Page 14 of The Very First Night

Despite my being nosey in nature, I want to be alone with him more.

“Sure,” I respond, my voice barely audible amidst the chaos.

Still holding my hand, Elijah begins to guide me to the door, his skin somehow cold yet biting into my flesh as if my hand might combust into flames.

He leads me out the front door and we veer off into the yard. The further from the house we get, the quieter the air around us seems, a combination of walking away from the chaos inside and finally being alone with him after the anticipation all day.

Since waking up here this morning, I’ve been aching to talk to him—to talk to this version of Elijah, the young man who so easily managed to hold my heart in his hands before life made it too hard for either of us to withstand.

His hand doesn’t leave mine and he intertwines our fingers, guiding me toward the worn picnic table set up in the side yard. Water pools atop the sun-bleached wood, but Elijah lets go of my hand to pull his zip-up hoodie off to wipe away the stagnant water and lay it out as something dry for us both to sit on.

We sit down in near-silence, the pitch-black air cut through only by the voices and music in the distance, the fight from a few minutes ago long gone and replaced with laughter.

“So, Kat,” he says as he bumps his arm against mine. The contact radiates through me, causing goosebumps to form a blanket over my skin.

I don’t think I’ve ever been as nervous as I am right now.

The fading memories of what is to come for us linger. The exact events are a distant blur, but the emotions hang around just the same.

I’ve never loved anyone like I love Elijah—or will love Elijah.

Part of me wishes he had memories too…well, not memories, but at the very least I wish he was aware of what I eventually become to him. Right now, as he stares at what I assume he sees as a complete stranger, a nearly inconsequential meeting at a party, I sit here lost in a sea of emotion as I fumble for the right words. Trying to find the words to prevent everything—every bad thing that will happen—from happening.

Even if I can’t remember what those things are anymore.

“So…Elijah.” I attempt to match his flirty tone, but my voice comes out shaky. I can’t tell if he notices, nor do I know if I want him to.

If I told him that I somehow went back in time to save our future relationship, we very well might never happen, in part because of all that butterfly effect stuff, but more than anything because I’d look like a raging psychopath.

“Where are you from?” he asks.

“Columbus…well, technically Dublin, but it’s easier to say Columbus.”

He gasps and says in a joking, mocking tone, “Blasphemous. I’m from Columbus. Dublin isn’t Columbus.”

“Seriously?” I laugh.

“Completely—like, thirty minutes from Dublin.”

“Small world.”

“The smallest.” He lets out a soft chuckle. “Why Kent? Why not one of the tons of other universities in Ohio?”

“Why not Kent?”

To be honest, I didn’t have a big reason for coming to Kent. I simply toured the campus my junior year of high school, liked it, and was able to get enough financial aid to cover the tuition.

“Fair enough.”

“Why did you choose Kent?” I ask.

I don’t miss the way his expression drops at the question. “Oh, uh, my dad went here. Actually, I’m a legacy.” Elijah points to the fraternity house. “It just always made sense, I guess, to go to Kent. Look who had just as boring of an answer.” He forces out a laugh as he bumps his arm into mine again.

We quickly fall into comfortable conversation. My stomach thankfully settles, the anxiety a distant memory as we laugh in near-darkness. Elijah tells me a story about some ridiculous stunt that Marcus pulled freshman year that involved the roof above the back patio of the house and a skateboard.

My face grows flush as I gasp for air, the amusement at the absurdity of the story a welcome moment of levity for both of us.

“So, Elijah. What’s your major?” I ask before pulling my almost-empty cup of Jungle Juice to my lips.

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