I Like Cheese on My Hotdogs

“Hi,” she said, standing in my doorway. I opened my mouth to greet her, but found I couldn’t speak. She looked so beautiful.

“Well, hello there,” Gram said, opening the door to let her in, “you must be Jane’s girlfriend, Stacy!” she exclaimed.

“Gram!” I barked, feeling the hot blush of mortification rise. Stacy had no idea, likely taking the term “girlfriend” to mean friend who is a girl. She shot a startled glance at me as she shook Gram’s hand, then Gram pulled her into a hug. I felt awkward for being so flustered. I took a few steps back and leaned against the wall.

“So nice to meet you, Honey!” Gram sang sweetly.

“Nice to meet you, too, thanks,” Stacy said. “Hey,” she said, turning toward me. “Oh, Jane! What happened?” she asked, stepping close to me and touching the lump on my forehead.

“Hey―oh, that―I’ll tell you later,” I said, clasping my sweaty palms behind my back, tapping my toe rhythmically against the floor.

“Can you come out with me for awhile? I have the car,” she said, pointing behind her toward the street with her thumb. I looked at Gram for approval. She nodded and waved her hand at us in a shooing gesture.

“Sure, yes, go on. Have fun, girls. Don’t be too late,” she said.

“Thanks, we won’t!” I said, unintentionally practically shouting. I grabbed my jacket and followed her outside.

She got in the driver’s seat of a gray Toyota Camry. I slid into the passenger’s side, entering the warm car filled with the smell of her hair—clean and sweet. She started up the car and pulled away from the curb. I didn’t know where we were going and I didn’t care. I felt an excitement so intense it was painful in my gut. A savage yearning came alive in me, without choice, against my will, and I couldn’t catch my breath from the force of it. She turned up the volume of the radio. Van Halen was blaring: “How do you know when it’s love―”

She sang along with the verse, smiling at me, opening the moon roof to let in the cool night breeze. I rode along, trying to free myself enough to sing or speak, sitting in a swirling center of secret thoughts, questions, imaginings, all unmentionable.

She pulled up to a spot right at the lakefront; the only light was from the moon and nobody was around.

“Where are we?” I asked. She turned off the ignition and the radio, drowning us in abrupt silence.

“We’re just inside Evanston. This is actually private property, but my cousins live over there and their house is empty right now,” she said, unbuckling her seat belt and turning to face me.

“Why are we here?” I asked, feeling the heat in the car rise, the air too intense to breathe.

“I just want to talk.” She took my hand and held it between her palms.

“What happened to your head?” she asked.

“I had a fight with my mom today when I got home. She heard from Father John and she was waiting for me. I told her the truth about everything; it just got ugly from there,” I said, not wanting to go into detail.

“I told my dad everything, too,” she said, squeezing my hand. “He did not take it well at all, but I’m glad I told him.” Her gaze dropped to our entwined hands, I leaned in closer to her.

“That’s crazy! I can’t believe you told him. You were so scared!” I squeezed her thigh with my free hand and she looked up, blushing.

“Jane, can I ask you something?”
I gulped and nodded; uneasy about a question so serious it needed a preface.

“Do you know the difference between love and in love? I mean, is there a distinction for you between them?”

“I guess. I’ve never really thought about it before. Why?”

“Well, love is something deep between two people, two friends perhaps. And that’s how I feel about my good friends, including you. That’s love, right?”

“Sure, OK.”

“So then there’s in love, which I guess means that there’s something extra there, something special, magical even. Like, take a hotdog for instance.”

I laughed, nervous laughter. She made me nervous. She liked that, I could tell.

“There’s a plain hotdog, and that’s great just the way it is. Then you add something. Cheese, you add cheese to it, and then it’s a whole new thing, a whole different experience, right?” Her eyebrows raised, she was waiting for me to answer.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, laughing, even though I did. I wanted to tease her. She slumped back, a frustrated, yet good-humored look on her face.

