summer lovin’: a story of teenage heartbreak (part 4)

I couldn’t really expect our little summer romance to last, could I?

Logically, no.

I unfortunately made a huge mistake at the time. I had a boyfriend back home. He had been unfaithful before and he had been getting pushier about being physically intimate, and camp had provided an escape from that. I didn’t start out looking for revenge or to hurt him; I didn’t even do it for revenge when the deed was done; I should’ve known better, but I was confused and hurt and also 16 years old.

Of course, I told my boyfriend as soon as I got home and we took a break, but he wanted to work through it.

All the while, though, I was still thinking about J. I felt guiltier for that, but it didn’t stop me from reminiscing and texting him late at night. He responded a lot at first...

and then he didn’t.

As the messages became more infrequent because he “broke the phone” or was “too busy with school,” I became depressed. I gave up after a while, and my relationship slowly healed.

Until that next summer.

I was now 17, not-so-innocent, and facing the same relationship troubles that plagued me before. It created a perfect storm, and he came back.

This time, the singing was before camp. We came back to stay with my friend from before, and this time, J was more distant than before. It only made me go after him that much harder.

This time, he didn’t want to be so public, claiming that he didn’t want to upset anyone. I spent a lot of time in a bedroom waiting for him.

Waking from an afternoon nap, I was immediately aware this time of being held by a freshly showered, shirtless J and the atmosphere was... different. There was more trembling, but this time my knees didn’t shake; they wrapped around him instead.

I won’t go into details, but there were more fireworks and more breathlessness and more vivid memories that haven’t faded with time. That happened once more when everyone was distracted by a soccer game in the main house, but then the distance resumed for a while.

I should’ve stopped while I was ahead, but the more distant he got, the more upset I became.

On the last night at my friend’s house, I cried a bit. He saw me, and he took me up to the main house where everyone was asleep. The last thing I wanted was for him to see me cry, but we talked for a while on that kitchen floor and it ended with more of this secret passion which was abruptly halted by the light from the nearby living room turning on.

It was my friend’s nearly deaf grandpa, so we ran out of the house laughing quietly.

After that, everything changed, and not for the better.

I should have known.

(Part 5, hopefully final bit, coming soon.)