avatarArpad Nagy

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The Girl With The Summer Name That Had Everything But Love

The one that should have been, could have been, but wasn’t

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I believe the magic of summer love stories isn’t in how they end or even when they begin but exist in the short growing season in which they bloom. And most of us made those grand romantic memories during our youth when the world was filled with clear starry skies and endless warm, breezy days. Life was easy when we were baby adults, still wet behind one ear and the other, hearing nothing but our own desires.

I feel fortunate to have experienced a pair of memorable summer romances, the first at the finish line of high school and the other not long after I had crossed. Both ended as they should, dictated by the time allowed to run their course. Both pained me for many years, but the sweet outlasts the bitter, and on the rare occasions they are stirred from their sleep in my memory bank, I smile and recall the magic and how promises were made after each tender kiss.

When I read the July Summer Love prompt from Debra G. Harman, MEd., I set it aside knowing that I had already written stories regarding the pair of seasonal interludes and there’s no need to reminisce over each romantic relationship from my past, especially being married; I’m supposed to forget the women that came before my one and only.

But this prompt nagged at me; lingering on my writing list, it beckoned for words. Finally, I knew which story remained cut off, unsatisfactory in its conclusion, the one summer romance where I’d been cold to the girl at its end.

The experience bothers me not because the romance didn’t come to fruition and we went our separate ways, but because my father taught me early on, when girls first became a serious pursuit, that treating them with respect, at all times, was of paramount importance. The lesson imparted was that if a woman gives you her time and affection, it warrants that you repay that by acting with dignity.

She gave me both, and I was careless with her heart.

Her name was June, and that’s not a play on the “summer love” prompt; it really was. She was as lovely and warm as the month. She was pretty and petite with strawberry-blonde hair that bounced at her shoulders in spring-loaded coils. June had a strong likeness to Shania Twain, with high cheekbones and a delicate and slender nose.

She also had an adorable trait; whenever she smiled, her eyes did as well, and I don’t mean that figuratively. As her smile spread and grew, her eyes matched the movement by going wide open and bright. It was a rather intoxicating mannerism, making you feel like the most delicious thing while she looked like the playful cat ready to pounce.

I met June, or rather, she introduced herself at a party. I don’t recall the occasion or the host, just that I was there with my then-girlfriend, the polar opposite of June, a tall brunette with a perpetually severe expression. As I entered the party, June stood across the room, directly in my line of sight, leaning on the kitchen island counter. She saw me, and I saw the wide-eyed smile. I smiled back.

Although I was certain the “Mmm — cute!” I gave was with my inside voice, but perhaps she heard it anyways because I watched June set her drink on the counter and walk right up to us.

I would learn later that it was an uncharacteristic move on her part. June was generally shy, quiet, and operated by the rules of a “good girl.” She didn’t stir up trouble if she could help it. But on that evening, she struck out to make an impression.

I’m going to speculate now on the reason for her boldness. June also had a date at the party. A lapdog of a lad, who may have been her +1, but that’s about the only positive in his tool bag. I put June at 5'0, plus a couple of inches from the heels she wore; her date topped out at the same height. Her body language broadcast that the relationship was platonic — she was available.

I drew two conclusions from the assertiveness of her approach, introduction, and handshake. Either she was interested in sharing time with a couple, or she disregarded the bitter-looking brunette and felt compelled to establish a connection with me.

Upon reflection, there is a third possibility; that June read my relationship with the brunette being not good for me, and given a chance, she would treat me better. She was right, and she did.

After the introductions, we went our separate ways, and the brunette kept me steered away from the bold, little blonde. The party went on, but it was not my scene and not my crowd — I was merely someone else’s +1 and the sober drive home. As things began to wind down, I found myself in the front hall, close to the door and eager to leave. June appeared, eyes wide and her smile large. We chatted for a while, the usual small background details. She said I had a nice voice. I said she had terrific hair.

She handed me a folded piece of paper with her name and number. “You should call me sometime,” she said, “You know — if you’re available.” Then she popped out the door and was gone.

About a month later, the brunette moved on, and after a while, I remembered June and her smile. I searched for the scrap of paper but couldn’t find it. Then I remembered a tidbit of information from our brief party-exiting chat. June worked at a very specific factory as a manager or admin, but I wasn’t sure which. I was certain of the company. I hunted down the phone number, called, and asked to speak with her.