“Let’s go for a walk down there,” she said, pointing toward the beach. She opened her door without waiting for my agreement, so I followed. We headed down to the beach to walk along the wet part of the sand. I stopped to remove my shoes and socks and roll up my pants. When I stood up, Stacy was sitting on a rock, watching me. I crouched in front of her. I untied her shoes and pulled them off, revealing her inside-out mismatched socks, which I instantly decided to love. Laughing, she inquired why she should care if they match; her shoes cover them after all. I pulled them off and rolled up her pants to her knees. Each time my fingers touched the bare skin of her legs, there was an invisible spark lighting up the dark.

We walked the smooth surface with bared feet, feeling the raw, wet sand squishing up between our toes. Feeling its warmth and its broken openness; grainy, soggy impressions of our soles trailing behind.

“Who was that at your house? Was that your mom?” Stacy asked. Our arms brushed against each other as we walked.

“No, that was my Grandmother.”

“What about your dad?” she asked, brushing my hand with her fingers. I stopped walking and turned to look out at the blackness of the water; the surface was reflecting the stars like oil.

“My dad died when I was 8,” I said.

“Oh, God, I’m sorry,” she said, grabbing my hand, lacing her fingers though mine.

“Wait. Isn’t that when we met? When we were eight years old, right?” she asked.

“Yes, it happened after I met you,” I said. I dropped her hand and walked up on the beach to dry sand. I sat down and hugged my knees to my chest.

“How did he die?” She sat next to me.

“He had a heart attack,” I said. It was the first thing I thought to say.

“Oh, that’s terrible. My mom died of lymphoma when I was 9. I was in Paris when she died,” she said. I picked up a stick and started drawing triangles and circles in the sand.

“That had to be a big loss for you. I’m sorry,” I said.

“You had your loss right around the same time,” she said, putting an arm around me.

“I lost my dog, too.” A minute of silence stretched out between us. The waves laid themselves to rest one after the other just beyond our feet.

“Thank God you had your mom,” she said.

“Sometimes I feel that way. Other times I feel that she’s just been a series of smaller losses,” I said, tracing the shapes in the sand over again, deepening the grooves. “I guess I’ve always had expectations of her, over and over, which is my fault. So every time she lied, every time she let us down, another loss.” The words came out very matter-of-factly, without forethought. I felt the truth of them like an impact to my gut. Another silence followed. “I do love my mom, though. She really has been through a lot. Losing my dad, losing her son. All under the age of 25,” I said. My gut ached. She moved closer and wrapped her arm further around me. I wound my free arm around her leg.

“Since we lost my mom, my dad and I haven’t gotten along. He has expectations of me that I can’t fulfill. He wants me to be just like her, but I’m not. I don’t want to go to law school and become a patent attorney. I don’t want to date the boys he introduces me to,” she said. My head rested on her shoulder.

“What do you want to be?” I stretched out my legs and lay down in the sand, adjusting my position so I could rest my head in her lap, looking up at her face. It looked pale, almost glowing against the night sky, her blond hair framing it like a halo.

“An actress,” she said, laughing.

“What’s funny?” I asked. She gazed down at me, playing with my hair; twirling it gently in her fingers.

“It’s just funny to say it out loud. I want to act in plays on stage, I also want to write and direct. I’ve already written a few and one might be turned into a production at school,” she said.

“That’s great. Congratulations!” I said. She looked at me with soft eyes.

“Thanks. I wish my dad felt that way. He thinks it’s a waste of time. A nice hobby, maybe, but nothing more.”

“I think it’s perfect. You should go for it. I can definitely see you in the spotlight,” I said. I reached up and caressed her cheek with my hand, traced the soft curve of her jaw line, her chin, her lips. She shivered and closed her eyes when my fingers brushed her lips. I wanted so badly to kiss her.

“Let’s walk back to the car. I’m getting cold,” she said. She stood and offered me her hand. I took it and pulled myself up. She held onto my hand and pulled me close to her.

“Jane, I have to tell you something.” She looked down at our intertwined fingers and started walking, pulling me along by the hand.

