Together Apart: Change is Never Easy

by Maxxwell, Lexi

  Sam said, “What was your first time like?”

  “You don’t want to know that.”

  “No, you didn’t want to know. I’m mature enough to handle it.”

  “I’m mature.”

  Sam rolled sideways, hugged his arm. She really did feel light, out in the meadow, tall grass blocking all but sky. It wasn’t as tall as the grass in her meadow back home, but was enough to make her feel alone. The breeze was brisk, running up under her dress in a way that was far too innocent to be sexual.

  “Okay,” Sam said. She sat up, legs to the side and her sundress billowing over them. “Give me your hand.”

  He reached out, grabbed her boob.

  “I meant down here.” Zach frowned, then slapped his palm to hers.

  “Sit up.”

  Zach sat up, their hands still clasped.

  “Let’s start over.”

  He looked around. There was a picnic basket to one side. Sam’s grandmother gave it to her for reasons only a grandmother could understand, this was the first time it had ever been used. The detritus of their picnic (mainly cheese, crackers, and two pilfered beers because it’s all they felt like assembling) was in the basket, basically gone.

  “We need to restock. I think I have a beer in my trunk.”

  “I meant ‘start over’ like … you know … like just kind of agree to be each other’s firsts.”

  “Ooookay … ”

  “We’re a great fit. It just took us a few tries to find our match. So let’s agree to erase the past. Our true experience starts when we met.”

  Zach lay back down. “This is so gay.”

  “You’re allowed to gay out with your girlfriend,” Sam said. “Hearts and flowers and stuff. Don’t worry, you can tell your friends we spent the day having sex and shooting guns and talking about monster trucks.” She hit him lightly. “Get up.”

  “No. Call the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants.”

  She flopped down beside him. “Okay. Fine. Then you have to accept that Greg Bannister had his dick all up inside … ”

  Zach held up a hand, elbow anchored, pinky out, still on his back. “All right, all right. Hit me.”

  Sam laughed, reached over, and hooked her pinky around it.

  “Starting over,” she said. “Pinky promise.”

  “Sure.”

  Zach dropped his hand. Again, it fell on her chest. He rolled onto his side, propped himself on his elbow, and rubbed her tit through the dress. “Hey little girl,” he said. “You ever been felt up by a guy?”

  “I once gave this guy a handjob at the county fair.”

  “I thought we were starting over?”

  “Not with each other!”

  “I … goddammit, Sam.” His hand stayed on her boob.

  “Hey. You’re the artist. Come on. Feel out the situation.”

  The boob hand started to move. It was inexpert, gropey. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  She turned, crossing her legs. His hand came away. She missed it the second it was gone.

  “What do you want, Zach?”

  “Handjob in the field?”

  “Out of life, I meant.”

  He looked at Sam for a long moment, then returned to sitting. They sat across from each other like two people with a Ouija board between them. “Serious question?”

  “Serious.” And it was.

  Sam still felt like a kid — partied like a kid, paid the barest of bills on her own like a kid, had all the responsibilities of a kid, was feeling a meadow breeze up her dress like a kid — but they were almost 20 and in just a few years, they’d be sent out into that “real world” people were always talking about. Sam had yet to assemble the pieces of her puzzle, but knew she could write, that she liked her journalism classes, and that some journalism degrees paid well, with enough freedom to meet her security. It was enough, for now.

  “Well,” he said, “I guess I want to be free to do what I want.”

  “Wow is that vague.”

  “It’s all I want.”

  “But I mean … like, career-wise. Or are you going to sit on the boardwalk and paint all day?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Well, I mean … what are you going to do with your art?”

  “Paint. Sculpt. Sketch.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  Zach looked at Sam like she had two heads. He wasn’t understanding at all.

  “Like … you could go into advertising. Marketing.”

  Zach made a face.

  “Graphic design. Custom illustration. For, like, book covers and posters and stuff.”

