The Air Between Us

I think we're both a little too used to things being how they are.

We're on a bench in our shared college campus, watching the clouds pass us by. You point out the shape of each one and even though none of them look like anything, I nod in agreement while trying not to lean on your shoulder or hold your hand. My mind steals the present from me as all I can think of is how to tell you- sincerely, passively, powerfully, kindly- but every time I think of when to tell you, my thoughts go from words to warning signs.

You finally notice. "Hey," you ask with the sort of uncharacteristic soft kindness that breaks your stream of consciousness, a kindness I wish I could believe was reserved for me. "What's on your mind?"

I shrug, because I've known you long enough for you to stop pretending that "nothing" is an acceptable answer. So I go for the second-most generic thing: "Just anxious."

You hmm with understanding patience, the kind that always ages you up ten years to my mentor and not my junior. "Wanna talk about it?"

Hell no, my thoughts immediately scream at me, so I surmise that's what I'm to do. "I'd kind of like to forget about it," I answer. It isn't satisfactory, but it's truthful.

"Okay," you answer. You've known me long enough to accept that as an answer. I've never known if you don't see that I should talk about them, or if you just accept that I can't. My mind creates a world that is parallel to the real one. It isn't real, I know this, but it holds the reality where I tell you and you walk away in disgust. I know it's not real, but I can't help but feel like that's what I deserve.

It gets too quiet and my heart is pounding, so I look at an amorphous cloud and for you, I pretend it's a flower. As I take in another puff of air from my inhaler, you enthusiastically agree, the kind that wouldn't seem real if it was from anyone other than you.

--

Even before I realized the complexities of my sexuality, the convention of love seemed like a concept that I was always an observer of, never a participant, one always separate from how I experienced love. I never loved easily, and I never loved an insignificant woman in my life. When I loved, though, I loved with my whole heart. I loved too much because I loved too rarely. I loved like I was desperate not to lose it and be trapped in an aimless, loveless world again. I love like the kind of love I could never confess to you, because I am so hard a woman to love and you are far too easy a woman to, so easy that it scares me.

You tell me you want to go to the beach. Your internal schedule is strict but your spontaneous plans are more ironclad.

I hear this and smile. "That sounds fun."

"Yeah," you say, unconvinced. "Wanna go with?"

I point to myself in shock, like you clearly meant someone else and accidentally said my name. Surely there are women more interesting than I, women that you could so easily convince to join you on a date there. I can't even imagine dating on a whim, and it took so long for me to fall for you, but I have to tell myself this isn't a date. I'm sure you're bringing along a few of your friends from the streets that I grew up in, my only connection to the strangers you love.

You nod at my shock, either not noticing or choosing to ignore what I am garbage at hiding. "As long as you can make it," you add.

I haven't gone on a trip this long in ages. The doctors generally recommended against it when I was more sick, but as I've gotten better I've realized that nothing's holding me back but my own fears. I don't have the blasted oxygen tank anymore- enough years have passed that I no longer need something that severe, and never have since I met you. As fearful as the idea of such a trip is, your presence alone feels like the breath I need.

"I absolutely can," I promise.

"Awesome!" You reach over and hug me, because you're a hugger, and that alone makes me happy I said yes. I wonder if you've ever noticed my instinctual purr into your shoulder as I keep my hands respectfully around your neck, never inching any lower despite myself.

--

It's an hour after we left on Saturday and I'm still surprised when you and I are alone in your car down the lonely single-laned highway heading to the beach. I'm probably smiling, definitely blushing, and surprisingly not imploding from joy and anxiety. The question most on my mind, what the hell, goes unsaid, but it certainly is implied. I can just get away with implying things around you.

"You all good?" you ask again.

I allow myself a smirk. "I'm just as good as I was the last eight times you asked."

"Just checking," you say quietly, enough that I strain to hear it over the jangly college rock on your stereo.

"Sorry if that was too rough."

You wave a hand dismissively. "Psh. Girl."

