Reminiscence

"How is your dissertation going?" Mrs. Reynolds asks. "Your father has said that you are writing about Chaucer. That's quite impressive. I didn't even think they taught Chaucer anymore. There's such a focus on trying to entertain students, rather than educate them."

Oh, God, I think to myself, another question about my dissertation. Not that I have been counting (I most certainly have,) but having to answer the same banal inquiries about my schooling is getting tiresome. I suppose I should be glad that there is a well-stocked bar; I take another sip of champagne.

I find myself listening to her blather on about how much she enjoyed her college days at Bryn Mawr. I can feel my eyes glazing over as she beams about how she won a prize for her thesis on In Remembrance of Thing Past. I wonder how we got to Proust from Chaucer, but I'm certain there's no better explanation than Mrs. Reynolds' own vainglorious need for affirmation.

"It has been lovely catching up with you, Mrs. Reynolds," I abruptly say, cutting her off mid-sentence, "but I see a friend waving to me across the room. Have a great evening."

Her face looks like I just slapped it with a dainty lace glove; she is not used to rejection. I quickly turn and walk to the bar. I swallow the last few drops of champagne from my glass before exchanging it for another. I look at the clock; it is only 9:15 p.m.

I don't know why I agreed to come tonight. I didn't even want to return home for the holidays, let alone get dragged to a party with a bunch of upper-crust assholes. I could be back at school writing... but that's a lie, and I know it. I would probably just be watching re-runs of some old show on TV right now if I had stayed.

I look around the room. It is filled with the faces of people I have known my whole life, but I don't feel as though I truly recognize any of them. My mother and father are speaking to their dentist in the area near the entrance to the foyer. I know that my father must be talking about how he could never be a dentist since he wouldn't be able to look in people's mouths all day long. I've heard that conversation before.

I can see the moon shining through the large glass doors leading to the backyard. Even when everything else seems insipid, the moon never fails to make me feel at least some sense of awe. I find myself walking towards the doors, escaping the crowd.

The brisk air hits my skin as I step outside. The hair on my arms stands in response, prickling against the soft cashmere of my sweater. I adapt quickly, letting the cold wash over me like a wave. I meander over to the edge of the brickwork that acts as a boundary between the patio and the yard.

I gaze into the sky. I feel something crashing down within me. I wonder if it will leave an impact, as I look at the scars left on the surface of the moon. I could almost cry, but I'm not sure if that would be possible. I hear the door slide shut behind me.

"I'm sorry," says a man's voice. "I didn't know anyone was out here."

I hear myself sigh. The muscles in my cheeks preemptively ache as I force them into a smile before I turn. I see Jackson Wilder standing a few feet behind me. The light from inside the house wraps around his fitted white dress shirt and tan pants, but it obscures the details of his face.

"It's fine," I say. "I'm just getting some fresh air."

**********************************************************************************************************

"Ben. Ben Whitley," I heard Mr. Lawson call out.

I was about ready to walk out the door, my backpack slung over my shoulder. I was looking forward to going home and jerking off before my parents returned from the city. I had just finished performing my final exam, a monologue from Richard III, and I wanted nothing less than to be stuck in this classroom. It was only two weeks until high school graduation. I turned around to see Jackson Wilder standing next to Mr. Lawson.

I felt my heart skip a beat. Jackson was one of those guys that pulled the warmth from within you when you looked at him. He was tall, muscular, and had a disarming smile. He always dressed a little more formally than what one would expect for someone our age, wearing button-ups almost every day. I watched as he brushed a strand of auburn hair from his forehead; his emerald green eyes mesmerized me.

"Ben, could you stay a bit longer?" Mr. Lawson asked. "Mary-Elizabeth, Jackson's scene partner, has taken ill. It seems that she will be recovering for the next few weeks. But, as they say, the show must go on. Can you read opposite of him? It won't impact your grade, and I would greatly appreciate your assistance."