“I think about you all the time, day and night. I think I’m in love with you. I think I have been ever since I met you nine years ago when we were just kids. I didn’t understand what it was then, but I do now. I’m in love with you, Jane.” She said it quickly, the words running together in one breathless confession. I exhaled, smiled, and looked at my feet. I squeezed her hand.

“Well?” she said when we reached the car. I was still smiling.

“I like cheese on my hotdogs,” I said. She laughed and playfully swatted my shoulder. I leaned and kissed her. She moved close and opened her mouth. We stood there, limbs pressed hard together, in the dark, tongues, kissing passionately, imperfectly, and for those moments I forgot everything, everyone but her. She ran her hands along my sides and up under my shirt. I shrugged off my jacket and raised my arms; she lifted the shirt over my head and off. Fear began to creep in. I stood there against her, topless and vulnerable, the cool night air biting my skin with mischief. She quickly opened the back car door and pulled me toward it, pulling off her own shirt, unbuttoning her jeans, kissing as we went.

She climbed up on the back seat and I lay between her legs, my head on her chest. I let go of fear and cradled her body in my arms, stretched my chest along her torso, and placed my cheek against hers. In that moment I turned self-conscious. I needed to do something else, maybe with my hands.

I felt for her, followed the curved outline of her skin, past the unbuttoned waistband of her jeans and down to where my fingers slipped. I stopped breathing. Her hips elevated to a supple motion; an undulating welcome of my touch. I pressed gently and her soft flesh gave, drawing my finger inside. I pressed my face to her neck, bit the skin there, felt her hammering pulse, a soft rushing tide of blood through veins, like fast ascending mist from sheer, gleaming puddles, air stirring, quiet murmuring, only breath and heat, my skin dissolving into hers. I wrapped my legs tightly around her thighs and moved my hips to the rhythm of my hand. Her lips, parted and soft against my eyelids, began moving.

“Do you love me?” her voice broken, a half whisper into my hot eyes.

“Yes,” I answered, sensing a change in degrees of motion. I slowed to the pace of her body and held my hand still, waiting. She thrust her hips up, claiming my whole hand hard against her, coming in, going out, until with a rush of air like a waterfall in rewind and play, we tumbled, breathing, over the cliff and down. On her hips, I rested my motion, breathing stillness from her faster-beating heart.

There she was, beneath me, a whole world. Smooth curves, angles, latitudes and longitudes; my gaze was a journey from point to point. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling. Her lips were red, so red against her pale face, which seemed to beam; to glow like the moon. I kissed her softly, then harder. The pressure of her mouth started the moving of my hips astride her leg again. I felt her body moving under me.

The car had grown so hot the windows had steamed over and sweat ran down the slope of my back, beaded on my brow and pearled in my hair. She fumbled with my jeans until she had them undone then thrust her hand down. Small, untamed cries escaped me unconsciously; it was over too soon, too soon. I lay panting, heavy and spent on top of her, heat rising from our bodies like smolder.

“I love you, love you,” she gasped, wrapping her arms tightly around me, clutching me hard and flat against her, so hard it wrung the breath from my lungs. I swathed her head in my arms and kissed her eyes, her nose, her mouth. Tears slipped down her cheeks and I put my mouth to them, I whispered that I loved her too.

“Are you in love with me? Are you?” she cried softly.

“Yes, yes,” I answered, stroking her damp hair.

“Say it; I need to hear it,” she begged.

I lifted my head and looked intently into her gleaming wet eyes. I held her face gently between my palms.

“I am in love with you.” I said it slowly, spoke it boldly. I meant it with all of me. Her eyes were bright with relief, satisfaction, love. She shivered all over.

“Are you cold?” I asked.

“A little,” she said. I picked up her shirt and helped her put it back on. I nestled my face against her chest and closed my eyes, listening to her beating heart. I thought of the song by Van Morrison and I sang out the words in poor melody: I can hear her heartbeat for a thousand miles…

She squeezed her arms around me and giggled. I wrapped around her like armor, holding on as close as I could.