I smile, but I'm nervous. The change from loving you to liking you was so sudden that you must have noticed me going from being honest and vulnerable to presenting a better version of myself than I am, the kind that says hey, you can want me, you can be with me, you can love me like I love you, but I don't think you can as I am. Instead, I'm who I want to be around you, and- I shamefully admit- who I think you want me to be. As my skirt-clad knees eat the glove compartment in your tiny two-door car and my bag has a few more inhalers than I imagine I will need, I'm reminded that I can only change so much.

"So what beach are we heading to?" I ask.

You click your tongue as you think of an answer. After a few seconds- a few seconds longer than usual- you say "some beach down the 101 not too far past Cannon Beach."

Except it's not just some beach, I surmise from your tone, which rushes to be more dismissive than it is. What I say aloud is "I assume more were meant to show up?"

You shrug your shoulders but you're clearly downcast and can't hide it. You gently hit the steering wheel and your smile goes from plastic to authentic.

"You know what," you say at long last. "We'll make it work, girl."

I beam. It's just an offhand comment, but being your second in command... I could get used to this.

--

"Want some lunch?"

I say "what do you think?" before I can stop myself. I giggle at the idea of not being hungry and you laugh too, voice like the queen of the wasteland that built me out of spare parts.

You pull into a drive-thru. The line is five cars deep before we even get to the speaker. "Guess we're hitting the beach tonight," you joke bitterly. You never were one for waiting.

"Then we'll hit the beach tonight," I respond with a smile.

"Says the one not driving at midnight."

I can't argue with that, so I just rattle off "Girl" and listen to you giggle again. It feels comfortable, and for once I'm not questioning myself. For a few moments I'm not wondering if I'm good enough. For a few moments I'm not so certain the answer is a definite no. I am here with you, and that's enough.

--

It's a fifteen minute hike through the forest to get to the beach, and for some reason we both figured that going to the beach in December was a good idea. "That's the last time I listen to you," I grumble, as if that's in any damn way the truth.

"Please," you shout back at me because you know better.

You're carrying a rain slicked popup-tent bag and a large picnic cooler with snacks and our leftover lunch in it, though you ate most of your fries in the car. I march a decent distance behind you, carrying my purse on my shoulder and a pair of consolation towels under my jacket to feel like I'm helping. I'm suddenly glad I wore a large pete coat to the beach and brought more than one inhaler.

We scale a slippery, sand-covered slope between us and the beach. I try my best to keep my balance and my breath but I am failing at both. You notice and, setting your things on the creeping edge of the sand, reach out to grab my hands and wrap your arms around me. After I take a second to shake out of the blissful shock of the way your skin touches mine, I balk. "It's okay," I insist. "Carry your own stuff. Don't worry."

You scoff, annoyed at something. "Like I'm gonna let you fall for the sake of a couple of burgers. Come on."

I don't tell you I would rather fall on my face than be a burden to you, and we reach the ground before I can. As you go to scale back up for the things you left towards the plateau, I want to apologize that the only person who followed you to the beach was a breathless sack of potatoes who could eat you out of house and home, but instead I reach into my purse and take a puff of my inhaler.

--

We sit in the tent together as the rain fails to reach us. You eat what's left of your fries and I pop my pills in my mouth. Years of taking medication have made it so I can shoot them back without water, but you always act astonished when I do what is so natural to me.

"That's so freaky!" you cackle, and I have to reason with myself that it's a compliment because I'm embarrassed at being a freak more than usual. I guess it's because I'm so close to you that I feel like I could be as lovely as you are, and also like that's the furthest possibility. I put my pill bottles back in my purse and brush my hand against an old companion of mine.

"Hello," I muse at my camera.

"Hi," you respond, causing me to giggle.

I hesitate for a second. I have gotten back to photography ever so slightly since meeting you- at least, the more and more I've been healthy enough to. Yet as much as I miss it, it is so difficult being back in the saddle. Everything in my body tells me you are tired, you are weak, stay here, and the comfort of your presence doesn't make that chain easier to break.

