It was raining and all of my clothes were soaked through. My light-wash jeans had turned to dark wash and my gray sweatshirt was now black. My legs spread across the walkway and my back leaned up against the red metal posts. Raindrops poured down on me and my hair stuck to my face making my cheeks itch. The other end of the phone call was silent, a slow buzzing noise making up for his lack of speaking.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”
“Yeah,” I said, “maybe we shouldn’t.”
And then it was over, and I tried to piece together every little thing I might have done wrong. Maybe it was the time I asked him not to hook up with any more of my friends, maybe it was when I asked him why he slept with her and never apologized, or maybe it was just me. The August air was thick, too thick for me to breathe. It wrapped itself around my body, compressing my chest as I took shallow breaths.
There were thousands of teenage boys in New York, yet the ones named Jamie couldn’t help but insert themselves into my life, over and over again. My body felt cold like my heart had stopped beating, and my skin slowly turned a shade of blue. I wiped my face with my sweatshirt to clear the mess of snot and tears, my mouth open in shock, wondering how I had let myself get to this moment. And with that, I knew I didn’t want to see Jamie in September,
And I hung up the phone.
₪₪₪
June consisted of sunburns, Newports, a joint hanging out of our mouths, and laughing on the deck at night as the moon smiled at us from above. My baby hairs were blonde and a constellation of freckles had spread across my face. Jamie’s hair had lightened to a sparkly blonde, his skin was tanned, and his eyes glittered in the sun. He enveloped me in his arms and I would disappear into his frame. My mind would be calm, my heart would beat fast, and he would laugh.
“Do I make you nervous?”
His freckles moved with his smile as he spoke.
I pressed my ear onto his chest and listened to his heart beat in the same tune as mine, but it lay. It beat every other girl the same.
“No.... you don’t.”
I tried to shrug his arms off of my shoulders, but I couldn’t seem to shake the weight of him.
₪₪₪
When July started, Jamie asked to see me again on the Lower West Side. I thought I sensed some sort of respect, appreciation, or even a feeling, so I went. His hair was black, his skin was golden, and his eyes were warm. We smoked a joint in the park, watching all of the trust fund 26-year-olds play fetch with their goldendoodles. The men would chuck the ball far across the field, automatically knowing their dogs would bring it back. Jamie knew that I had some sort of twisted misplaced trust in him, that no matter how far he would throw, I would always bring the ball back to him. His brown eyes looked at me and smiled.
“I’m happy I got to see you.”
I breathed in the sweet summer air, the sun was setting, and the Hudson reflected the neon colors in the sky. I knew that he was lying.
I exhaled.
“Yeah, me too.”
I spent the night in his hotel room, encapsulated in starched white sheets tucked into the sides of the mattress. The lights were off, but the room glowed from the fluorescent city lights that streamed through the window. We talked about change, people, and life, and my head rested on his chest, listening to the same familiar heartbeat. I took an Uber home, he said goodbye, and then he was gone. No text, no call, no nothing.
₪₪₪
In August, I walked with Jamie to the baseball field. His hair was a yellow blonde and his tan had slightly faded. We sat on the metal bleachers staring up at the stars that dotted the sky. I watched as he started to light up. The flame shone through his shaggy bleached hair, creating a blazing halo around his head. He passed me the joint and pulled out his phone. Music poured through the speakers and filled the field. He spun me around like a ballerina, slowing with the tune as he pulled me in. His eyes looked at me, and his mouth softened as he spoke.
“I’m gonna miss you.”
I looked up at him and studied his face as he watched me. His hair covered his forehead, and his mouth was turned up slightly—the stars reflected off his face, illuminating his faded freckles and sunburned cheeks. I wanted to believe him so badly. I tried to think he would miss me, or think about me sometimes, or that he ever liked me. But I knew he wouldn’t miss me, he wouldn’t think about me, and he probably never liked me. It didn’t matter to him. It never mattered to him. He just liked watching my desperation, knowing I would always be behind him, holding on.
“I’m gonna miss you too, Jamie.”
₪₪₪
At the end of August, I was sitting on that walkway. The metal posts behind me hugged my spine with a cold embrace. I was crying on the phone to one of the many Jamies, months of pent-up anger spewing out of my mouth. I didn’t want to be lied to or ignored, or disrespected. I didn’t want to be a finger on his hand when he was counting his body count at a party to brag. I didn’t want any of it, and I didn’t want Jamie.
“Maybe we shouldn’t do this anymore.”
His voice was cold and sad. He sounded lonely.
I sat in the silence he had created.