I nodded, feeling a mixture of excitement and fear, as I agreed to help. I had only ever had a few interactions with Jackson; none of them had been meaningful. I had watched as girls would approach him with ease, finding any excuse to start a conversation. I'd always envied them. I would sometimes fantasize about scenarios that would allow me to form a connection with him. When students would be paired up assignments in class, I would say a little prayer that I would finally have a chance to speak with him. I knew I could never be bold enough to approach him like all those girls; I wasn't even bold enough to say that I was gay aloud.

"That is fantastic!" Mr. Lawson said. "I'm going to run to the bathroom. Jackson, please orient Ben to your piece. I will be back shortly."

Jackson started to walk towards me, with his dazzling smile already lighting up the room. I looked down at my shoes; my heart was beating faster. He stood next to me holding a few pieces of paper in his hands.

"Thanks so much for doing this, Ben. I can't afford to fail this exam. I'm not spending my summer taking this class over again. I'm going to be too busy partying before I head off to school in Pennsylvania. Do you go to parties? I don't think I have seen you at any."

I knew for a fact he hadn't seen me at any parties. I had been too anxious to attend any, although I tried to tell myself that getting drunk on someone's parents' stolen schnapps was beneath me.

"No, um, I'm not really a party person."

"That's a shame," he said. "It would have been nice to get to know you. Although, I'm kind of glad you didn't come; I don't know if I could have competed with a good-looking guy like you." He nudged his shoulder into mine. From anyone else, it would have been obvious gladhanding. From him, it meant the world -- which was weird, because I also didn't believe for one second that he thought I was that good-looking.

"Okay," he said, "so we're doing Romeo and Juliet, act one, scene five. I'm playing Romeo, and Mary-Elizabeth was supposed to play Juliet, but I guess that's you now. Mr. Lawson is reading the few lines for the nurse. You can have my copy of the lines since I can't use them anyway."

Then he nodded at my T-shirt, not even giving me a chance to reply. "The Smiths, huh?" He reached out, sliding his fingers across the picture of Morrissey. I could feel my abs muscles tense as I breathed in deeply. His smile widened; his touch lingered before he finally removed his hand.

"'Punctured bicycle, on a hillside desolate, will nature make a man of me yet?'" he sang a little off-key.

I started to smile; a sensation of happiness was beginning to push back against any anxiety. It felt nice being seen by Jackson after four years of fading into the background. I could see why people were always around him. I tried to think back, but I couldn't recall having ever seen him alone in the school corridors. I looked into his emerald eyes. I could swear they sparkled with their own light.

"Are we ready to go?" asked Mr. Lawson as he entered to room.

"As ready as we'll ever be," Jackson responded while quickly squeezing my shoulder.

Mr. Lawson sat in his chair as we made our way to the front of the classroom. I looked down at the pages, trying to rapidly familiarize myself with the lines. Jackson began to speak. I felt some burgeoning sense of pressure to not let him down. I had been waiting for the opportunity to be close with him for so long; I couldn't bear it if I ended up disappointing him.

"My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss."

I could feel Romeo's longing and his desire as Jackson spoke. His voice sounded like it was dripping with honey. He was looking straight into my eyes. I stood, paralyzed; I had never thought he would look at me this way. Then I realized it was my line; I fumbled at the beginning before finding my rhythm.

"For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss."

Jackson pushed his palm into my free hand, intertwining our fingers. His skin was soft and warm. I didn't pull away. I looked up as I finished; he caressed the side of my face with the back of his other hand.

"Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?" he asked.

I started to realize that this was the kiss scene - the one where Romeo and Juliet first meet. I had been so focused on how Jackson was speaking, and the way he was looking at me, that I hadn't really heard what either of us were saying. I looked back down at the paper in my hand, hunting for my line. I scanned the sheet for what felt like forever, unable to find it. Jackson's hand squeezed mine more firmly.

"Ay, pilgrim..." he whispered.

"Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer," I heard myself say.

I wondered what he was going to do when, in just a few lines, we got to the stage instruction telling Romeo to kiss Juliet. I assumed that, surely, he wouldn't kiss me. I thought he might fake it by kissing the air next to my cheek, but he had been touching me in all the other ways that he would have done with Mary-Elizabeth, so maybe a kiss wasn't out of the question.

