“Are you sure?” he whispered against the skin of my neck.
I’d never been more sure of anything. Even if this was my first time.
“Have you ever—?”
He shook his head. “Never.”
Our love story occurred in memories; in moments that slipped through my fingers like the sand.
…It was the swirling air;
…the salty kisses waist deep in the ocean;
…glasses of wine snuck from my parents’ basement;
…his fingers tangled in my hair;
…my hands brushing the skin of his sun-kissed back.
That skin, smooth and tanned, I wish I could leave some sort of mark—to prove I’d been here. I’d loved him. Sometimes I pretended I could. While he read a book in the sand, my fingers would trace my name over his shoulder blades.
The imaginary lines existed only in my mind. His skin, much like his life, remained untouched by me.
Meet me behind the mall.
September arrived in name only, as if August might’ve stayed if it held on long enough—if we had held on. If I had held on.
But I was living in hope. For the hope.
I kept my phone on late at night, next to the pile of homework that always formed when we went back to school.
The silence was deafening. His silence, or mine, I couldn’t tell. There were so many times I wanted to pick up the phone and call. But, maybe the wanting was enough. Perhaps this summer was enough.
This story was inspired by Taylor Swift’s song August! Thanks for reading!
Jenna Goldsmith 