I was 14 when I met Steve.
Steve. My first date. My first kiss. My first boyfriend. My first high school memories.
Steve. My first betrayal. My first heartache. My first tangible loss.
With Steve went my friends, my confidence, and my strength to climb out of the mud hole I was quickly slipping into. Even after I won my battle many years later, Steve would still wriggle his way into my memory through the story of my life. And every time I retold my story, his name would appear.
Eventually time healed the wound that could not heal itself. Yet every now and then, I’d imagine what it would be like to see him again. My imagination started out with beating the shit out of him, but as I grew up, so did my thoughts, and after a while I simply wanted to know where he was, what he was doing, and if I’d recognize him on the street.
I know the answer now. When I passed him in the hallways of my church yesterday, I recognized him almost immediately. He recognized me too, squinting his eyes, tilting his head, and asked, “Leslie?”
Steve?Yes, it was. It had been 9 years, and with the exception of his sun bleached, wavy hair, he looked the exact same.
We exchanged quick life stories so as not to allow room for awkward pauses. He told me he and his entire family had moved to South Carolina (that explained the hair), and he, his family, and his fiancé, were in town for his grandparents’ 50th anniversary. I introduced Jason, and my past and my future shook hands. We chatted for a few minutes before parting on well wishes, knowing we would never see each other again.
As we walked away, I told Jason who that was.
“Want me to beat him up?” he asked, slamming his fist into his open palm.
I laughed, not at the absurdity of his suggestion, but out of surprise that I didn’t think of it first. Still, I shook my head, and took his hand.
No, I’m good, I smiled.
And we walked out, hand in hand, without looking back.
