Take Me Back

Take Me Back Lilli Heineman

You were sitting alone when I first met you. Our dads started talking; we sat in silence. The first words I said to you were that our dads would be good friends. They laughed and you smiled. Our dads got offered to coach the team and suddenly we were spending time together. We had to babysit the head coach’s kids.

I dressed nice that day. Why did I dress nice? I was feeling good that day. Why was I feeling good? Was it because I was going to see you?

No. Yes.

We grew close. Wherever you went, I was right there behind you. In your shadow.

I slept over and you showed me your uniform. I blushed. You smiled. I slept on the floor. I just didn’t want you to think I was weird.

Just ask. No.

You couldn’t know, no one could know.

You were Catholic anyway; Catholics hate people like me. I would rather die than have you hate me. I would rather be your friend than have you hate me.

Disgusting. You’re not. I am.

You couldn’t know; no one could know.

And no one knew. For three years, no one would know a thing. I would be happy and alone, terrified that one day, people would know. Terrified that you would know. And for those three years I waited for some indication that you were like me.

You had a homecoming date that you despised. You called me because he was a disaster.

You read books with people like me in them. They were your favorite books.

You sang songs about people like me. They were your favorite songs.

One day we went out for my birthday, just the two of us. You joked that you were taking me on a date. I laughed, and you smiled. On the way home you asked if I had a boyfriend. And for the second time since we met, we sat in silence.

Just say it. No.

On the fourth year, something changed in me. Was I more confident? Did I just care less?

Did I just want to finally admit it? Yes. But not to you.

Soon that little secret became part of my identity. People in my life accepted me with open arms because they were just like me. And you, you said nothing.

I was sure you hated me. I was too scared to say anything.

One day, you came over to my house. I was excited. Why was I excited? Was it because I was going to see you?

No.

Yes, of course it was.

I showed you my favorite movie. You laughed, and I laughed as well. You slept in my bed. I didn’t think it was weird. You put your head on my shoulder.

When you woke up, we broke into the pool and sat by the water.

And then I asked you.

You were just like me. But no one could know.

From that day, everything changed. I was no longer your shadow. I was confident and loud and obnoxious, and I didn’t care about what anyone else thought because you still were my friend. Just my friend.

Your parents were Catholic anyway. Catholics hate people like us. You couldn’t act that way around them. That’s what you told me. That’s the reason we had to keep it secret.

It made sense. It was okay. I understood the need to be secretive, to crawl into a shell and hide away for ever and ever from judgment that nags at the back of your skull.

Not that it mattered anyway. After all, you were just my friend.

My friend I went on dates with, went to bed with, went to prom with.

You flirted playfully with other people like us. But it was okay, you were just joking.

Right?

You told me to calm down because we were just friends.

Just my friend. Because you didn’t want your parents to know, right?

Wrong.

No, it’s okay. It’s okay to keep this secret.

You’re hiding something.

You’re not!

You left, and then I checked your phone.

I wish I was there to make out with you rn.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t move. I just sat in silence and smiled.

Because, after all, we were just friends. And friends have secret friends they would never dare to share with other friends.

You came back and fell asleep cuddled against my chest. And I never told you what I saw.

You have your secrets, and I’ll have mine.

One day, early in the summer, you, me and several of our closest friends went on a trip.

You acted strange. Different. You were still my friend, but you didn’t share my bed, or my canoe, or sleep tightly against my body. You tried to avoid me. I could tell.

I don’t know why I felt so at peace.

And when we came home, you made sure I was the last to leave your house.

You walked me to my car in silence.

You turned and faced me and, for the first time in a long time, you began to cry.

I’m sorry. I said nothing. I had been dating her for a while. I smiled. Before I started to like you.

I laughed and smiled with tears in my eyes.

I told you, it’s okay. After all, the past is in the past. And I wish I could just go back.