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I was nervous about seeing Timmy yesterday... about what we would talk about, about how I would look to him, about how he would look to me. I had agonized just a little about what to wear, what to wear. After creating a heap of discards on the bed, I ended up in a black knit-jersey tee shirt and a pewter-colored flippy silk skirt, black high heeled sandals.
I waited for him by the fountains at the end of the street where we were meeting for lunch. I hid behind my sunglasses and twisted the keys to my car in my hand, over and over. Wondering if he had turned into a portly, balding businessman. Half of the guys at my high school reunion last year had turned into inflated versions of the former selves I remembered.
While I waited, I thought about the days we had driven to the beach, past Marvel, all the way out to West End II where the surfers hung out. I used to bundle up in layers of thermals under my old fisherman's sweater in 30 degree weather, watching him ride the surf in his black wetsuit. He looked like a seal out there, waiting for his wave. He never even commented on the breathtaking cold. It was incidental to the ride.
I remembered my first dance with him in the gym at his ninth-grade junior high graduation dance. We slow-danced to "Tempted," my head on his shoulder, his hands safely placed on my lower back lest the chaperones tap us on the head with a pen.
It had rained that night, pouring down buckets, and after the dance ended, and I no longer cared if my hair exploded into a frenzy, Timmy walked me home in the deluge. Well, we ran most of the way, him laughing and me screaming, my dress a sodden mess, his hand in mine. We gave up halfway home and called my father to pick us up on the corner of Main Street. David was a remarkably good sport about the pair of us dripping all over the buttery-leather interior of his car.
Timmy had ridden in the front seat with David, and I remember practically exploding with pride about showing off my boyfriend to my dad. My smart, cute, ninth-grader boyfriend. If I had known that Timmy was going to be the only boyfriend David ever saw in my company, I wonder how I would've felt that rainy night in the backseat.
I recognized him immediately, striding at me from across the street. I stood, walked towards him, and stopped about five feet away. He bridged the gap, kissed me on the cheek. We grinned at each other, checking each other out for a good fifteen seconds. I resisted the urge to prattle on to fill the gap while we each absorbed the effects of ten years on the other.
"Timmy. It is so wonderful to see you. You look exactly the same." He did. It was uncanny. I was smiling almost idiotically, now.
"You don't look the same at all. You've grown into your face." He took my elbow and gently steered me into the restaurant overlooking the Intracoastal Waterway.
"Is that good or bad?" I knew it couldn't be all bad. He was smiling, too.
We talked for almost four hours. He showed me pictures of his wife and children. He told me about his business. He asked about my family, my mother, my work. We crossed notes on who was where. He had pretty much dropped out of our hometown social scene. I asked him what had ever happened to Sandra Jaenks, the girl he went out with after me. He asked me if I ever spoke with Robin.
"I never understood why you stayed with Robin," he remarked after a second beer.
"I loved him. Madly. I had no defences against a Robin at sixteen." I twisted my napkin into little paper balls and lined them up on the table.
"I'm still ticked at Robin Altemus," he said, half to himself.
This surprised me. "Why? What reason could you possibly have for being pissed at him?"
"When we were in high school, Stef Witter and I went out to California to surf over Thanksgiving break. The guys had a going away party for me and Stef. A huge blowout. Everyone was completely and utterly falling down drunk."
I remembered this party. Robin had come to my house after it was over. "Yes, and...?"
Timmy took a sip of his beer. "Yes... So, I'm fairly drunk, and I came on to Topper Bartholomew's girlfriend."
"Cindra Wallace?"
"Cindra Wallace," he confirmed. "Anyway after the party was breaking up, Robin held me down while Topper smashed my face in with his signet ring. I had to get four stitches in my eyebrow. I was seventeen, for chrissakes. Topper and Robin had four years on me."
I was silent. Surprised and not surprised. I remembered the sudden flash of violence I had seen in Robin, the night he broke Trey Braedon's nose with a single punch at Cutter's Pub.
We sat at the table long after the lunch crowd had dispersed. It was easy sitting with him, it was comfortable. He was settled now, he had turned out just fine. I was actually pretty impressed with him. Timmy could've gone either way. He didn't have much of a foundation when we were kids, and he had threaded his way through four colleges before graduating.
It was nice to see he turned out so well.
He walked me to my car. We made tentative plans for me to come to his house, see his wife and meet his children. He took my keys from my hand, unlocked the door to the car and opened the door for me. "You know, Sara," he said. "I'm not entirely surprised, to discover that you haven't married."
I didn't ask him to elaborate. He kissed me on the cheek before handing me my keys, and then shut the door gently.