A Tease of a Dimple



A tease of a dimple. I think that was my favorite thing on his face. It was hidden gently under his left cheek and would appear only with erupting laughter or a private smirk that he only spent on me. Most women would look at him and swoon over his dark hair, like the color of the coffee stains on his blue jeans, and how it effortlessly spilled across his forehead. Or maybe those diamond eyes and lashes with such length, that they could start a wind storm. Or those lips, although they were thin, would flirt and curl into hundreds of tempting smiles that could convince anyone to hypnotically lean in, desiring his kiss. 



But not me. It was always the dimple. A rare eclipse presented sparingly. 
He didn’t share it with me immediately. We were just two insecure teens getting tan lines and hungover at summer camp. Without any introduction, he would stare at me through campfire flames until I didn’t know if I should blush with giddiness or turn away with discomfort.

I can still hear my friends talking over each other in between giggles. 


“He has a crush on you. Only boys in love stare like that…. Well, or serial killers.” 


“Stop, He’s not a serial killer. He’s just infatuated.” 


“Maybe you intimidate him and he’s afraid to talk to you.”


“But who cares? He’s so cute. And you won’t need to talk that much anyway. If you know what I mean?”


As the weeks dried up in the sun, my friend's insistence got louder, yet I still never did approach him. I waited for his curiosity and confidence to align, which was only a few hours before our parents would be picking us up in their minivans, ending their month of teen free solitude. He tells the story differently, lying about his smooth composure, but I remember his flushed cheeks and quivering lip as he braved a hello. His words nervously stumbled over each other, and more we exchanged small talk, I couldn’t tell if his awkward nature was endearing or repellant. He asked static questions, like the ones your grandmother asks at Christmas dinner, and when he sensed my boredom, he reached further just so I wouldn’t walk away.


“Uh, what do you want to be when you grow up?” 


I gave a sarcastic exhale, “you only ask kids that.”


“That’s not true. Do you think our parents are doing what they thought they would at 16?
"

“I don’t know,” I rolled my eyes. 


“Exactly,” he teased. “Do you want to travel? Or go to school? Like what do you want?”


Exasperated. “I don’t know what I want.” 


“Come on, you have to want something," he poked.

I crossed my arms and sighed. 
“Fine.” I shrugged, “what do I want? I want my own house.”


He fired back arrogantly “Doesn’t everyone have a house? You have to want more than that.” 


My agitation grew and I wanted to just walk away, but just then, my mom in her blight chugging engine, rolled down a window to yell hurry up through a puff of smoke. Relieved, I swung my backpack over my shoulder and said, “I have to go.” 


He shouted to my back, “Next summer I won’t wait so long to talk to you. I promise.”


And as I gazed at him disappearing in the rearview mirror, I pondered his last words while thinking to myself I have never enjoyed arguing before today.



____________________________________________________

The next two summers I wore a red one-piece and blew a whistle at kids trying to dive into the shallow end. I didn’t go back to camp, much to my friend's disappointment. For the first time I was earning my own money, and that is the only thing that gave me sanity during long shifts of people watching. 
August was coming to an end, and while I was cross-legged on my lifeguard chair, my anxious university daydreams were interrupted by a low voice.


“If I fell in. Would you save me?” 


I lifted my sunglasses, assuming to roll my eyes at another half-baked high schoolboy showing off to his friends. But it wasn’t a boney teen with a sickening smile. 


It was him. 


He was only two years older, but over a foot taller. His boyishly handsome face grew into the sharp-edged features of a young man. As I glanced at his face in shock, he gave it to me for the first time. A tease of a dimple.

His cheeky smile radiating up at me before he spoke again, “Well, would you?” Raising his eyebrows, he started stepping backward closer to the edge of the pool. 


Still stunned, I stammered out, “uh. Um. Well no. I mean yeah. I mean. What?”


Satisfied, he folded his toned arms into an x over his chest, and before he toppled into the chlorine, he laughed, “Now look who can’t talk.” 
I stared as he splashed into the water, with a few droplets hitting my slightly burnt skin. I started climbing down the ladder, and once I got to the bottom I realized he still hasn’t returned to the surface. And he wasn’t moving.