Still, I fumble for the strap and pull the camera out of my purse. I should treat it better, as expensive as it is, but I've lost the case for it and quite frankly can't be hassled to find it. I still have the lens cap on, and I reason that it's at least something, if not enough.

Your eyes light up. "Ooh, tell me you're gonna take pictures."

I nod with a smile, pulling the hood of my coat above the loose, frail strands of my hair. I swear a few of them fall out when I do. "We're at the beach," I explain. "I'm lazy, but not lazy enough to miss a perfect opportunity."

"You're not lazy," you defend, and I guess I'm not lazy anymore.

You don't say anything else, tossing aside an empty fries bucket and clambering to your knees. I should tell you to stay, but instead I let you follow as I move the flaps from the popup tent and lead us out.

You and I met over my photography- I was hanging my finals piece in the same hall you were handing out care packages to an empty room in, and you wasted no time to compliment it, flattering me with the abruptness I now know you for. In turn, you gave me one of the care packages with a blue elephant stuffed animal. I took a purple giraffe instead with an embarrassed giggle and breathless apology. You laughed at my audacity as though it was charming before introducing yourself, and the stream of words between us began.

You dressed for the beach part, and I dressed for the December part, so your skin is being roughly slapped by the raindrops that should treat you better. You don't express annoyance; in fact, you've never seemed more content in your life than you are just to watch me take photos of whatever patch of sand or nearby bluff interests me.

"There's nothing more beautiful," you muse, wonder in your voice, "than a beach in Oregon at this time of year." Passively, I agree.

Eventually we split apart. I miss your presence, but decide not to stop taking pictures. I get lost in the habit just like I used to before I got sick. It's lovely and reminds me that I'm so lucky to be alive to take these pictures. I'm so lucky to have lived to meet you.

I turn and notice you on the sand. You're staring at the ocean blankly, entranced by wave after wave breaking against the shore. You're wearing skinny jeans, a tight white shirt with wide sleeves, and Doc Martens that cost more than my prized camera. Your hair is undone, pale brown curls wild and aimless on your shoulders, looking as though it was never tamed.

I angle the shot perfectly and take it without you noticing. I feel like a creeper, but I can't miss the opportunity. I found something more beautiful than a beach in Oregon.

Even during this time of year.

--

You want to say something as we rest in the tent again. I use a towel as a makeshift pillow as you dry off with yours. I'm going through the motions of looking through my shots but always gravitate to the shot of you. As if you could see me, I flip the picture on my camera screen away from it, even though you've done nothing but silently dare yourself to talk. The air in the tent is one of someone about to say words, but won't- or can't.

I gently tap your lap with my foot. It's almost light enough to pass as unintentional, but you know I mean something by it. You know you can say anything around me.

"So I guess..." You whisper and stutter, so it must mean something. "Since you're the... like, the only one I know who, like, understands it..." You sigh, and I lean up towards you.

"Hey."

You look at me with inquisitive, tired eyes. I lean up to sit next to you, my body reminding you I'm here, it's okay, I'll never hurt you.

You sigh again and speak too quickly. "This is where I accepted I was gay."

I take in a sharp breath and whisper your name like an incantation.

The words you say mean something different than how I would mean it. You aren't like me. As soon as I realized I was gay, I came out. Things are (generally) stark and simple for me. There are so many thoughts storming through your head that the closet you left behind could only be a filthy, dusty mess. Some of the dust still clings to you, so hard to remove that I believe that it's all formed scars.

"I just... had enough," you breathe, validating my theories. "Enough of it all. It was such a storm in my head of... anxiety and hatred and misery and self-loathing..." You look at me, begging me to understand. "I just got sick of people I loved trying to compromise with me. Like it was okay to be gay as long as I never acted upon it. Like they would love me more if I wasn't gay. You know what I mean?"

"I know," I assure you, eyes closed. "And yet here you are."

You look like you're blushing but I can't fathom it. "And here I am. Just a gay girl trying her goddamn best."

I beam. I've never expressed my pride for you even making it to this point, but I can't imagine a world where I'm not. You are here, and you've stopped feeling like a sinner. You feel like enough. I know that, and I know enough for it to be evocative to me.

