Make You Mine

Hazy, as though we are in a dream, but in reality it is the clearest memory I have of us — our first meeting. I can never forget meeting you. Dust kicking up off the road as my wheels spin in the dirt, one hand on the wheel and the other on the stick. You, in your white dress which was sitting tantalisingly high on your thigh, beside me, with a small smile on your face. The desert lay all around us, the hot sun beating onto my black car and warming it up just a tad too much. Where you had been sitting at the forlorn bus stop — a small affair with just enough room for two people on its old wooden seat, and a ride that visited twice a week, once to head further south and once to head to the eastern shore — I had stopped in front of, and rolled down my window (I couldn’t help myself, you looked lost, and beautiful against the harsh red backdrop). “You realise the bus doesn’t come for another two days?” I had called, looking at the small suitcase by your feet.

“Oh, really? My bad.” You had looked to your suitcase too, your whole world was in there. Neatly folded and tucked away. You had reached up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, the long curled strand revealing a gold hoop which winked in the dry sun.

“Could ya use a lift anywhere? A friend’s house, perhaps?” You looked to me now: dark eyes, framed with darker lashes. Perfection. I would get lost in them many a time in the coming days and weeks.

Despite your protests — “I don’t want to inconvenience ya” — you got into the car next to me and off we went. You stopped me outside a quaint weatherboard house on the edge of town. It was your step mother’s, with a wire fence surrounding the property, a few chickens running rampant in the yard. Our conversation had been short in the car — you thanking me, and telling me you had been trying to get to California. I had laughed, the California bus had come yesterday. You shook your head at me, blushing.

You made a move to climb out of the car, but paused. “Where ya headin’ to next? You were out for a reason.”

“Maybe it was to meet a pretty girl.” I had replied — a slip of the tongue, but one nonetheless that you seemed to appreciate.

“Don’t be silly. What’s the real reason?” I pulled my wallet from the centre console, flipping it open to reveal several crisp fifty dollar notes.

“I got a bonus and was going to blow it on drinks.” With a mischievous twinkle in your eyes, those beautiful dark eyes, you said that you’d be back and dropped your suitcase on the porch.

“I’m coming with you.”



That was two years ago, and it was by far my favourite memory of us — of you. Who couldn’t treasure the meeting of such a wonderful girl? We had had drinks, and danced, and ended the night at your step mother’s with a chaste kiss and the promise of another meeting — which led to another, and then another, and then you asking me to be your girlfriend (what can I say, I’m too much of a chicken).

Today, I had received a promotion, and with it another bonus. My wheels spun as I left the parking lot (too much clutch and not enough acceleration) and twenty minutes later I was walking up our front porch steps. You had left the porch light on, and the porch swing cast a slight shadow from which our small cat slinked from.

“Hey baby,” I murmured, reaching down to pat her soft fur, before reaching for my keys and unlocking the door. You’re in the kitchen, a glass of red wine in your hand. You’re leaning over the top of the bench, looking towards the archway that I’m walking through, your eyes flitting downwards to the white tortoiseshell cat winding its way between my legs, meowing faintly (it’s her dinnertime).

“Hey there,” you say, smiling at the sight of me, and walking around the bench to take my hands and kiss me. “I’ve missed you.”

“You too darlin’.” I leaned down to give you another kiss, but we were interrupted by a slightly louder meow.

“I’ll get it,” you said, turning and walking back towards the bench. We kept the cat food in the cupboard beside the fridge; Holly was good at opening things she shouldn’t and getting into places that we were both equally impressed and surprised about — like the time we had found her in the second drawer of our four drawer dresser, which was shut and gave no outside clues (aside from the clothing thrown carelessly on the floor) that there was a small animal inside, sleeping peacefully on a handmade scarf, or when we had come home one day to cat food strewn around the kitchen, with an open pantry door and a torn cat food bag propped to one side.

You had to go on your tiptoes to reach the cupboard, your slender arm reaching as far as it could go to snag the corner of the bag and pull it out. “You’re putting it back up there.” As you emptied some food into her bowl, I changed in the bedroom, peeling off my work clothes (a fitted pair of pants and a button down) and lobbing them into our wicker laundry basket.