“Haha very funny. I’m not going in if that’s what you want,” I shouted down at him. 
Silence. People started looking over at me. A few whispers circulated. Is the lifeguard really not going to help him? 
I grew self-conscious as the accusations got louder and I knew if I didn’t jump in soon that I would lose my job.

Diving down, we came face to face in the blue. He was standing on the bottom with a brash grin, insulting me with a wink as we locked eyes. 
He grabbed my hand and we both pushed our feet off the bottom and as we inhaled our first breath I yelled, “What is wrong with you?” 


He laughed through panting breaths, but my anger never settled.

“Seriously?”


He quickly sobered, “I’m sorry. I just didn’t want you to remember me as a stuttering fool.” 


Appalled, I lied, “Remember you? You never even cross my mind. And if you did, I would remember a creepy awkward kid who never learned that staring is not socially expectable.” 


“Yeah, I am sorry about that. But honestly, I couldn’t help but stare. Look at you.” 


“Again, you’re being creepy and awkward. How is fake drowning going to make a better impression? Just talk to me. You know? Hi, how are you? We used to go to camp together. What have you been up to?”


“You’re right, I’m sorry. Let’s start again.” 
I crossed my arms in silence. 
He smiled confidently, “I am sorry for being so awkward two years ago. I didn’t know how to talk to girls, maybe I still don’t. Especially to you. But it is good to see you. And I want to make everything up to you. Over dinner.”


His smile made me melt, and although I pretended to wrestle over a yes, he didn’t know that I gave in even before I jumped in the water. 
“Pick me up at seven.” 

 ____________________________________________________




If you ask a couple about their history, often they can’t remember specifics about their first dates. They can remember where they went or how they felt, but the specifics of conversations or what they wore are sometimes confused with other memories. 
But not us. I remembered everything with golden precision.

The late August chill that prompted him to put his brown leather jacket over my bare shoulders. The scent of vanilla candles at the Italian restaurant as we ate pear and brie stuffed ravioli. The piece of hair that would fall into his eyes that begged me to reach over and tuck it behind his ear. The waiter who boldly commented, “you two are so cute. How long have you been together?” It was an instant bond that tethered us together. 


But the conversation I remember with the most fondness was when he asked again, “So what do you want to do when you grow up?” 
I still felt as helpless and confused as the two years before. I was going to university to get a business degree, even though I have no desire to start a business or do anything in that vein. I was following a safe option so I could somehow find a place in this world. 
After a few beats of silence, he said, “Do you still want a house?” 


My cheeks colored. “Why would you say that?”


“That’s what said a few years ago.”

My eyes drooped, 
“I can’t believe you remember that." I paused, "Yeah, I still don’t know where I’ll go, or what I’ll do with my life. But having a house has been the longest and most consistent dream I have had. So at least I know something I want.” I admitted, and changing the attention to him, “What do you want to do?” 


“I want to write. And I know it’s not steady work, but nothing captures my soul more than writing.” He paused for a minute, “Why do you want a house so much?” 


I paused and lowered my voice, “I’ve never had one.” Silence. “My mom has a longer relationship with liquor than a job and my dad left when I was so young that I barely remember what he looked like. We’ve always moved from place to place and I envied all my friends with their big houses. I wouldn’t even tell my friends where I lived. I would meet them at the mall, and when they suggested they come to my house, I would lie and say that my mom is a lawyer and has meetings with her clients at her home office and can’t be disturbed.” 


He leaned forward and grabbed my hand with comfort, “I’m sorry you felt like you had to lie. And if it means I have to work three jobs to make ends meet, one day you’ll get you your house.”


I held my fork in mid-air, pasta falling off it. “What?”


He stated again with confidence, “I will buy you a house one day.”


I spat words out in shock, “this is our first date.”


“I know it is.”


“We barely know each other.”


