Two Kids In Love

I fell in love too young. I was trapped in my dysfunction, drowning in high school and desperate for a teenage boy to fix me. That’s how the “damsel in distress” story line seemed to work in books and movies, anyways.

He fell into my lap, Stephen O’Shea. I was finishing off my freshman year of high school. He was a junior heading into his senior year victory lap. He was tall and freckled with a cute grin. I wanted him. We had mutual friends, and even at 15, I already had a way with boys and making people do what I wanted.

In the 50's, first dates involved dinner and a movie, maybe a shared milkshake and a kiss on the cheek. In 2012, Stephen would pick me up, and we drove around, stopping by the Target or Kohl’s strip malls, meeting up friends or going on walks. “Upstate” NY suburbs aren’t exactly exhilarating. I didn’t care what we did. I was with a boy, you were supposed to be with a boy. That had always been the goal, what I had been conditioned to believe. If I had a boyfriend, all my problems would be solved. But I wasn’t thinking that far yet, I was just over the moon that this senior boy, this cute, tall, Irish guy with blue eyes, wanted to spend time with me. He ran track, he liked math, he had a red car, we texted late about music and movies. And he wanted to hang out with me.

Me, who was bullied in middle school. Who was depressed and lonely, and aching to fit in. Who couldn’t fit into Hollister sweatpants and sat on the sidelines on sports teams. Who walked on eggshells at home and wondered about the world.

We got to know each other over the fall of my sophomore year. My wall was up when I first hung around Stephen, fearful of rejection. Maybe it gave me an air of mystery, something that definitely works for me now. He fell for it, my act. My girl next door charm. I was cute then, and I sort of knew but definitely didn’t realize to what extent. My body had a budding essence of womanhood: a woman’s hips but a girl’s small waist.

He asked me to be his girlfriend in November. The 26th to be exact, we celebrated it every month. I guess even then we knew each month together was a milestone for two kids who fell in love in that town.

So we fell right into it: meeting at lockers, hanging out at each other’s houses. Boyfriend and girlfriend, the real deal. I had missed the “being hot” phase in middle school, so I was a late bloomer to spending time with a boy who genuinely liked me. I had butterflies everytime he pulled into my driveway. I dressed up to see him, thrilled at the attention. My parents liked him, he was a good kid. And Irish and cute, remember? Which was important to our matriarch, my grandma (the ultimate approval).

The trees became bare and Christmas snuck up on us as it does sometimes. The 26th marked our one month of dating, and the combination of the two occasions resulted in our first exchange of gifts. He got me a heart necklace, something I hinted at and wore religiously throughout the course of the relationship. It was a status symbol in high school, indicating that we were some of the lucky ones.

I got him a Notre Dame t-shirt on Amazon for Christmas. My parents didn’t mind forking over $20 for the shirt. They were just happy to see me happy. And I was happy: I felt like I was finally experiencing life. This is what I had always wondered about, what I’d been longing after. We kissed in the dim light of his living room, I gave him back massages and I felt his heart when I leaned back on his chest.

My parents were strict so I snuck out to see him. They were usually knocked out by 11, with a perfect mixture of a loud, white noise sound machine and my dad’s snoring to drown out my footsteps (which were carefully placed). He parked his truck across the street. I loved peeking out my chilled window to hear his truck rumbling.

I would run across the street in the cold, climbed into the truck. Our lips passionately met; we were in this together. Our secret midnight rendezvous. There was a lot by a friend’s street of an office that was always vacant. Tucked away we sat in his truck, making out in the back seat and talking. We cuddled and shivered, sang to whatever K-104 played on the radio. We somehow managed to keep this up for months, and by the time it was warmer out we could look up at the stars.

I lost my innocence when I started dating Stephen. I’m thankful to have shed my childhood skin with a good kid like him. He was my first everything: first kiss, first boyfriend, first boy to cuddle with. He took me to my first party, his hand reassuring mine. I finally experienced a game of beer pong in his friend Zach’s living room and spilled-on floors and flirty drunken eyes. Zach was Stephen’s friend, and his warm smile always welcomed me into his house parties. They were the first ones I went to, the ones I snuck out to go to with Stephen. His friends became my friends, I was known as the cute, plus-one, younger girlfriend.

I remember looking especially cute on Valentine’s day, I had curled my hair using the Conair wand I saw a Youtuber use in a hair tutorial. I wore a pink top from Forever 21 and my beloved black combat boots that I was convinced made me seem cooler. I was in English class when the strum of a guitar interrupted my teacher, Mrs. Cohen. It was Pat Rooney playing “I’m Yours,” by Jason Mraz, and Stephen came out from behind him. They serenaded me in class, and Stephen handed me a rose and said, “Will you be my valentine?” We were the talk of the school. It felt like a movie script, almost too good to be true.

I lost my virginity in April. Stephen lost his virginity then, too. We had waited, settling on one base at a time as the months went by. We had sex for the first time on a rarely-sat-on couch in one of his living rooms. The one more for show and entertainment, not the TV room. His parents weren’t home and he had purchased condoms in preparation for the occasion.

I remember it hurting, the new sensation. He was nice about it and gentle and just as appreciative as I was that we were experiencing it for the first time, together. I was 16, he was 18. Two kids in love.