Holly was eating happily, almost not chewing her food as I returned. Your glass was now almost empty, and you were pulling the blinds closed. The bag of cat food sat on the bench, which I placed on it’s spot in the top cupboard as you asked if there were any plans for dinner.

“Actually darl, I have some good news.” From my pocket, I took out my wallet, pulling a few notes out.

“No, really?” Your voice went slightly higher-pitched than usual at the end. “Beth, that’s amazing!” I hadn’t even told you yet, but the smile on my face told you all you needed to know.

“Management now, darlin’. You’re going to be dating one of the higher ups in the business. I was thinking we celebrate in town?” You nodded enthusiastically,

“Just let me change.”

I drank the last of your wine — you had chosen a sweet red, for which I was grateful, and called a cab.



Your arm was making my silk camisole stick to my back via static as we walked down the one main street of our town, my arm over your shoulders and yours around my waist. You had put on my favourite dress — the one in which we had met — and a pair of heels. Even in them, I was taller than you.

We paused on the street corner as a car passed ahead of us, and I tucked a piece of your curly hair behind your ear. “So where to?”

“Valley?” It was an old bar, run by a local family. A favourite of ours, and where we had drank for the first time together so many nights ago. I hummed in agreement and we crossed the road, one of my steps taking up two of yours. Walking inside, you went to a booth and I went to the bar.

“A shiraz and a whiskey please,” I told the bartender, Jack, a young man who had only recently become old enough to serve alcohol. His father must have told him to start tackling more bar shifts rather than serving. I scooped the change he gave me into my wallet and found you sitting at one of the booths near the window. Setting down your wine, we pulled up menus and let the night start.

Several drinks and a (shitty) live band later, we’re on the dance floor: me twirling you, you twirling me, both of us covering the other in sweet kisses, slightly sticky with alcohol (not that we care).

“I don’t think I can dance anymore!” You’re breathless, and your movements have become slower. I can feel the rise and fall of your chest as I press our bodies together, pulling your waist in tight and taking your hand as the band starts playing a more mellow song.

“So let me dance for you, get on my feet,” and you oblige, careful not to flatten my toes.

“I love you, Beth,” you say, resting your head on my chest as I move us in small circles.

“I love you too, darlin’.” I plant a kiss on your forehead, looking out at the rest of the bar: a group of ladies getting wine drunk in the booth we occupied earlier, seemingly carefree about the world, there was a group of men getting drunk and rowdy over by the darts and pool tables, all in good natured fun, I’m sure, and a group of barely twenty-oners, clearly unable to assess their own alcohol tolerance, stumbling around with one legging it to the bathroom at the end of the song, hand over mouth. “Ready to go home?”

“Yeah. There’s something we need to talk about too.”



Friday morning. First day of my new management job and I’ve called in sick. It isn’t your typical ill feelings though; I haven’t woken up with a rough cough or a sniffly nose, it’s the type of sick where it’s balling deep in my stomach, churning my insides. My eyes feel raw from the tears I haven’t stopped crying since last night, as you told me you were leaving.

“I can’t help it, Beth! I need out, out of this damn town. I needed to do it years ago, not stay here for you.”

It had seemed that the alcohol had only amplified your feelings: your hatred of small town life, of working casual shifts at the grocery store, the resentment you felt towards me for climbing my small corporate ladder and not having your own career ambitions.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Allison? We could have worked this out!”

“No, I need to leave. I don’t want to hold you back.”

You were adamant, and had already packed your suitcase — my stomach had dropped when I realized that was why there were no clothes in the basket.

This morning, the bed felt empty, and too big for just me and Holly. You had left early in the morning to catch the bus headed towards California, with all your savings from the grocery store in your pocket. You had been planning this for a while.

I pick up my phone and send you a last text:

Please tell me when you get there. _{Sent: 7:56AM}

By noon, you still haven’t replied.