And then he paused, sighed with a dimpled grin, and exhaled,
“But don’t you feel like somehow we’ve known each other for decades?”


I shot up, shaking, “Can you excuse me? I need to go to the washroom.” 
In the blur of stumbling into a stall, I sat on the toilet without even lifting my dress, feeling my heartbeat in my temples. I sat there excited and overwhelmed. And it wasn’t because I was scared, or because I thought he was lying. It was because I knew, somehow, it was true.

He was right. It’s going to be him and I. 

 ____________________________________________________

We started collecting days, weekends, and soon summers. He would write in black notebooks while staring at me. I would blush and whine, “why won’t you tell me what you’re writing?”

And he would always say, “darling, I’m writing a whole library about you.”


“Well, maybe I could read one of these books sometime?”


“In good time, my love.”
 His dimple would peak out and warm me, knowing that it was designed for me alone. 


We spent years giving each other all the first’s we could conjure. My first birthday with him, as I blew out the candles knowing my wish already came true. Our first anniversary, as he carried me into a hotel room covered in rose pedals. Our first trip together, as we shared saltwater kisses as the Hawaiian sun set. Our first shared key, as we hung pictures without frames and washed dishes while dancing to The Beatles. Our first real fight, yelling over money, stressing if we’d make enough for rent that month. Our first fight of many. Our first big makeup, as we opened slammed doors to tumble into sheets, whispering that everything will be okay as long as we have each other. 


We would talk about the future as if it was something that was always out of reach. We would dream of saving money to afford a downpayment, but something always came along. Every time we got closer to our goal something would happen. His appendix burst. Our car broke down. Student loans. Plane tickets to attend a funeral. I quit my job. Again. He lost a writing opportunity. Again. 
And as the same cycles repeated itself for years, my heart hardened with dissatisfaction.

Although I would never say it to him, I selfishly wished he didn’t write. That he could have been a doctor or a businessman. I wanted nice things and nice clothes. I wanted a shiny car and a big house. I blamed him for the life I wanted but didn’t have. The dimple faded and I saw it less and less as the stresses grew. I almost forgot he had one for a while. I fell into waves of discontent and with every day he could sense it more and more. I denied my role to contribute and expected too much from him.

I spent all my energy hoping he would be the providing dad I never had and give me the one thing I always wanted as a child.


The more we fought, the more he’d drive. I would stamp around the kitchen wishing for time machines or lottery tickets while I’d wait for his return. And every time it got later and later. He would turn the radio to the highest volume and speed away until his mind was clear as the white lines on the highway. 
I would stay up until he gently shut the door apologetically. We’d embrace and say we’ll never talk to each other like that again. We swore that one day we will look back on these days and realize stressing over money wasn’t worth it. 


And it wasn’t worth it.

It wasn’t worth the yelling. It wasn’t worth the slamming doors. The name-calling. The unfair comparisons to my absent father. The heavy breathing. The storming off. The screeching wheels on the asphalt. The blaring music. The climbing speed. The swerving through angry tears. The squeal of breaks. The holding of breath. The wheels in between air. The rolling of metal. The crushing of bones. The chrome spattered ditch. The pooling blood. The last breath. The red and blue lights. The three knocks on the door. The police officer's condolence. The accident. 



It wasn’t worth it. 



____________________________________________________



I didn’t step into that apartment for months. I moved in with a girlfriend from college. His parents paid our rent while I was frozen in time. It became a place of fiction and denial. I didn’t want to see our bed where he would kiss my neck. I couldn’t see the table where he would cut vegetables for dinner. I couldn’t smell his clothes without wanting to crawl into them and never take them off. 


Three months went by, then six, then nine. When the calendar almost marked a year, his mom called me.
 “Darling, I am sorry. I know how hard this is for you. But it has almost been a year and it is time to clean out the apartment. We want you to move forward and start working again and find a new place eventually. We contacted the landlord and gave our end of tenancy letter. We will come with you and help, but we need to clean it out by the end of this month.” 

