If Love Were Salt, A Novel

Prologue | Ryan

Today was supposed to be a good day. We were graduating high school and moving on to college. The end of a chapter, the beginning of another—blah, blah, blah. But it was one of those days where the morning leaves you hopeful with the promise of a sunny day, but the afternoon ends up being a huge disappointment.

On so many levels. The weather, for one. June gloom crept in like an uninvited party crasher. But also, all my emotions. I love Sammy; I do. But I’ve debated, time and time again, whether it’s time to part ways. The dominant male consensus from my people—my friends, my family—is that it’s a good thing to be single, a maverick. But for the life of me, I can’t understand what’s so good about being lonely. Hormones and hearts often cross paths, but I know I could never be happy with one night stands. Which seems like what I would be choosing, if I chose to break up with Sammy.

We haven’t talked about breaking up much, not really. But it’s been on my mind for a while. A lot. Here I am, fearing the end, and she has no idea. Do we really have to end just because I’m going to college? Is there someone else out there who is better for me?

A few years ago, I lost my virginity to an older woman. She was maybe four or five years older than me. She was fun and everything. We saw each other a lot. I realized that human sexuality isn’t so much emotion as it is pure thirst. We hunger for the touch, the temptation of another, and relish the pleasure. But after this girl (woman?) and I hooked up, I’d feel empty. As a man, I don’t feel like I’m allowed to feel that. But I do. What was missing with her was love. My heart craved someone to be close to; it needed someone to laugh and cry with. Lusting after something so temporary did not satiate that more important need. I finally found it with Sammy.

The ironic thing is, we (the collective we, i.e., humans) spend so much time wanting a feeling that is so temporary.

Adding another layer, we (Sammy and I) have our own issues when it comes to sex. Meaning, she won’t have it with me. I get it—she’s young. But when does too young become old enough?

Sammy has always had a subtle way of looking at me and saying with her eyes, It’s all right, we will never be far from each other’s hearts.

When we embrace, I feel everyone around us, and I cling to her as if I’m afraid she will be swept away by the wind. I savor the feeling of having her so close to me. My heart would like to think that she and I will be together forever. As long as I believe that, my love for her could never end. However, that nagging feeling lingers.

She doesn’t know I was crying for the better part of the morning. And I’m not going to tell her. I don’t want to burden her with those emotions. I cry a lot anyway. My mom doesn’t like it. Neither does my dad. I think they think it’s Sammy’s fault, that I cry so much. But really, it’s because I’m a sensitive soul. I couldn’t tell them that, though. I don’t think they’d understand. I’d rather they think it’s Sammy’s fault. That’s a terrible thing to say, to do, but I’m protecting myself. What’s the expression—You have to save yourself before you can save others? I think this is a solid application of that adage.

I sound more secretive than I’m trying to be. My intentions are pure. We live in a world where we’re bombarded with ideas and emotions, through all kinds of methods and mediums. It’s overwhelming, not only to live in it, but to think about what the future will bring, the madness. Humans ourselves do not have a complete understanding of who we are, what we wish to gain from life. To learn about ourselves, we ask others. We ask our friends and families what they think of us, how they see us, what we should do. In this regard, we are an incomplete species. How can we understand ourselves better?

I know one thing: I love this girl, this young woman, this person who has opened me up in ways I never thought possible. She’s my relief, my joy, my motivation for wanting everything I want out of life. She has this fire that complements this coolness about her. She gives me perspective I can’t find anywhere else—a point of view not many share, but probably should. She’s wise beyond her years in that way. An old soul, like me. A romantic, like me. A girl who bestowed faith in my heart.

Faith is important to me. And she has faith in me. Even if it isn’t the religious kind. Sammy says religion is a narrative for belief, for morals, a story to give power to ideas. She’s right.

I love this girl, for all that she is and all that she helps me to be. But is that enough?

I graduated today. This should be a happy day. And I am happy. But I’m also blissfully bombarded with feelings. I should share them with Sammy. I will. I should. I plan to. We’ve got our whole lives ahead of us.

But first, summer.

