"You're clearly growing up fast, you've changed all of your plans. But I'm still the same kid you fell in love with" - Mat Kerekes

• • • • •

He's sitting at the bar of the restaurant, slowly chugging the last of his drink and requesting another from the bartender. There's a few other people around him but he's isolated from them, like a lonely, drunk island.

I'm not entirely positive if it's really him. It may just be my mind playing tricks on me since I've just been thinking about him. I hope it's not him while at the same time, I hope it is. As I speculate this, he turns slightly to the left and his eye catches onto mine, the briefest glint of green that I recognize in an instant, just before I look away. An odd, fluttery sensation fills my stomach, but I can't tell what it is.

"Ready for dessert?" Stanford asks after the check arrives at our table.

"No thanks, I'm really full," I say.

Butterflies. That feeling. I hadn't felt in so long that I'd forgotten what it feels like. What am I, a twelve year old school girl? I need to get a handle on myself before---

In my peripheral, the guy at the bar emerges from his stool and heads straight in my direction.

Shit.

"Do you think we could leave, like, now?" I nervously say to Stanford, rising to my feet.

"Erm, sure, but why the ru---"

"Jules! What are you doin' here?" Harry slurs when he reaches our booth. His mouth slants in an amused, cocky smirk. "You been followin' me, haven't ya babe?"

At first he looks exactly the same as I remembered, but with another look, he's doesn't. His hair appears more poofy and disheveled than usual. Patches of stubby, brown hair pokes from random places above his lip and along his chin. The color and twinkle in his eyes have dulled and under them are baggy, dark circles.

"Do you know him?" Stanford asks.

"I used to," I mumble. Then turning to Harry, I say, "We were just leaving. Bye."

Harry appears disheartened for a split second. Then, after a quick glimpse at Stanford, his dark, amused expression returns, along with a cackling laugh. "Not with this bloke, right? Look at him, he's an absolute laugh!"

"What did you say, fucker?" Stanford says, his eyes igniting with fervent flames as he rises from his seat.

Stanford may not be NBA tall but he's got substantial height on Harry. But Harry doesn't even flinch. Even when Stanford closes in on him, he keeps his casual stance, leaning against the table for balance. His arms cross over his body while he quietly chuckles to himself like some sort of maniac who's escaped from the hospital for the mentally ill.

"I'm not having this conversation with you," I say in a lowered voice, stepping between them both. I know he's tipsy and obnoxious right now, but I don't want him to get his ass kicked. He already risked that for me when we first met.

"Jules, don't act like this," Harry pleads, taking wobbly steps away from the table.

I ignore him and make a beeline for the exit. The cool night air blasts into my face and I breathe in a generous lungful, letting it diffuse my tension.

"What the bloody hell was that?" Stanford asks when he jogs up next to me.

"Just some guy," I answer as coolly as I can, waving it off. "Thanks for dinner. It was nice catching up."

I can tell he notices that I don't also add, "Let's do it again sometime" by the way his features hang disappointedly on his face.

"Alright," he quickly says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his severely black, severly skinny jeans. "Take care, Jules."

At home, Effy and her boyfriend have retired to her bedroom, also known as my clue to not disturb them for the rest of the night. I haven't even let my hair down when there's a knock at the door. Whoever it is better have damn a good reason for showing up at almost midnight.

Harry's slumped against the door frame when I answer it. "Can I please talk to you?" he says in a gravelly and labored voice.

"What is there to talk about, Harry?" I answer.

He looks at me with hazy, bloodshot eyes. I sense that there's a lot he wants to say, but at the moment, he's stricken with silence. I can't tell if he truly doesn't know how to begin, or if the alcohol has killed too many brain cells for him to function any longer.

"I thought scotch makes your eyes burn," I say, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.

"I haven't had any scotch tonight," he says slowly. "It's whiskey... and it makes me... makes me feel nice." He smiles gently and for a second, he looks significantly younger, like a little boy having a dream that he's walking on cotton candy clouds.

"Good to hear, but could you please feel nice somewhere else?"

His trance-like smile fades. "I haven't stopped thinking about you... since I last saw you, Jules."

Images of last December rush into my head, of the night he flew to Connecticut and showed up at my door. He was so apologetic, so sincerely remorseful that I wanted to pull him in and hold him close and smell the delicious scent of his tee and introduce him to my parents and my family and play Christmas Charades with all my little cousins. But I couldn't. I was too afraid. I couldn't bear the thought of going through that pain ever again.

So I left him out there. I watched him from a tiny slit in my curtains. I saw him leave something on the ground. My eyes followed him as he slouched away, head drooped and hands buried in his coat pockets.

It was agonizing and took all of my willpower not to run after him. I don't remember how long I sat there at the window, hoping he'd turn around, or how many proceeding nights in a row I skipped sleeping. But I knew it was going to be for my own good. It had to be. And I've been making a lot of progress ever since. Well, maybe not a lot but it was something.

"Don't you think about me too?" he asks, yanking me back into the present.

My eyes feel like they're glued to the ground. If only he knew how many times a day I think about him.

"You can't tell me everything we did means nothing to you," he presses.

"I don't want to talk to you, Harry."

"You can't tell me what we had wasn't special."

"I don't want to talk to you," I repeat, slower this time.

"'Cause it was!" He hiccups, and staggers backward. "It fucking was!"

"I think you should go."

"I love you."

"You're drunk."

"Please believe me."

I want to believe him, so badly, but it's difficult when he's yelling and waking up the neighbors, tripping over his syllables and can hardly stand up without clutching the door frame for support.

"Goodnight, Harry," I say, feeling an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.

Not daring to look up at him, I close the door. I stand with my back flat against it and shut my eyes, anticipating another knock. But it never comes.

I free my hair from its sleek topknot bun and step into the shower, sighing with relief as the warm water jets onto my face and skin. I try to fight it, but my mind roams back to Harry's words. You can't tell me what we had wasn't special.

He's right, I can't. Harry and I had connected in a way that I never thought a connection was possible with another person. Yes, it was special. And yes, perhaps I never became seriously involved with anyone after Harry because, truthfully, no one is as sweet, no one is as caring. No one makes me laugh as hard, no one gives me butterflies or goosebumps, not even close. No one has ever eluded me, excited me, and made me as happy as he did, while equally crushing my heart all at once. No one can come close to Harry because no one is Harry.

There had been something extraordinary between us, something invisible and unspoken but something I knew we both felt. If it was a plant, it cultivated from our laughs, our hugs, our kisses. It grew somewhere deep inside our late night whispers and soul-opening secrets. It thrived with our cloudy beach stories and our small-town explorations. It flourished from old vinyl songs and prospered between our bare, intertwined bodies. Before I knew it, it had blossomed into a full-grown, magnificent tree, and I have a nagging, uneasy feeling that our species of tree was extremely rare.

I lose track of the time that passes while I stand in the shower, watching the water pool at my feet.

Notes