The Last Kiss

IREMEMBER the first time I saw you. You were in the library, your head buried in a book. There was something about you that made me loiter by the returned book trolley, picking up something I knew I’d never read.

I told myself that if you looked up, I’d go and talk to you.

You never did, though – whatever you were reading had taken all your attention.

Your elbows rested on the table and your chin was cupped in your hands.

Was it a romance that kept you so engrossed? A story of a boy like me and a girl like you?

If it hadn’t been for the librarian clearing her throat and looking pointedly at the book I was holding, I could have stayed there for hours, watching the sunlight fall through the window on to your fair hair and imagining how my hand might trace its path.

Instead, I placed the book on the counter. The title was “How To Make Things With Raffia”.

Even today it makes me laugh to remember the librarian’s face, as she assessed the likelihood of a lad like me ever making a straw bowl or woven bracelet.

I went back home, with the library books I was meant to be returning for Mum still in the carrier bag.

“Why have you brought them back?” she asked as I came in the door and plonked the bag down on the kitchen table.

I mumbled something about the library having been closed and promised her I’d go the next day.

I had a whole summer before my apprenticeship started and it was odd how the place I wanted to be, more than anywhere, was a building lined with books.

But that’s how it was, now that I’d seen you there.

The following day, when I returned, I saw you straight away. You were sitting on a beanbag by the window, your long legs tucked under you.

As you read the book you were holding, your lips moved silently.

“The Prelude”, by William Wordsworth, was written on the front. A memory stirred of a poem a teacher had read out in primary school.

I might have enjoyed it had it not been for Jamie Keegan turning round in his chair and making yawning faces at me over the top of his English book.

“There’s another beanbag here if you want it.”

You lowered the book and placed it on your lap and I wondered what you made of me, standing with a dopey look on my face.

“Thanks.” I plonked myself on the beanbag opposite, taking my mum’s library book out of the plastic bag and pretending it was mine.

“You don’t look like someone who would read romance.” There was a smile on your face and I didn’t know if you were teasing.

Turning the book over, I read the title. The Last Kiss.

“Oh,” I said, red creeping up my neck. “It’s not a romance. It’s a thriller – kiss of death and all that.”

“I believe you.” You jabbed a finger at the cover picture of a couple locked in a passionate embrace. We both laughed. “Wordsworth,” I said, pointing to your book and changing the subject. “Didn’t he write about daffodils?” “Amongst other things.” Your face broke into a smile and I think at that moment you stole my heart.

Did I mention that you never gave it back?

“Ben?” Mum’s peering over my shoulder.

“Yes?” I’d only popped back to get the sandwiches I’d left behind that morning but had got side-tracked by the laptop.

I click off the folder of photographs I’ve been looking at. Photos of me and you that summer we spent together. I hope Mum hasn’t seen, but she has. “Why don’t you call her?” “What’s the point? She’s got her own life now. I saw her yesterday with her daughter.”

She looked just like you – same fine, fair hair. Same smile.

You were walking along the beach, the wind blowing your hair away from your face.

As you bent to refasten the Velcro strap of the little girl’s sandal, I passed by, too surprised at seeing you to say anything.

Instead, I carried on walking – past the children’s lido, past the old iron girders of the pier, and on until I’d left the town behind me. Left you behind me.

“Did you know she was back?” Mum asks, her eyes scrutinising my face.

If only life could be like that novel. But it doesn’t work that way . . .

“How would I?”

“I just thought you might still be in contact. Facebook or something.”

“No.” I’d not wanted to, hating the thought that I might see you with someone else. “It was a summer fling, that’s all. Years ago.”

“If you say so.”

I’m surprised. It’s not as if she really knew you. I tell her so.

“You’re right,” she says, “but I knew you.”

When you agreed to go out with me, that day at the library, I thought I’d misheard you. I hadn’t, though, and later that evening, I took you to the cinema.

You didn’t seem to mind that the film featured a car chase and a couple of dodgy villains, or that I took you to the kebab shop afterwards.

And when you agreed to see me the next day, I thought all my birthdays had come at once.

After that, we saw each other nearly every day. We walked and talked and swam in the sea.

I remember how you laughed at my bad jokes and how I listened to you read poetry from your reading list. Not caring if I understood the words; just loving the sound of your voice.

A voice, I realise, I’d give anything to hear again.

I pick up my keys and go out into the hall.

“I’ll see you later, Mum. I ought to check on Kenny. He’s doing the suspension on Mr Ludlow’s car.”