Chapter 1

I have dreams about you naked.

His words, not mine.

First of all, I’m not that honest, especially with boys.

Secondly, well . . . I’m in too much shock from the direct and sexiful nature of this statement to even contemplate a secondly.

Am I toeing some kind of boundary here? Talk about your Blurred Lines.

Also, why am I the one feeling like the guilty party? I haven’t done anything wrong.

I don’t think. Yet.

I guess I’m not totally sure what is considered acceptable when it comes to conversations with someone who may or not be overtly flirting with you, who is teasing you about your panty line, who is not your boyfriend.

Let me back up a bit.

I’ve been with Ryan, my beau, for the better part of the last year. We’ve had our highs, our lows, our ebbs and flows. We met officially in drama class last year, but he saw me first while he was working at Tower 11 at the beach on Labor Day. So he says. He’s a lifeguard. I feel like he saw me before that. I’m still teasing that admission out of him.

Our meet-cute was rather cute. Our first date was at the Fun Zone, which was actually really fun. We’ve gone to movies, book stores, leisurely strolls, and Prom. I watch him surf at Blackies, 56th, and other spots around town. He comes to yoga class with me. We eat Sidecar Donuts together. We still write poems to each other, though admittedly they are fewer and further between. Probably because the honeymood phase is over and we’re running out of ways to compliment each other.

Though, love—including ours—isn’t linear and ever-climbing. It’s twisty, convex, even a little concave (math humor). We serpentine as the best, most devoted couples do. The key is finding your way back (forward?), preferably together but sometimes apart.

A few months ago, Ryan graduated from high school and started classes at OCC in August. I, on the other hand, remain tethered to the horrors of high school as a sophomore. It’s different, being in a relationship that seriously could be considered long distance, in comparison to the rigamaroles of typical teen romance. I miss him carrying my books to class and leaving cutesy notes in my locker. Because that’s what true love is made of. But we’re faring all right.

After Prom, graduation, and a sunny summer, we’ve entered a new normal.

Which apparently consists of me tempting Taurus.

You see, it started after school one day, when I went with Mama to pick up my brother Andrew from basketball practice. We were sitting in the car in the parking lot of the YMCA off of University Drive. The kids practice in the gym adjacent to the weight room, which is not accessible to the main entrance where we waited.

Andrew, true to form, was the last kid to walk out of practice. He was always the last kid to leave anything—the classroom, a birthday party, the beach. I think it’s a testament to his easygoing nature, rather than an inherent lack of urgency. Actually, maybe it is inherent. After all, our personalities are rooted in biology. I personally fall on the opposite side of the spectrum from my brother in this regard. For whatever reason, I feel compelled to always be moving—preferably forward—toward something, and at an-opposite-of-glacial pace. That goes for the tangible and intangible. I’m not great at resting.

I digress.

Hey bro, how was practice? I greet him as I turn over my right shoulder from the passenger seat while he opens the back door of our Lexus SUV.

Clad in his oversized Kobe 8 jersey and UCLA basketball shorts, he settles into the middle back seat before responding with a monosyllabic, Good.

It’s funny how we always fight over the middle seat. When does anyone ever fight over a middle seat? Not on an airplane . . . not on the bus . . . not in a kayak . . . Now that I think about it, it’s kinda strange.

We do use what’s supposed to be the arm rest as some kind of alternative booster seat so our view of the road is better. So there’s that. Probably not super safe.

As I turn back around and Mama begins her thoughtful interrogation of the new plays Andrew learned, how many points he scored, whether he’s starting the next game, I notice a svelte six-foot semblance of a person approaching the car.

Who. Is. That?

He’s homely-looking, but in a KJ Apa kind of way. Not really my type, but he carries himself with this confidence that is comparable to that of a wolf; not overly imposing, but regal in his gentle strength. He is a coach, after all. So that is helpful. (I may be extrapolating, but who cares—he’s easy on the eyes.)

His gait quickens as he approaches our car.

Yikes, he’s approaching our car. Why is he doing that? I didn’t plan for this.

Granted, I also didn’t plan to date Ryan, so there’s that.