  “Ugh. I just want to do art.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Zach, you need money to live on.”

  “Right. But only enough to do what I want.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. How can you have money if you don’t work for it … like in a job?”

  He threw up his hands in a why worry? gesture that was so totally, thoroughly Zach. Her new boyfriend was the quintessential example of someone living in moments. Sam proposing they start over should’ve been right up his alley. If anyone could pretend that only now existed or mattered, it was Zach. But living in the moment (and hence failing to plan ahead) had plenty of downsides. Whether it made sense or not, Sam could imagine a future with Zach, but if their future was shared, it couldn’t fly on a wing and a prayer.

  “I don’t know, Sam,” he said, clearly tired of the discussion. “It’ll all work out. Have a little faith, okay?”

  “Have faith? Is that your five-year plan?”

  “Honestly, yes.”

  Sam looked at Zach with utter disbelief.

  “Can we make out now?” he said. Zach’s face split into his large, disarming smile. She shook her head, laying on the blanket.

  “Is that a yes?”

  “Where do you see yourself in five years?”

  “Celebrating the five-year anniversary of you asking me that question.”

  “So, no answer?”

  “That’s a Mitch Hedberg joke.”

  “No answer, then.”

  “I like the escalator because it can never break. It can only ‘become stairs.’” When Sam continued to stare, Zach said, “You don’t like Mitch?”

  “You’re impossible.”

  Zach rolled sideways and took her hand. “Okay. Okay, Sam. Here’s where I want to be in five years: with you. Wherever and however you want. Because I don’t care. Okay? You make your plan and follow it. I’ll be there with you.”

  It was a heartbreaking answer. Sam found herself completely disarmed. Zach was always sweet and often emotional, but coming from his stubborn refusal to so much as choose a practical major (he was in fine arts with a minor in philosophy, a useful and synergistic duo if ever there was one), the answer’s blunt sincerity punched her gut. She didn’t have it in her to try pinning him further.

  Sam put her hand on his cheek, smiling.

  “I don’t want to plan. Planning is anathema to creation.”

  “You’re using that word-of-the-day calendar.”

  “I didn’t even want to go to school, Sam. I wanted to paint and learn my craft and sculpt nudes — always nudes; you can never get enough nudes — and smoke weed. See where I ended up. At first, it seemed like things had gone wrong. I hated it at U.P. They made me take all these stupid prerequisites. All I could think was that I didn’t care if I learned any new art; I was wasting time I could be creating while getting my math core to speed. After a year and a half, about the time I was ready to bail, I realized why I was supposed to be there in the first place.”

  “Why was that?” Sam asked, knowing but wanting to hear it.

  “Because I met you. So it didn’t matter that college was stupid for a guy like me. You were there for other reasons, I guess, but you were there to meet me, too. So what was supposed to happen did.”

  “How do you know it was supposed to happen?”

  Zach leaned in and kissed h
er, his lips surprisingly soft on hers. “I just do.”

  “Then what’s supposed to happen next?”

  “You’ll graduate at the top of your class. I’ll barely graduate, but that won’t matter because college will have given me what it was supposed to.” Zach squeezed her hand in his. In that squeeze, Sam was catapulted back to the party where they met, where she was the shy girl who didn’t go to parties, and he was the creative genius too special to attend. They’d found each other outside, catching fresh air while waiting for their rides to finish getting shithoused and finally retire. He’d had a joint. Zach had offered it to her, and Sam had declined. He’d found her moderation endearing, almost naive. Ironically, they’d never have hooked up if she’d accepted a puff. Later, Zach said Sam had “intrigued” him.

  “That’s sweet.”

  He kissed her again.

  “But you still need to … ”

  Zach cut her off. “Shh,” he said, putting a finger to her lips. He pulled it away and all around her, she heard the wind sing through the grass. “Tell me about our future.”

