He shows up at my door on a Friday night, reeking of rum. I almost don’t recognize him—overgrown hair, bushy beard—but there’s no mistaking those gold-flecked eyes. He was out with some friends, he says, when a song came on that made him think of me. Of those long drives the two of us used to take. How we’d always get lost, even on familiar roads. He tells me he walked eleven-and-a-half blocks to find out whether I still live here, asks if maybe he can come in for a little while. If I’m not too busy, that is.

I consider pretending I’m on my way out, but he looks so forlorn. So unlike the confident guy I once knew. Curious—and a bit concerned—I let him in.

---

Leaning back against my couch cushion, he says my place is exactly the way he remembers it. Those bookshelves he assembled for me. That flea-market chair he refinished.  

Figuring I might as well get it over with, I tell him I’m with somebody else now. Somebody good for me. 

He shifts in his seat, jiggles his legs. Then he asks if I still have his Dodgers shirt. 

That’s why he’s here? To reclaim his property? He wants me to return that ratty old T-shirt that won’t even fit him anymore? It’s great for sleeping in, I say, but if it’s that important to him—

No, no, no, he protests. He’s not asking for it back. He likes the idea of me holding on to a piece of him. When I inform him that I’ve kept the shirt because of its softness—not its original owner—he looks away, rubs his beard with the back of his hand. Regardless of my reasons, he murmurs, he’s glad I have something tangible to remind me of that amazing summer.

As if I could forget.

He hates his job, he blurts. And his apartment and his life. The only time he’s ever felt truly happy, he confesses, was when he was with me. 

I tense. Truth is I’m happier without him. Even though I couldn’t have imagined that when he left me for that woman at the gym. Nor could I have envisioned feeling sorry for him. But I don’t tell him any of that.

Silence blankets the room.

Abruptly, he gets to his feet, says he’s got to get going. The guys’ll be wondering where he went. He tells me it was great seeing me again, asks if it’s okay for him to give me a hug.

With his arms around me, my cheek pressed against his flannel shirt, the memories come flooding back. I close my eyes and, for just one moment, he’s the boy I thought I’d love forever and I’m the girl I’ll never be again. But then—finally—I let go.

Featured Photo by Joe Dudeck on Unsplash