The two kids in love stayed in love for a while. He was my best friend, and I was his. He was my first thought in the morning, my last when I went to bed. We went ice skating at the mall. We held hands in Central Park, went to an Imagine Dragons concert and a March Madness basketball game. Since he was older and more independent than I was, he led me through public transportation and unfamiliar city streets. He held my hand to show me countless adventures, showering me with stability and comfort. He drove me everywhere, took me out to eat. He was there for me, through thick and thin (as long as I didn’t interrupt his plans with friends; he was still a high school boy, after all). But eventually he grew tired of taking care of me.

There was a lot to take care of. I was still just getting over my cutting phase, Stephen knew I was in therapy and supported it. He knew I had depression and anxiety and was patient and kind. My parents aren’t exactly the easiest people to make a good impression on or spend time with, and there still was that age difference. Stephen stuck by my side through my rotating friends, psychiatrists and sports teams, but by my senior year it was me who was beginning to change.

The concept that there were other boys out there, other boys that could possibly be interested in me, began floating in my 17 year old mind. I was maturing, growing as a person from therapy, and my inner strength prosperity began to show on the surface. I was beautiful and boys my age were taking notice, something that had never happened before and/or I was just noticing. My relationship with Stephen was a crutch for my younger self, one who was too scared to stand on her own just yet. I didn’t want to be that girl anymore.

But I couldn’t let him go, I loved him. I talked to him about everything, we bared our souls to each other in the backseat of his pickup. Ultimately poor communication and underlying true intentions crumbled our strong bond.

It was weed and boys, I guess, that ended up coming between us. I started smoking more often senior year, mostly on the weekends, and almost always with a group of guy friends I had gotten to know and love. Connor, Austin and Tyler. Stephen grew jealous of my new friends and favorite past time. He projected his insecurity on me, as most men do. He gave me an ultimatum: I wasn’t to smoke weed with my guy friends. If I did, it would upset Stephen, and he was sick of me upsetting him with my interactions with boys. Well, my 17 year old rebellious brain didn’t like rules. I had been working around them for years with my parents. And it pissed me off that Stephen wasn’t secure enough in our relationship to trust me to hang out with whoever I wanted.

So after the big homecoming game, after the day of senior year fun, ruling the halls and being decked out in our school colors, my friends and I drove up to the water tower to smoke a blunt. I relished these weekend highs. It was sneaky, it was illegal, my mom wouldn’t approve, and I loved it. I loved being unapologetically silly from the drug and a stereotypical angsty teen from the secrecy. But Stephen texted me- he wanted me to leave the homecoming game to hang out with him, or we had previously agreed on plans, the specifics are hazy.

I said goodbye to my peers and hopped in the car with my boyfriend. I lied at first, but as our boring evening as a complacent couple progressed, the truth came out: I had done what he specifically asked me not to do. The thing is, I didn’t even care. To me it wasn’t a big deal, I liked spending time with the guys. But Stephen knew me better, he knew I enjoyed the attention of being the only girl in a group of friends, of having the option to flirt with someone new. How could I admit to being curious about the other fish in the sea?

The breakup was blurry and painful, occurring over the course of a couple days. He expected me to apologize about the incident, to agree to meet his ultimatum. But I refused to back down. I was not going to be submissive any longer. I liked that he was older than me, mostly for bragging rights, but a lot of the times he treated me as such. Like I was just a silly girl. Well this silly girl was going to smoke weed when she pleased, with whoever she wanted.

It was bigger than that, of course. I had grown out of Stephen without even realizing. Our teenage romance had fizzled out, I was ready for more out of life elsewhere. He broke the ice, introduced me to the world of teenagedom. I wanted to explore on my own.

He was heartbroken. Heartbroken that his Maeve wanted to live out her senior year without him, that he was too old and too insecure to tag along. He was mad that I couldn’t communicate this outright, that I let being flirty with my guy friends be the signal to him that something in me had changed. I don’t blame him.

But for some reason I thought he would stay with me. I cried in his car in the rain, praying that it would be just another fight. That there was still another PJ Sunday coming up, another love letter addressed to me, another midnight sneak-out. But he was certain- he didn’t want to be with me anymore, and that feeling was devastating.

“Can we at least sleep on it,” I pleaded.

“I already have,” he said.

It took me a long time to get over Stephen, my first love. My loneliness was too sudden. I went from living side by side amongst someone for almost two years, to feeling like a rug had been pulled from underneath me. I fell flat on my face, suffocated. I remember wearing a baseball cap to school for a week, so I could keep my head down and hide in case a sporadic memory incited uncontrollable tears. I was in denial, avoiding the reality that I was once again thrown through my high school halls- alone.

Finally, the first week passed. Breakups can feel like they’re happening in slow motion, like the unbearable pain of disappointment and rejection will last forever. But life moves on without you. I finished out the rest of my volleyball season, spent Christmas with my family and New Years with friends. I learned psychics from Mr. Fracchia, psychology from Mr. Bulla. I graduated in May and continued onto community college. I wasn't ready to take the full leap into living independently.

Stephen and I met up a couple times throughout the years apart to touch base. Social media changed dramatically since we first started dating, and our names popped up in each other’s digital worlds. I was shocked when I received a message from him my freshman year of community college, asking to grab coffee. It was jarring to see his face and go back in time. We laughed about fun times, caught up on where we were living, what we were studying. He had transferred out of Rutgers, still had his eye on California. It felt easy, like I was 15 again, spending time with that cute, tall, Irish kid. But I had my own life now. I felt so distant from that young girl in love, whose eyes shined with hope as a boy swooped down to save her from herself.

Our block of time together, Stephen and I, is like a blurry Macy’s storefront window. I can see the fuzzy outlines of good times, but I walk past because I have other places to be.