“He’s a good lad, that one.”

Since I took him on as apprentice, he’s done well and I’ve tried to give him the same support I had when I first started at the garage.

I open the front door then stop.

“Do you think I should have said something to her?”

Mum looks beyond me to where the sea can just be seen shimmering between the houses.

“That’s for you to decide, Ben, but I remember my mum telling me, when I’d done something wrong, that every day is a second chance. Do you really want to be wasting this one?” I shake my head.

“I don’t think I do.”

It’s a warm day and I roll up the sleeves of my shirt as I walk.

I’m taking the long way back to the garage along the seafront, pretending it’s because I want to breathe in the sea air but knowing it’s really because I hope I’ll see you on the beach again.

As I pass the breakwater, I remember how we used to lay our towels out on the stones and lie on our backs, our fingers entwined.

Then, when we couldn’t stand the heat any longer, we picked our way across the pebbles to the sea, holding each other’s arms to steady ourselves.

The water was cold and when you came out there were goosepimples on your arms.

After I wrapped you in your towel and rubbed warmth back into your arms, I pressed my forehead against yours, willing you to read me the way you read one of your books – devouring every page, hungry for the next chapter.

I knew it was hopeless, though, for September was moving ever closer. I would be starting my apprenticeship at the garage and you would be going away to university.

Eventually I would just be the book you opened but never read.

Ducking beneath the railings, I drop down on to the beach and walk towards the breakwater.

My head is so full of thoughts of you that when I hear your voice, I think I’m imagining it.

“Ben? Is that you?” You’re hobbling up the stones, your hair blowing in the wind. You’ve been swimming and you’re shivering.

Your towel is spread out on the stones and, without thinking, I pick it up and wrap it around your shoulders as I used to, then stand back, embarrassed. “Thank you.” There’s a book lying open next to your bag, its pages riffling in the breeze. It’s a children’s book with a bright picture of a multicoloured elephant spread across its pages. “Your daughter’s?” “Why do you say that?” comes the puzzled reply.

I think of the girl with the pale hair and the smile like yours. It’s only now I realise she’s not here with you.

“I saw you with her yesterday.”

“That’s not my daughter.” You rub your arms with the towel. “It’s my niece. I was looking after her for the day.

“The book is for the children at school – I was working out a lesson.” “A lesson?”

“Yes. After university I did a PGCE. I’ve got a job at the primary school. I start in September.”

As I look at you, I wonder if you realise how much my heart ached when I said we should just be friends.

That you should be free, at university, to spread your wings and find someone you had more in common with.

You told me not to be silly, that you liked me as I was, but I held my ground, knowing I couldn’t face the moment when you’d tell me you’d met someone else.

When you realised I was serious, you picked up your bag, slipped on your sandals and walked away across the stones.

“What about you, Ben? Did you finish your apprenticeship?”

I nod and glance at my watch. I should be getting back, but I’m mesmerised by the sunlight on your hair.

“I’m a co-owner of the garage now.”

“I always knew you’d do well.”

The sun’s glinting on the water and a gull calls, taking me back to the boy I’d been then.

That day, I told myself that if – when – I looked up, if I saw you looking back at me, I’d change my mind. I’d run to you and say I was sorry. But you didn’t.

“I’m glad things turned out well.”

Things didn’t turn out well, I want to shout. Because you are here and I’m not with you.

“Thank you,” I say instead.

“It’s funny, but after that last time, when you said the things you did . . .” You hesitate. “Well, I told myself that if I turned back and you were looking at me, it meant you didn’t mean it. That you wanted us to be together, after all. Silly, wasn’t I?”

I rest my forehead against yours.

“No. I did look, but it must have been after you turned back. Why didn’t I just say what I meant?”

Your eyes are sad, as though you already know the answer.

“What did you mean?” “I was scared you preferred books to me.”

“You were always my favourite book.” Your eyes roam my face. “I memorised every page.” “Did you?”

“Yes.”

Picking up the elephant book, you put it in your bag then pull a sundress over your bikini.

“I’d better go. I’m picking up my niece from summer playgroup. It was good to see you, Ben. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”

You lift the bag on to your shoulder and I watch you walk up the beach, telling myself that if you look back it will mean something. I’m not sure what, but something.

I hold my breath and count to ten, scared you won’t do it, but as you reach the railings, you turn and wave.

I wave back, knowing in my heart that this time it’s going to be all right.

This could be the start of a new chapter. n

Do I really want to be wasting this second chance?