You Loved Me Once, a Summer Long, Long Ago
By: Yael Wolfe
Tags: Relationships, Memories, This Happened To Me, Love, Heartbreak

You Loved Me Once, a Summer Long, Long Ago

A memory

Photo by Jamie Street on Unsplash

June 2007

It was summer when we fell in love. Of course it was. The long nights. The golden light. How could it have happened any other way?

You were just a boy back then, in your early twenties. I was a woman, about to turn 31.

I felt some shame in this, as if there was something indecent about dating someone so much younger than I was — and my little brother’s best friend. But I felt determined — defiant, even. If our genders had been reversed, no one would have cared. The younger you were, the more I would have been congratulated, had I been a man.

So as a woman, I forged ahead, ignoring our age difference, totally submitting to the intoxication of your attentions.

The first time I knew we would cross the line from friends to lovers was the evening we went to the Diana Krall concert with a group of friends. Do you remember that? In that large circle of people, you and I sat at the fringe, in our own little world.

When the breeze blew across the cool waters of the river, you put your jacket around my shoulders.

We decided to go out to eat afterwards with my brother. When we arrived at the booth, I slid into a seat, already disappointed. I had guessed you would sit across from me with my brother, that our little bubble had already dissolved.

I was shocked when you slid forcefully into the seat next to me, only stopping when your body came into contact with mine. I thought you would scoot away at some point during the evening, but you did not. We sat like that, touching from shoulder to hip to thigh to foot the entire time.

I wanted to make sure you knew how much I liked you so I pressed my thigh hard against yours. Again, I thought you would retreat from the contact. But you pressed your leg just as hard into mine.

July 2007

We spent so many evenings together that summer. In my memory of that time, you are always bathed in the diffuse, golden light of a summer sunset.

We’d kiss until our lips were bruised and pink. You’d slide your hand under my shirt and unclasp my bra with the flick of two fingers. Our skin was hot and moist with sweat. We’d sigh against each other’s mouths. It had been so long for both of us since we had touched someone so intimately.

One night, you took your clothes off and pulled away from me. “Is this okay?” you asked.

I knew what you really meant. Were you okay? Did I like your body? The way you looked? Did I want you?

My god, you were so young. You reminded me of a colt with those long limbs and wide eyes. Your total lack of pretension in that moment.

I kissed you in response.

Of course you were okay. Of course I wanted you. Of course you were beautiful to me.

August 2007

We were lying on my bed, fully clothed. I was on top of you, kissing you. You said something — but I don’t remember what. I only remember that it must have been sweet and romantic because my heart felt like a cage whose door had just sprung open and I said, without thought, “I love you.”

You smiled and said you loved me, too.

The light coming in through the window was so tender, the dust motes dancing around us, illuminated.

September 2014

We were together for a long time. Seven years — five living in that house. I thought we were going to have a baby there, push a little crib beneath the window in the second bedroom. Yellow blankets. Yellow walls.

We had a hard time, though. You were so unhappy so often, so worried what would happen if we were to actually get married and have that baby.

You started to look at me differently. There were even a few times when you referred to me as “old.” As in, maybe I was a little too old for you. Maybe you would be better matched with someone your own age.

I hung on, though. I was older, and as such, I knew the grass wouldn’t necessarily be greener with another partner. Age and experience had taught me to appreciate the blessings I already had.

But then you came home that night, both anxious and ebullient. I was waiting at the door for you with a smoothie I had just whipped up, knowing you would be hungry after such a long day. Do you remember that? I was beaming, so happy to see you.

That’s when you told me about her. The young girl at work that you were in love with.

She had discovered that you were already in a relationship, and that you and I had been living together for a long time. What gave it away? Did you tell her? Or did she find a text message from me on your phone? I always wondered that.

She said if you wanted to make it work with her, you had to leave, immediately. You couldn’t see me anymore. No more contact between us.

I was stunned. The light in the room was still so long at that time of year, still so diffuse and golden. But it didn’t feel familiar, anymore, and certainly not tender. It was almost caustic.

“Can you really do this? Leave this? Us? Our home? Our life together?” All I had were questions.

“Yeah,” you said, so casually, so easily, like I’d just asked if you wanted a piece of gum. “The truth is, I never really loved you. Or even liked you. I just didn’t realize it until I met Susan. Now that I know what true love feels like, it’s easy to leave.”

“Oh,” I said, softly, seven years of my life burning to a cinder in that late summer light.

June 2019

I haven’t seen or heard from you in five years. You made good on your word to Susan. I heard you two got married and are living downtown with your kid.

I didn’t do as well as you. Not for a long time.

For years, I played out every scene of our time together. How did I miss the fact that you didn’t love me?

One evening last week, I was pulling weeds in my garden. Did you know I bought my own house? All by myself? Remember how many times we argued about buying a house — how much I wanted to and how much you didn’t?

Well, I did it. On my own.

This home has become one of the greatest joys of my life. In the evenings, the light stretches out over my garden in a golden swath, bathing the lavender, strawberries, and apple trees in a luminous gold.

I stopped and thought about you. Wondered what you were doing. Probably playing video games with your stepson. Maybe one-handed, while you hold your baby in your other arm.

The light reminded me of that night by the river twelve years ago when you put your jacket around my shoulders. I thought about the way we pressed so hard against each other at the restaurant later. And I remembered your blue eyes, so soft that evening you took off your clothes for the first time.

I suddenly remembered that entire summer, crawling forward so deliciously slowly as I became enamored with you. As I fell in love with you.

As we fell in love.

In all the years since you left, that’s the one memory I had forgotten — the summer when it had all begun. Your words, that day you left, had worked like acid, burning away the images of your gentle smiles, your long, graceful fingers that touched me with such a tender eagerness, our curious and hungry embraces that kept us fighting off sleep until our eyes closed of their own accord.

I don’t believe you, anymore. I know it took a long time for me to get here, but I guess I needed a reminder of those golden hours from that summer so long ago.

We walked down the street that one night, after eleven o’clock, wandering through the new housing development. The strap of my sandal broke. Do you remember? You hiked me up on your back and started to carry me home, but not until you had picked out the house you thought we should buy, the one where we could raise our family.

I can still see us passing through the cones of the streetlights, laughing, my arms around your neck. I kissed your cheek and you dropped me to my feet so you could turn and embrace me.

I don’t know why you said what you said. But you lied.

You did love me. One summer, a long, long time ago.

© Yael Wolfe 2020