____________________________________________________

I didn’t know if I should keep his things or throw them away. Will I be that woman with a garage full of boxes from the grave? Even if I put them in a box, when would I have the courage to open them again? His parents and I started with the easier rooms. The kitchen, bathroom, living room. Then our bedroom. And lastly, his study.

The desk that we found on the street and painted blue. The chair his grandfather gave to us as a house warming gift. The books piling on the floor because he didn’t have enough shelves. His closet full of filing cabinets, filled with years and years of his ideas. 
And then we saw something I didn’t recognize.

A box with a lock on it.


“Honey, what is this?” His mom said while edging it off the closet’s top-shelf.


“I have no idea. I rarely went in here.” I shrugged.


“I’ll grab a hammer and see if we can pry it open.” His dad suggested. 



Two hits on the lock and it burst free. “You don’t know what this is sweetheart?” His mom spoke softly.


I admitted, “I have no idea.” 



The box was filled with little black notebooks. Thirteen to be exact. Sealed envelopes scattered the bottom and pictures of us brought color to its pallet. 
I opened one of the books in curiosity and held my breath as I started to read the first few sentences. 





August 22nd, 2007


Last night we had our first date. Two years of dreaming of this moment and I still don’t believe myself when I say it out loud. I definitely didn’t leave a bad impression this time, even though I majorly messed up with the drowning stunt. At dinner, I told her I would buy her a house one day, and that scared her a little. It scared me too. When it came out of my mouth I even shocked myself with my bluntness. She ran away to the washroom and when she didn’t come back for a while I went and knocked on the door. I heard she was crying, but she told me to come in, and I said, “I’m sorry I upset you. I just want you to get everything you want in life.” 
And she said, “I’m not crying cause you upset me. I’m crying because I finally found you.” 
And then she kissed me, and I disintegrated.



My wet eyes blinked as I flipped through the first book. He wrote down every major moment of our first year together. I opened a few more, noticing that each book was designated to each year we’ve been together. I opened another. 





December 11th, 2009 


I know she gets scared about marriage. She doesn’t want to rush into anything. I think she is still testing me to see if I grow to be her father. We are young and broke, but madly in love. I know I don’t have much to offer. I will probably never be a millionaire or have the finest of things. But I can write her the most beautiful life and we can live in the deepest love. And I will keep my promise and one day give her the keys to her own house. If I save five dollars every day, the time we are almost 30, we could afford a down payment for a house. And if I get a bigger payment from selling a story, I can put even more in. A surprise that will change her life.



I opened one of the envelopes to find it filled with hundred dollar bills. Twenty envelopes with a thousand dollars in each and a few more bills scattered inside. Sobbing, I searched for the most recent year. 



February 2nd, 2019


Over ten years of saving and only a few unexpected withdrawals from the fund. The time has come. In a few months, on her birthday I will give her the box. We have been arguing so much about money and I get so saddened and frustrated by her sharp words and dissatisfied glances. If only she knew. I even wanted to tell her a few times before, stop her in her tracks and prove that I am what she wants. But I didn't want it that way. I wanted it to be a gift, not a confrontation. If only I could grab her neck and kiss her and tell her that I will come through with my promise. That I have been putting money away for your dream. Her dream is to have a house, and my dream is to always make her happy. Sometimes I wish her dream was that for me too. But all her stresses and disbeliefs will amount to nothing soon. All the fights will turn to dust and our trouble will feel like a small wind. She will blow out the candles for the last time in a rental, and we will paint the walls the color of our hearts and live forever. 



I couldn’t finish it, I slammed it shut with anger. My whole face was damp and shaking. Tears ran down my neck and pooled onto my collar. His parents backed out of the door to give me a minute. I collapsed to the floor with all-consuming grief and looked once more into the box.

I lifted one of the pictures of us. I wore a denim dress with knee-high boots. His jeans had coffee stains, they all did. My make up painted his favorite colors. His brown leather jacket draped over my shoulder. The one that he had since we were two teens eating pasta, hoping for forever and dreaming of a house to call home.

And a tease of a dimple.