"O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do; they pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair," he said.

My heart beat even more rapidly. Jackson let go of my hand as he gestured with both of his to add to his performance. He was still looking at me, though - looking at me with that gentle hunger.

"Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake," I said, hearing my voice quiver.

He raised his hand again, caressing my neck. He slid his palm across my skin, letting it come to rest on my nape. I felt the hair on my arms stand up in response to his touch. He took a step closer to me, tilting his gaze down so that our faces were only separated by a few inches.

"Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus, from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged," his said in a sultry tone.

I felt his warm breath on my skin as he finished speaking. He started to lean forward, his full lips puckering. My heart was about to explode. He stopped just short of our lips touching. His eyes widened as if he was asking for permission. All I needed to do was nod, or even smile, and Jackson would kiss me. I would finally live out a fantasy I had imagined for the past four years.

"Then have my lips the sin that they have took," I heard myself say.

I watched as he pulled away, his hand falling from its position on my nape. I felt sick to my stomach; a part of me wanted to cry. I couldn't understand what I had just done. I had been so close, and I chose to escape. I had always chosen to escape.

I managed to mumble out the rest of the lines. I could already feel the regret welling up inside of me. Yet another moment in my life had passed me by.

***********************************************************************************************************

Jackson walks towards me with his hands stuck in his pockets. The features of his face become more defined as he moves further into the moonlight. He stops next to me; we both look out into the sky.

"You needed to get away too, huh?" he asks.

"It can all just feel so stifling," I reply. "What are you trying to get away from?"

"I don't know. I got invited to this thing by my in-laws, and then my wife had to stay home to take care of the baby when the babysitter couldn't make it. I didn't want to come, but she didn't seem to want me to stay home either. And everyone just keeps asking about the baby. I mean, I love my son, but he isn't the only thing I want to talk about. God, I must sound like I'm complaining."

"I don't think you sound like you're complaining. I think it's normal to not want to be defined by any single thing in our lives. Otherwise, people can start to feel trapped by the things they love."

I shift my body so that I can see the stars reflecting in his eyes, and he does the same. I smile; he looks almost exactly the same as he did eight years ago. I feel a sense of nostalgia looking at his fitted dress shirt, wondering if he could have owned this one in high school.

"I actually know you," I say. "We were the same year at Westfield High. We didn't hang out in the same circles though."

He grins as he brushes a piece of hair from his forehead. His eyes twinkle with a knowing excitement.

"Punctured bicycle, on a hillside desolate, will nature make a man of me yet?" he sings, trying to emulate Morrissey. "I'm sorry that my singing hasn't improved since my last performance. Of course I remember you, Ben. We were in like four different classes together. And I passed drama class because of you."

My heart skips a beat as warmth emanates from my chest. I try to hide my growing grin, which no longer feels forced, but I fail. I feel like I'm back in high school, longing to truly be seen by Jackson Wilder.

"I had heard you got married; Shelly Woods, right? My friend Karla told me about it when she saw the announcement in the paper. She said that you are working as a realtor for your in-laws' company."

"You talk about me with your friends, huh?" he asks with a chuckle.

"I mean, it's a small town. Everyone talks about everyone."

"Sure."

I feel a little off-balance, wondering what he must be thinking. I worry that I'm failing some type of test I never had the opportunity to take all those years ago. I still want him to like me; I wonder why it matters all these years later. I look into his sparkling eyes and I know it will probably always matter.

"What happened to you that summer after graduation?" he asks.

"What do you mean?"

"I just thought I might see you at some of the parties before we all left for school, but I you never showed up to a single one. I thought that maybe you'd let yourself live a little bit after we graduated."

I think back to how I spent my weekend evenings that summer, alone in my room, reading books or watching arthouse movies to try to feel more worldly. A sense of sadness bubbles up within me. My smile disappears and I look back at the moon. Jackson continues to staring at me.

"Do you ever think to yourself: 'Is this the life I'm supposed to be living?'" I ask. "I feel like I keep waiting for something to come along that makes it so my real life starts, but the longer I wait, the more I realize it started already without me. I mean, I never went to high school dances or football games. I never went to parties. I didn't attend the prom. There are so many things I wish I could have done."

