freckles.

I should’ve kissed you then, but I didn’t.

We were nine years old the first time you defended my honor to a roomful of judgmental kids. I’d been drawing one of my many imaginary friends, a hybrid tiger-peacock I’d fondly named Fancy, and you had been spurting off fun facts about tigers and peacocks without specifying which fact matched up to which animal when we were approached by a pack of hyenas.

By “we”, I mean me. They always left you alone. And by “pack of hyenas”, I mean the group of purple-clad K’s in our fourth-grade class, each one named the same name but spelled differently. One of them- Kaylee- poked fun at the tiger half of Fancy, the other- Kalie- at the peacock half of Fancy. The tallest girl- Kaely- promptly plucked my drawing away from me, and ripped it right in half. The shredding sound of paper echoed in my ears like a bad dream.

But while I sat there, frozen to the ground and a gentle poke away from bursting into tears, you had no such reservations. The first time you defended my honor was also the first time you punched three girls in the face in the span of a minute.

You were my hero in shining armor, a knight sworn to protect me and my menagerie of imaginary friends.

I should’ve kissed you then, but I didn’t.

We were twelve the first time you told me I was pretty.

You didn’t mean to say it, I don’t think, but it came out anyway while we were having lunch with friends. They were all in the lunch line, waiting with plastic trays for a scoop of Wednesday pasta and a cup of sherbet, but you were allergic to nearly everything our cafeteria had to offer and my mom was on a vegan diet at the time, which meant I was on a vegan diet at the time, so it was just the two of us.

Sitting at our usual lunch spot, your leg pressed against mine as you threw a grape in the air and I leaned forward to catch it in my mouth. Bless grapes for being vegan-friendly, because the meal my mom prepared for me looked like rabbit-food.

I missed the grape. It bounced off the tip of my nose and I watched as it rolled underneath a neighboring table, just barely avoiding a tragic end at the basketball soles of a boy in our grade. When I looked away, sighing a breath of relief for our fallen grape friend, soiled but nevertheless defiant of death, you were looking at me.

“Is there corn stuck in my teeth?” I’d asked with a laugh.

You didn’t look away, like other boys our age would have. Instead, “you’re really pretty,” slipped out like the last line of a poem told over a campfire.

I should’ve kissed you then, but I didn’t.

We were fifteen the first time you told me you loved me.

This time, I think you did actually mean to say it, but I didn’t respond the way I should have. I never seem to do the right thing when it comes to you, do I?

It was in the middle of summer, on the longest day of the year, when the sun didn't go to bed until nine and we refused to part until even later. We’d just spent the last of my birthday money on milkshakes from Mike’s, and after exchanging a few too many awkward pleasantries with other kids in our grade, loitering around Mike’s blue benches, we went for a walk.

We ended up, as we so often did that summer and many afterwards, at the edge of the rolling golf greens of that rich neighborhood a few blocks from your house, where you worked every weekend. When you told me your job was to make small talk with senior citizens, compliment their skills in a way that made them feel like they actually had skill, and flash at least ten thumbs-ups per minute, I laughed at you. Then, I’d shown up once, as a Girl Scout volunteer, and witnessed you hard at work. I don’t remember ever laughing that hard.

But that day, after I’d slurped down the last of my strawberry milkshake and you’d finished your chocolate one as if you had all the time in the world, you’d turned to me. Your eyes were uncharacteristically serious, and I knew exactly what you were going to say before you even said it. And still, despite my foresight, I couldn’t come up with a good way to respond.

“I love you,” you said. Your cheeks were flushed, red as the eavesdropping sun.

I was red too, redder than you, redder than the sun. But I didn’t know how to be transparent like you. I think I was too scared to.

“Aww, you dork,” I said, and pushed your face away. I was laughing, forced, but you were too embarrassed to notice. Your skin was warm underneath my fingers, and I wish I had been brave enough to keep my hand there.

When you leaned back against your arms, eyes studiously directed away from me, I swallowed a lump in my throat and jumped into another anecdote about the new pup next door, heart straining every time I came upon a spot in my story where you should have laughed, or teased me, or smiled, but didn’t.

I should’ve kissed you then, but I didn’t.

We were eighteen the last time I hugged you.

It was the last day we would both live in the same neighborhood, mere minutes away from each other physically, mere seconds away from each other in every other way that mattered. You were leaving for the east coast, to start a whole new life. I think a part of me knew that today would be my last chance.

You finished stacking the last of your boxes in your mom’s silver minivan while I clapped the dust from my hands, making some inane joke. Your parents were still inside, weeping not-so-discreetly about the departure of their eldest child before your ten-hour road trip even began, as I had come to expect of Meghan and Bob.

“So that’s it, huh?” You said. I could have sworn there were tears in your eyes.

“I guess it is.”

“Well, I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you too,” I said. “So, so much. You’ll visit?”

“Of course I will,” you smiled. “But you have to come visit me, too. You’d love it in Vermont.”

“I’d love it better if you stayed in state,” I said, but of course I didn’t mean it. You were in love with Vermont, and I’d come to accept that we’d part ways after high school. I just didn’t expect the day would come so soon. “I love you,” I said.

“I-” you began, but didn’t finish before you pulled me into a hug. You smelled like sweat and citrus, and I still wish you had finished that sentence. You were warm and comfortable and felt like home, and I wished you would never let go.

But you did. And when you did, I looked at you and I thought about all the things I could say to keep you tethered to me forever. “I’m in love with you.” “You’re my best friend in the whole world and I couldn’t live without you.” “I want to be with you, and not just as friends.”

I could tell from the way your eyes searched from my eyes that you wanted me to put my thoughts into words, into a physical reason for us to stay together. But I didn’t. And you didn’t prod. And then once Meghan and Bob stepped out of the house to gather you up and spirit you away into adulthood, you were gone.

I should’ve kissed you then, but I didn’t. I should have kissed you. I should have.

And now I’m here, done up in my nicest dress and my shiniest pearls and my most expensive pair of shoes.

And there you are, your suit pressed to perfection, your tie neatly knotted, your watch gleaming against your wrist. There you are, marrying a woman you introduced to me few months ago over FaceTime, saying your vows and promising the rest of your life, in sickness and in health, to someone who has known you for a third of the time I have.

I should’ve kissed you.

I wish I had kissed you.