"So this place has a lot of meaning to me," you say. "Where I just let it all go."

I nod. "I'm so glad you did." I would carry all the dust that clings to you if it lightens the load. I would struggle to breathe with it all, but you already take my breath away.

You smile. "Me too."

You're never one to put me in a mystery with how you feel. You told me about every romantic flight and fall that you had experienced, and I listened with empathy and envy that grew to the point where I could no longer ignore it. There are many ways that I don't love like you. I've not come out about anything that explains why you're the only woman I've been attracted to in ages.

I know enough about you to know that your process is and was different, and your version of shared experiences matters deeply to you. Selfishly, I've always wondered if mine can mesh with yours, but my draw to solitude giving in to sporadic romantic obsession feels like a flaw you couldn't understand and I couldn't forgive.

We rest next to each other. You're sitting on your knees and I'm holding mine to my chest. In my coat and skirt next to you, I am so puritanical. I have always felt like an outsider, especially next to your natural beauty. But we look so good with each other, don't you agree?

Don't you?

I don't realize I've held my hand out until I look down to see it empty, unconsciously begging for comfort, for approval, for company. I pull it in with an apology and you gasp, but I'm too busy alternating between fighting and embracing the worst case scenarios as to why I am such an outsider that you wouldn't take my hand.

I truly am a fool, but I am your fool.

--

We stay until it's long after dark. It's December, so that isn't too late in the day. We hike back and I'm closer to you than before because I need you. I need you to drown out the voices in my head telling me off for even thinking my feelings are reciprocated when I am me. I rethink all of the offending actions I may have taken just in this day alone, some negligible and others impossible to notice, because I'm being consumed by you and the standards that I have thrust into your hands.

We make it to your car and pack our things into the trunk without a second thought. I almost fall into my seat in the car and take four puffs of my inhaler. It's not even a quarter of the way gone but I feel like I need my oxygen tank.

"Curse my weak constitution," I joke like I'm joking.

You smile sadly and start the car.

--

You finally get phone reception when we enter Cannon Beach for gas. The attendant is filling us up as I wait in the car while you take a call in the distance. I see you smile a lot, a fake smile that you're sure the other party can see. I don't feel comfortable with it even as the attendant stops and you enter the car having paid her.

You manage to drive around to near the on-ramp to the highway before you pull over to the side of the road and lean your forehead into the steering wheel, crying.

"Babe?" I blurt. The pet name feels intrusive.

You shrug and swallow after a sob. Your breaks between jags are always long enough to disarm me until you sob again. I wrap my arm around you, feeling your tense shoulder blades try and fail to loosen as you cry.

"This is stupid," you say weakly.

"It's not," I insist. "I promise. You can say what you want."

You choke down another sob and comply.

"I just..." you start. "It's such bullshit. Like... I get it when people have plans. And I get it that it was last minute and all, but..." You breathe for too long. I know what it's like to choke yourself with your sorrows. "It's Saturday, you know? I know they had nothing going on. And not one of them had the time for me, you know?"

"That is bullshit," I concur. They missed a golden opportunity to be near you, damn the rain, the season, the traffic, damn everything.

"I know," you bemoan. "It's like, don't I deserve better?"

I close my eyes and remove my hand. The word deserve stabs me in the heart, and any life I have left is drained by it.

"You deserve better than me?"

You gasp from the steering wheel. "What?"

Everything turns sour. Everything. I wish I wasn't there. I wish I wasn't there to puff on my inhaler and get carried around by someone who could only think of how things should have been better than what I had to offer while I could only muse of how amazing it was to get a snapshot of you.

I open the car door while you tell me you didn't mean it like that and walk outside, facing the empty on-ramp. I cover my mouth and scream with all my heart, all of my pain, as if I can get it out with one primal shriek, as if I can enter the car a whole, perfect woman who doesn't love you as badly as I do.

When I turn back, so breathless that I nearly kneel over and die from sacrificing the air in my lungs to fix my broken heart, I see you leaning on the car door, aghast and mortified at the mess that I really am.