We All Roll Along

I rested my head on Pat’s chest. I could feel his heart beating beneath my head, his hand on my stomach. It felt warm there, his hand; safe. I ran my hand along the cement of the pier, and closed my eyes.

Pat’s hand moved from my stomach to the line of my jeans, his index and middle fingers tucking themselves under my pants, on my skin, resting on my hipbone. I sighed. Not an anxious one; more satisfied.

“I love you,” I whispered into his ear.

His face turned to me; we kissed. It was like the first time we ever had. Full of anticipation, eagerness and unsure. But filled with energy and excitement of trying something new.

My head bolted up from my pillow. I wiped a line of sweat from my forehead. Shit. I’d never had a dream about Pat like this before. Never. In fact, I hadn’t thought about him for years.

“Mommy?” I heard a little voice from my door frame; my son. “Are you alright? I heard loud noises.”

Well known fact - I scream in my sleep. “Don’t worry, Noah, baby, Mommy was just having a bad dream.” I swung my legs out of my warm bed, the cold night air hitting them hard. I ignored it, and walked to my four year old son.

After getting Noah to use the toilet and giving him a cup of warm milk, I gave his curly brown hair a ruffle, and tucked him into bed. I stood at his doorway, watching his eyelids fall closed, his breath grow heavy. He was just like his father; a love for sports, an ear and passion for music, hazel eyes and out of control hair that never seemed to look right.

“Where’d you go?” Noah’s father asked me when I crawled back into bed.

“Putting Noah back to bed. I’m sorry sweetie - did I wake you, too? Next thing you know, the neighbours will be knocking on our door.” I gave him a kiss and snuggled close to him; just because we’d been together for eight years didn’t mean I loved him any less. Together, not married.

“Goodnight,” He kissed the top of my head, not asking questions. He knew I didn’t like questions. “I love you.” I looked up at him. It was the right face; not the one I’d seen Pat give me in my dream. It was the face of someone who did love me.

“Love you, too, Zack-y.”

That’s right - Zack Merrick. You would think that I’d met him at a party, one of his shows. Nope. It was completely random. I was walking from my apartment, late for my class at FIDM and ran into him. Literally. I like to think about it this way sometimes - what if I hadn’t been such an airhead and remembered to set my alarm the night before? I would have gotten to class on time; no rushing. I could have not seen Zack at all or just walked politely passed him. No collision. No date. No second date. No third, fourth, fifth. No relationship. No sex. No son. No decision not to get married. My life as I know it exists because one day I was late.

But I try not to think about it too much. Once I mentioned it to Zack, but he said not to think about it too much, either; he said that everything happens for a reason - a good one. And that we were a good reason.

I liked to think about my life like that - as a good reason. Sure, my life wasn’t white-pick-it-fence-yellow-door-happy. But it was right, for me. For Zack. For Noah. We lived in a flat in California; though Zack was from Maryland and I from Arizona, California felt most like home to the both of us. Here I could listen to the waves, swim. Piers were in abundance. Zack could surf. Noah could build sand castles, now that he was old enough to know that sand was not for eating.

Most people don’t remember the moment they knew everything was right. I do. It was on the beach, at the back of our house. The sun was setting, the air windy and growing cool and damp. Zack and I lay on the cool sand, him wearing surf shorts, me in my bikini covered up in one of his big, gray sweaters. Noah played in the water, splashing about. I took my eyes off of my son to look at Zack, only to find at the same moment he was looking at me, too. Right there, then, I knew it. Everything was the way it was supposed to be. Me and Zack. It was right.

So why was I suddenly thinking of Pat? Yes - we’d done the I love you thing, but we were kids! Too young to know what love was. We - or at least I - was in that happy-lustful zone were you are too excited by what’s happening to stop and really think about it. If I had I would’ve realized that I didn’t even know him.

That is why we broke up, the second time. We didn’t know each other. I didn’t know that he wasn’t as innocent as he looked. Pat didn’t know that I loved to ride my bike, that I preferred sunrises to sunsets. He didn’t understand why sometimes I wanted to be left alone. Zack knew these things. Sure, they are little and silly things. But if you know the little things, you know me. With Zack I’d stopped and thought - before I got swept up into something I thought was love.

Love should be conditional. With Pat, I was giving him unconditional love. We fought all the time. Never anything physical, but it got scary. Pat would say something, and I’d say some comment about it. He got a little upset; that got me scared. I didn’t know what to do. I’d try to defend myself, but I was too nervous; my voice got shaky and would crack. In turn I’d raise my voice, to steady my voice. My intention was to never yell at him. Only I did. And Pat would yell back. I’d try to talk, but he’d tell my to shut up. I wanted him to listen to me, so I’d start throwing whatever was in my hands at the moment. I hate fighting.

With Zack, I never fought. Yes, we’d have disagreements, but we didn’t yell at each other. I love him too much to be that uncivilized with him. My relationship with Pat was childish. Of course it was, I mean, how old was I? Sixteen? And then again when I was, what, eighteen?

I stared up at my ceiling, unable to sleep. My dream of Pat haunted me. Quietly I slipped out of bed and went into the kitchen and turned on the kettle for some hot chocolate and looked around my home.

It was nothing big; a flat, like I’d said. At the front door the floor was tiled, a closet to your right and a wall to your left. Immediately there was the kitchen; carbon coloured counter top, matching cupboards and red walls, fridge stalked with nothing but Vitamin Waters and fruits and vegetables. Zack being the health nut, me vegan and Noah vegetarian. To the right was our white living room, big clear windows all along the front wall. The hall at the back of the kitchen lead to our bedrooms and bathroom.

But the thing I loved most about my house was the backyard. It had bamboo fencing, which Zack and I had put up when I was five months with Noah. We had a sliding door in the kitchen; flip flops and towels usually finding a home there. Half of the backyard was taken up by a deck, set low to the ground. Those lanterns you stick in the ground to keep bugs away, but actually did nothing, stood around the outer corners. The rest of the yard was soft, white sand; long whisps of grass grew around the back of the fence in little clusters were just beyond was the beach. That was my favourite part of it all. Those little whisps of grass. Like little pots of colour scattered around. It was beautiful.

I sat on the back porch, watching the ocean waves crash in and slowly lull out again, sipping on my warm drink, digging my toes into the chilly sand. I stared away from the water for a long while; I looked at my cup, but my mind was somewhere else. Eleven year ago, actually, on my days back at FIDM when I was still with Pat. The times I was still with Pat and everything was right. When we were a good reason.