Filed to story: If He Had Been With Me Book PDF Free
“That doesn’t make you right,” I say. “And you’re supposed to be against being just like everybody else.”
“It’s not about being like everybody else. When someone dies, it’s bad,” Jamie says. “That’s just something everybody knows.”
“You don’t understand,” I say.
“I do understand,” he says. He pulls the car into my driveway. “You just see things differently and that’s okay, because I like you weird. You’re my weird, morbid pretty girl.” I let him kiss me good night. I sigh.
“Hey,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say.
“What?” he asks.
“What about
Romeo and
Juliet?” I say. “That’s beautiful and sad.”
“But that’s not real life.”
“So?”
“There’s real life and then there are books, Autumn,” Jamie says. “In real life, it would just be sad and stupid.”
“How could two people dying for love be stupid?” I say. We are sitting in the dark facing each other in the seats, our seatbelts off.
“It’s stupid to kill yourself,” Jamie says. “That’s what cowards do.”
“I think it’s brave,” I say. “And I think it’s beautiful that they loved each other so much that they couldn’t live without the other one.”
“Would you kill yourself if I died?” Jamie asks. I look at his face in the darkness. He stares back calmly. I think about him running down the steps with the other boys. I think about the sly grin on his face before he says something to tease me. I think about him being gone and under the ground, never to be seen again.
“No, I guess not,” I say.
“See?” he says. He leans forward and kisses me again. “I wouldn’t want you to either,” he says. “I’d want you to be happy.”
“I would be very sad though,” I say. “For a long time. And I would never forget you.”
“I know. Me too.”
“But you wouldn’t kill yourself,” I say.
“No,” he says.
I add up again all of the things that I want from life. There is real life and then there are books. I try to puzzle out what is real and what isn’t, what I can have and what I never will.
“But you do love me,” I say.
“Yes,” Jamie says, “the way people love each other in real life.”
I lean forward and lay my head on his shoulder.
“I guess I love you in the way people love in real life too.”
He smiles and I feel his lips in my hair. I close my eyes and bury my face in him.
I’m sitting on the back porch reading after a trip to the library this afternoon. The book is old and has that dusty, musty smell I love. The author is Irish, probably dead, and someone I’ve never heard of before today. The book is surely out of print by now and I feel as if I am holding a lost treasure in my hands. I stop suddenly and close my eyes. This book is a treasure; I did not suspect it would be so good when I picked it up, but now I can feel the printed words seeping through my skin and into my veins, rushing to my heart and marking it forever. I want to savor this wonder, this happening of loving a book and reading it for the first time, because the first time is always the best, and I will never read this book for the first time ever again.
I sigh and look out across the backyard. Today is the longest day of the year, and the sun is only just reaching the horizon behind the trees. The air feels good in my lungs and my muscles are relaxed and warm in the slowly fading sunshine. I will sit here for a moment longer and be happy. Though I am dying to look down again and read more, I’ll sit here and love this book and know that I still have so much more left to read because that won’t be true for very long.
Next door, the back door slams and two voices are talking quietly on the porch. I glance up startled.
“So that’s it then,” Aunt Angelina says. Her voice is calm and even, like the voice on the phone that tells you the time and temperature.
“Yes, it is,” the other says. “I’ll be in touch later, but for now this is it.”
“Fine then. Good-bye.”
“Good-bye, Angelina.”
Kevin the Football Man walks off the porch and into his car without looking back. Aunt Angelina stands on the porch and watches him as he maneuvers out of the narrow, long driveway and disappears.
After he is gone, she continues to look out over the gravel driveway into the yard and setting sun and I look at her.
“Autumn,” she says. I start in my seat and stop breathing. She still stares straight ahead. “Try to marry your first love. For the rest of your life, no one will ever treat you as well.”
She turns to leave then and closes the door behind her.
Suddenly it is very quiet outside, and the glitter is gone from the grass and leaves, and even though the sun is only beginning to set, I think soon it will be too dark to read. I close my book and stand up.
I’ll go inside and make something for dinner and read more later. I will have to wait for the magic to come back before opening it again. I’ll wait until I remember that Aunt Angelina is happy with her life and that I will marry my first love. It will only be the first time once.
Sasha and I are walking to the drug store, even though she could borrow her mother’s car and drive us. It takes up more of the long, hot day if we walk, makes it more like an adventure than just something to do. Against the sound of the cicadas, our sandals smack on the sidewalk as we hike our way toward Main Street. We stop along the way to scratch bug bites on our ankles and make sure our bra straps aren’t showing from under our tank tops. We are talking as we walk, in spite of the clouds of heat that puff down our throats with each breath.
When we get there, we will sigh in the air conditioning and run our fingers through our hair. Perched side by side atop the layer of magazines on the bottom shelf of the massive stand, we will flip through articles about sex and hair. We will even balance the month’s massive bridal book on our knees and look at the white dresses and rings with a sort of reverence. Afterward, we will stroll through the aisles and pick out lip gloss and candy, nail polish and sodas. We’ll walk back to my house then, and in my room we will stretch out on my bed, our bare legs brushing, and read the magazines we bought and eat licorice.
This is the background of our day together, but the real purpose of being together is talking. Sasha and I can talk about nearly anything, and when we talk, we talk for a long time, a whole day even.
There is a sudden lull in our conversation, an unnatural pause after my story about last night’s date with Jamie. I look over at her, but she stares straight ahead down the sidewalk as if there is someone waiting for her there.
“I have to tell you something,” she says, still staring at the invisible person.
“What?” I ask. My mind is already tabulating all the possibilities; I’m the sort of person who tries to figure out the end of the book as she reads it and my conversations are no different.
“I think I’m going to break up with Alex,” she says.
“You can’t,” I say, as five different threads run through my mind and I try to sort through all the thoughts and reactions: jealous that she is so brave, smug that Jamie and I lasted, worried for Alex, surprised—
“I’m going to,” she says. “I’ve already decided really.”
“But why?” I ask, the shock momentarily overshadowing all the other reactions. She shrugs and looks down at the sidewalk to frown. Up ahead, I see the corner where we will wait at the crosswalk. In our impatience with the heat, we will push the button again and again, and even though we know it will not make the green letters appear any faster, we will stare at the sign expectantly.
“I still love Alex,” she says, “in a way. But I don’t feel about him the way I used to. Nothing is romantic anymore. It’s more like we’re old friends.”
“But that’s what long-term relationships are like,” I say. “You can’t just throw him away.”
“I’m not throwing him away,” she says. “But I’m not in love anymore and I need you to support me.”