When the receptionist asked who was calling, I remembered the other things said at the party. “Tell her it’s the guy with the nice voice from the party who told her she had terrific hair.” I figured if she remembered me and still wanted to talk to me, she would — if not, she had an easy out.

The voice on the other end sighed, “I wish I had her hair — hold, please.”

When June’s voice came on the line, she was effervescent. She was more than bubbly — she was gleeful. I asked if I could take her for dinner. She said she got off at five and would be ready by seven. I laughed and told her I wasn’t expecting the date that night but was happy to make it so.

I don’t remember much from the dinner date except it was easy. June was lovely and didn’t make me feel like I needed to impress her, though somehow, I must have, and it wasn’t long before we were spending a lot of time together.

She had a great apartment in a nice neighborhood, which declared, “A girl lives here, and she has everything she needs.” She was intelligent and capable, a senior manager at a big-name beverage company, and she wasn’t yet thirty. She had great taste and style, played in a competitive women’s lacrosse league, cooked, and had a nice car. She had money and enjoyed comforts. She also had a great figure and was an eager lover. Like me, she drank in moderation, and abhorred drugs, including the foul-smelling pot.

I introduced her to my small circle of friends and workmates — they all loved her — all of them were happy for me. Being with June was like an unending summer vacation. I remember thinking, “This woman doesn’t need me — she chose me — she wants me.”

I didn’t have to pretend to be anyone I wasn’t to please her. Like me, she was happier with a quiet scene rather than club nights. Her idea of a satisfying evening, after I cooked us a pleasant supper, was to lay on the couch, snuggled into me with a head on my shoulder, listening to me read while we sipped wine. She had books in every room, stuffed with bookmarks on an impressive range of topics. She almost always fell asleep like that.

There was nothing wrong with June. She was a dream catch for any guy. She knew what she wanted and had a plan to get there. The problem was me. That previous relationship with the brunette was all stormy seas, and I lost my compass. I had no bearings. June navigated with the horizon in her sights, and I was shipwrecked. I could have stayed the course with her, where it would most likely have been calm waters the rest of the way.

Being with June was so easy, but as that July moved to August, then September, I knew I was only a passenger, and my inner voice, or maybe my father’s, kept telling me the truth, “You don’t love her and masquerading you do is unfair to her and makes you an asshole.”

And that was it. Try as I did, as much as I had wanted to, the magic wasn’t there; the electricity was missing. But I was a coward and didn’t say anything until the snow fell. Then, when she began discussing the big plans, I knew I had no choice. I told her I had to let her go, that I wasn’t in the same place, and I wasn’t the man in her future scenes.

My abrupt severing of the relationship devastated her. She didn’t see it coming. She thought, finally, she had done it right. And she did. Everything was ideal and available. Everything but my love. I couldn’t explain why, but I knew it wasn’t meant for her.

The pain and regret stem from her phone calls. Messages on my answering machine, where if they didn’t start with her sobbing sorrowful words, they ended with them. I’d returned the calls for a while, but it didn’t make it any better, and I knew that with each hang-up, I had hurt her even worse.

June blamed herself for reasons that didn’t exist, promised to do, or give things that weren’t required. I couldn’t make her understand she was wonderful, beautiful, and perfect. Just not for me. How do you explain that? That I was the one so broken that I wasn’t good enough for anyone — that I couldn’t be with anyone.

Each night I returned home from work, the light on the answering machine blinked. I played each one, listening to her beg me to return. Hearing her tell me she couldn’t sleep and asked if I could only come by and read to her. That she found my voice so soothing and always felt so safe and comforted, promising to want nothing more than to listen and sleep.

I didn’t go and read to her. I stopped returning her calls; I deleted her messages without listening. Eventually, June stopped calling.

Months later, I heard through a mutual acquaintance during a chance meeting that June had left. She’d quit her job, packed up, and moved across the country. She went home. I was guilt-ridden, not knowing how much of those decisions were my fault, and I felt like a louse.

I never heard anything more about June; I never searched her out to try to explain and apologize again.

I don’t know what I could have or should have done differently, but I know I was careless with her heart. It is the one breakup that still bothers me.

I hope June found the beautiful life she deserved.

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