  Sam watched his eyes, looking into depths of mystery and wonder. She almost envied it. She didn’t only disapprove of gliding through life purely on faith; she flat-out didn’t understand it. In Sam’s world, things happened when you made them happen. But for Zach, the world was a place of magic, where forces a person couldn’t understand would usher them thorough a journey whose grandeur would be spoiled by foreknowledge.

  “Okay,” she said, snuggling in as if it were story time — or, rather, as if it were Christmas and she could wish for anything she wanted. “I’ll graduate early, at the end of next year. I’ll find a job with some news outlet, and … ”

  “Which news outlet?”

  “I don’t know. A big one. One where I get paid well and don’t have to go in on weekends or stay late.”

  “Do those jobs exist in journalism?”

  “Sure.”

  “If this is our ideal future, wouldn’t you rather be writing novels and poetry?”

  Sam laughed. He probably meant for her to actually answer the question because Zach thought she was good enough to break through, but if Sam was to lose herself in fantasy, she had to believe it first. Her fantasy had to have a bedrock of truth. Some people could believe the fantastical, but for Sam, veracity made the unlikely feel possible. It was like that with their goals, insofar as Zach had any. He could reach for stars while standing on Earth, Sam found it easier with a very tall ladder.

  “It’ll be a great news outlet. With helicopter privileges.”

  “Fine.”

  “But I’ll make enough money that you won’t even have to work if you don’t want to.” She stopped. “Unless that emasculates you, with your wife earning all the money.”

  “Emasculate away.”

  “But of course, if I’m the breadwinner, you’ll need to come out of your studio in our fashionable home in time to cook dinner.”

  “Done.”

  “Plus laundry and dishes.”

  “I’m cool with that. Where will we live?”

  “Here. In Portland.”

  “Good.”

  “And with enough time, all those snobs pestering you now will finally man up and offer you something to hang your hat on. You’ll get an exhibition or whatever, then someone big will discover you. You’ll end up in GQ.”

  “Why GQ?”

  “For the ‘Sexiest Artist of the Year’ spread. You’ll appear shirtless. Maybe some ass shots. There will be scandal, but you won’t care because you’re an artiste.”

  “I’m so naughty,” he said.

  “Then we’ll have kids, and … ”

  “Kids?”

  “Sure. You want kids, don’t you?”

  “I’ve never really thought about it. Why not? Sure, kids. Two. I’d like to order a matching set. Just tell me we won’t drive a minivan.”

  “Of course not,” said Sam, feeling herself on a roll. “We’ll drive the Batmobile.”

  Zach laughed, hard. “Okay, okay. Trendy loft apartment. Superhero car. But aren’t we ever getting married?”

  She looked at him, smiling.

  “What?”

  “You totally just committed us. Very unmanly of you.”

  “You’re right,” said Zach, making a halting motion with his free hand. “We’re together in five years. We live together and have two kids. But holy shit … I don’t want us to get married!”

  “I’m the girl. I’m the one who’s supposed to draw hearts in my notebooks and imagine us married. So tell me, Zach … have you been writing your new name over and over and drawing butterflies beside it? ‘Mr. Zachary Hollander.’”

  “I’m keeping my name,” he said, shaking his head. He reached over and set his hand on Sam’s hip, over the light fabric of her sundress. The gesture was affectionate, not lecherous. Not that there would be anything wrong with lecherous.

  “‘Mrs. Samantha Alexander,’” she said, pumping her voice with artificial dreaminess.

  “Things are moving too fast,” he said. “I want out of this pressure cooker.”

  Sam set her hand on Zach’s chest, snaking her hands between the buttons. He was wearing a summery, blue-print shirt and khaki shorts, looking preppier than his intention. She almost wanted to point it out, but more than that she wanted to kiss him. With her fingertips on his skin, she did.

  They kissed for a while, hands wandering everywhere, keeping things light. When they parted, Zach looked at Sam with her favorite smile, then it grew three sizes, like the Grinch’s heart on Christmas.