"Why don't you do them now?" he asks with kindness resounding in his voice.

"You would say that, wouldn't you? You probably don't regret a single thing from high school, so it must be easy to imagine re-writing the past when your story doesn't need improving."

Jackson looks away with sadness in his eyes. He rubs the back of his neck with his hand. He remains silent.

"I'm sorry," I say. "That was rude of me to say. I sound like such an asshole. I think I put you on some kind of pedestal in high school and I guess I never took you off of it. I had such a crush on you." I laugh it off. That feels cowardly.

"You were, I mean are, the handsomest man. I couldn't focus in Calculus because I was too busy imagining what it would feel like to run my hands though your hair or waiting to see if you would smile since it would light my heart afire. I used to pray that you'd have some reason to talk with me. I'd imagine how we'd be friends and, even though we couldn't be together, that being close to you would be enough."

I pause, looking down at my near-empty champagne glass. I can't believe I just said all of that. I feel myself blush. Jackson is tenderly staring at me again.

"You must feel so uncomfortable after that rant," I mumble. "I'm so sorry."

"Why don't you ask me?" he asks.

"Ask you what?"

"How I'm feeling?"

He shifts his body weight; the gap between us closes a bit. I can see from his face that he doesn't look upset. He's smirking again.

"How are you feeling?"

"I'm flattered," he says as his smile widens. "It feels nice to know that you thought I was sexy."

"Did I say sexy?" I joke.

He rolls his eyes as he nudges me with his shoulder. I feel a wave of joy as his body presses into mine. Muffled music starts to escape through the closed glass door behind us. It sounds like Mrs. Davidson is singing while her husband plays the piano. It takes me a moment to recognize the song; it's "Night and Day" by Cole Porter.

"So you didn't go to prom, huh?" he asks.

"No; I stayed at home reading Pride and Prejudice."

"That's bleak," he says.

We both start laughing. I put my hand on his shoulder, telling myself that it's just for balance. He reaches towards my other hand, taking my empty champagne glass. He places it on the grass next to where we are standing. He takes a step back.

"Can I have this dance?" he asks while extending his palm.

"You don't have to do this," I reflexively say.

"I know."

He continues to stand there with his hand extended. I'm not sure what I should do. This feels so surreal. I would have killed to dance with Jackson years ago; why am I trying to talk myself out of it know? The expression on his face is genuine and kind.

I step forward, gripping his hand. He slides his arms around my waist and rests his palms on the small of my back. I reach up, placing my arms across his broader shoulders. I can feel my heart thumping loudly as we start to sway to the music.

"Night and day, day and night, why is it so?" Mrs. Davidson croons. "That this longing for you follows wherever I go? In the roaring traffic's boom, in the silence of my lonely room, I think of you..."

I feel his warm skin beneath the thin fabric of his dress shirt; it contrasts with the brisk night air. I try to let myself go. I want to be in this moment. I inch forward, pulling Jackson closer. I rest my chin in his shoulder so our cheeks are almost touching. I can feel his heart beating as our chests press into one another.

The singing stops, but we keep dancing for another moment. I finally pull away, placing my hand on his right pectoral muscle. I look into his eyes and smile. I want to thank him, but I'm not sure what to say.

"That was nice," he says. "I'm glad that we could re-write history a bit for you tonight."

"You are going to think this is stupid but, if we are re-writing my regrets, there's one I've thought about so many times over years. But I don't think it's fair to make you do something just so I can work out my issues."

"You can't make me do anything I'm not willing to do. All you can do is ask."

"I keep thinking back to that afternoon in Mr. Lawson's class," I say. "You were looking at me in with such longing and tenderness. And I had never been kissed by a guy. I wanted it with all my being, but I was too afraid. I think I'm still afraid."

"I know," he says.

He lifts his hand and caresses my cheek with its backside. He places it across my nape; his thumb is pushing into my hair. He tilts his head down a little so he is looking me directly in the eyes. I can feel his warm breath escaping onto my skin.