Ah, yes, Ryan.

I’ve adopted a look, don’t touch approach when it comes to appreciating attractive boys from afar. The boundary of what afar entails is still defining its borders. There’s an ongoing war, and the signing of a treaty is days, maybe weeks from reality.

Did I just liken my relationship to the consequences of war?

Defectors, these hazel cones of light.

Hey dude, you forgot your water bottle. The first words I ever hear him speak, forever etched in my brain. He taps on Andrew’s window and lightly tosses the black Hydro Flask through the opening. Mama rolls down my window before I realize it.

When I do, I forget to breathe.

Thank you, Dustin, I’m surprised he hasn’t lost it yet. Mama beams toward the limby boy as he shifts his attention to her, and after, to me.

No worries, Mrs. Selim, Andrew really brought it today. We’ll be ready for our game on Thursday. He smiles—genuinely, I think—at Mama before he reaches his hand through the window and offers me an invitation into the exchange.

I don’t think we’ve met, he acknowledges. I’m Dustin, Andrew’s coach.

He’s a charmer, this one. I’m in trouble.

I’m Sam, Andrew’s sister and resident cheerleader.

He stifles a laugh and flashes a toothy grin accompanied by dimples that should be illegal. They contour his face like wind-seared sand dunes.

From what I noticed.

Nice to meet you, Sam. See you at Thursday’s game?

You can find me in the bleachers with the other cheerleaders. A.K.A., my mom.

I shoot her a knowing look, and she just laughs her hearty midwestern laugh. She gets me.

See you then, He signs off as he double-taps the side of the door and walks away.

Phew, that was unexpected—and, quite frankly, a little exciting.

Andrew didn’t notice. He’s ten; he doesn’t pick up on these vibes just yet. But he will be a heartbreaker when he’s older. Mark my words.

Mama, on the other hand, just drives. I know what she’s thinking.

At the game that Thursday, Dustin finds us in the stands and moseys over to say hello, before tip-off. How do you like that? I guess gameface isn’t so relevant when you’re coaching a YMCA team, where the stakes are nil compared to, say, high school, where winning is everything, plus a scholarship plus bragging rights plus a girlfriend on the dance team.

I’m sitting with Mama. Daddy didn’t come to this one. He’s in a trade and goes to bed early. It’s already 7 p.m.

How fortuitous.

Dustin skirts along the baseline with the bleachers on his right. I pretend I don’t see him and casually turn my head towards the opposite end of the gym, as if to be captivated by the manual scoreboard that looks like something akin to Fenway Park’s Green Monster, only chalkboard black.

I think I sold it.

His pupils dig into my profile as he navigates the sea of parents and other family members towards our row, four benches back.

How do I know this, if I’m so consciously avoiding eye contact?

It’s a gift.

He approaches to my left and hovers unwittingly next to a toddler teething on a binky shaped like a butterfly. I feel my heart flutter. The irony is not lost on me.

He says hi to Mama first, per modern wooing etiquette. On seeing his choice of greeting—a gentle handshake—I approve.

Then, as he moves his gaze towards mine, I see it—the flicker of ferocity, the look that gives it all away. It only lasts for a flash, just enough time for someone who is (honestly) looking for it, like Carmen San Diego.

Hi Sam, he all but whispers, it’s nice to see you again. I hope you enjoy the game.

Which is probably code for: It’s nice to see you and I hope we can enjoy each other someday soon.

As coyly as possible, I smile what I think is a flirtatious yet noncommittal grin, and say, Hello Dustin, good luck tonight.

That’s how flirting works, right?

With Ryan, I didn’t really even realize I was doing it. Flirting. It just kinda happened. I felt more at ease, more natural. Like I knew exactly what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it, before I could consciously string together the words—like that perfect song lyric that so accurately describes a feeling like nothing else you ever heard before.

Flirting on purpose is so much harder than flirting on accident.

Honestly, I couldn’t even tell you how the game went, as my interest was so unabashedly zoned in (pun intended) between the players’ bench and baseline of the basketball court.

I do know they won.