  She said, “I don’t like that look.”

  “Yes, you do. You’re hot for my look.”

  “You look like you’re going to kill someone.” Sam squinted, trying to read him.

  “Let’s do it,” he said.

  Sam looked around. “Right out here in the open?”

  “Not that. Let’s get married.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m serious! Not now, of course. We’ve only been together six, seven months? But like in another six or seven … ”

  Sam laughed again, rolling over to lie on her back.

  “Why not? You know exactly what you want. And I know exactly what I want, which is to be part of what you want. So, why not get on with it?”

  Still laughing, Sam said, “For one, we’re 19.”

  “Almost 20.”

  “And second, don’t you think it’s a bit shortsighted to hitch your wagon to me?”

  “Not at all. We get along great. We’re practically living together now, anyway. We hardly ever fight. We want the same things, apparently, right down to the Batmobile.”

  “You’re an artist with his head in the clouds. I’m a goal-focused, feet-firmly-on-the-ground girl.”

  “ … with the soul of an artist, but we can let that go if you really want to whore your talents as a journalist. We’re both easygoing, neither with particularly opinionated personalities. My parents are still together, and yours are, too, so our programming’s in order. We both didn’t like George W. Bush and both love Thai food. How do you feel about Catholic school for our kids?”

  “Hate it,” said Sam.

  Zach raised a hand in an invisible high five. “Me, too. We both love indie music, avoid Walmart and believe in supporting local stores. We both have a signed copy of George Takei’s book, for fuck’s sake. Who has that book? Nobody, that’s who.”

  “He came to a bookstore once. It seemed dumb not to have him sign something.”

  “EXACTLY. So, why not?”

  She felt a nervous smile cross her lips, her eyebrows furrow.

  “Shit, Sam, not today. I’m not proposing we run off right this minute. But at the same time, why not say that if we’re still this into one another in another six months, we go ahead and do it?”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that!”

  “Zach, you have to plan a wedding.”

  “Bullshit!�
�� Zach sat up, waving his arms with artificial theatricality. “Another thing we have in common: a disregard for convention for the sake of convention. Remember telling me about your cousin’s wedding?”

  Of course, she did. They’d spent a long evening discussing it. After attending the lavish affair, the reality of her and uncle’s expenditure smacked Sam hard across the face. She’d known from the beginning that it was a $50,000 wedding, but only afterward had she truly felt the icy fact: It had lasted for 10 hours. Now it was over, and 50K was gone forever. Wedding culture had people trained like dogs. There seemed to be a belief that if you didn’t throw a large, elaborate wedding, you must not actually love your spouse. Only when you stepped back and really thought about it did the total absurdity make itself clear. A marriage was two people agreeing to love each other forever, nothing more. Even when you added the religious element, that only tacked on the clergy fee. Sam had said the same thing about a wedding ring: She wanted a token. It was almost negligent to blow three months’ worth of income on a shiny rock, thinking it was the best way to show someone you cared, when in reality it was one of the most ridiculous.

  “Well, sure… ” she began.

  “So when we get married, are we going to make it all about our parents? Or are we going to make it about us?”

  “You’re really serious,” Sam said.

  Zach shrugged. “Just trying to stay one step ahead. Do it early, before they can see it coming and start arranging seating charts.”

  “Okay,” Sam said, still treating it like the joke it wasn’t. “Talk to me in six months.”

  The hand on her leg shifted, sliding under her dress and onto her bare leg. Zach’s touch was still innocent, but the memory of his kiss was still on her lips, and the wind’s swish showed her where his hand could go.

  She pushed Zach’s hand, rolled on top of his body, pinned him down and kissed his neck.

  “Knock it off,” she said. “I’m an engaged woman.”

  But of course he didn’t.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Present Day

  Zach stopped at the crosswalk, raised the bouquet to his nose, and inhaled. The flowers’ scent surfaced many sensations, all tied to Sam.