What Happens Over the Summer

Everyone has had a summer romance. You go somewhere away from home, meet this guy and go with the flow for the summer. Then, when summer’s over, the guy will say something like, “wait for me,” or “I’ll see you next summer.” Something overly romantic which translates to: “you have meant absolutely nothing to me, but it was fun, maybe we’ll do it again next time.” But then, you never see him again.
My summer romance was a little different. For starters, he came to me. My sixteenth summer I was working at a bike rental shop on Peter’s Pier, which my grandfather part owned. It was similar to other piers on the Jersey shore but modeled after Morey’s Pier in Wildwood. I’d worked at some summer job on the Pier since I was younger.
Anyway, this guy had come and rent the same bike every day for a week and one day, rented it during my lunch hour and asked if I wanted to take a ride. In my own defense, this guy was capital H-O-T. And so on it went. I learned his name was R.J. and that he was from inland New Jersey. He was eighteen.
And stupid me had fallen head over heels in love with him.
When that predictable end of the summer speech came, he’d said to me: “Jo, there’s some things I need to clear up at home first, but I promise, I’ll be back.”
And stupid me, I’d believed him. And so far, that promise was worth shit. For the past five years, I’ve waited to no avail. I’m still living with my grandparents in their house/museum but now I’m working security on the Pier. And damn if I’m still waiting.