Do you remember how we met? 

Kindergarten. I was the new kid. We were wearing the same shirt with the cartoonish, orange cat. So, as young boys do, that one common thing ignited our friendship.

We sat next to each other in middle school. Sometimes we passed notes. We got caught only once, and the teacher made us read it out loud. Do you remember what it said? Something about the latest issue of the Fantastic Four and my jealousy of Susan and her relationship with Reed. You shot those snickering kids a death glare while I was fighting tears, standing in the front of class, the note between my fingers. Later, you agreed with me, saying Reed was also your favorite.

In high school, I didn’t have many friends, but you included me in your small group. Your friends didn’t like me all that much. They ignored me, but when I somehow did get their attention, they’d look at me like I was rabid. You didn’t care about what they thought and gave up your spot for me. You always tried to make me feel included.

One day, I approached that friend group, spying the empty seat you saved at your side. 

Your good friend at the time glared at me and to you, said, “Well, he’s just some bitch, right?”

His words were meant to hurt me. There had been discussion about how to kick me out and keep you. I thought you’d side with them just like everyone else. I wouldn’t have been angry. I would’ve understood. 

Instead, you jolted up, swiped your meal to the ground, and leapt across the table, tackling him. I stood there, wide-eyed, clutching my lunch tray. Others sat around and watched as you straddled him, wailing on him until teachers tore you two apart, his blood staining your fists. 

When you were being ushered away to the principal’s office, you smiled at me.

“Don’t worry about it!” you said. 

But I did.

Even though I had to eat lunch by myself for the week of your suspension, I couldn’t help this warm feeling that bloomed in my chest. I was thrilled to deliver your packets of homework to your house after classes. And even when your suspension was lifted, I kept coming over. 

The summers in high school were my favorite. Swimming in the lake, music festivals, smoking marijuana behind the library. I remembered lying sprawled on your couch, our skin melting into the faux leather on lazy days. We’d stay up late in your room, and I’d count how many steps your dad took as he paced in the hallway outside. He’d barge in whenever he felt like it, as if we were doing something more heinous than reading comics. 

Sometimes when your folks were home during the day, we’d go downtown. There was a pet store we’d stroll past, which once was selling an orange kitten. She rubbed against the window and mewed, looking expectantly at you with her tail in the air. 

“I’d name her Ruby,” you said wishfully. 

One August, we were sharing vanilla ice cream and sitting by the fountain in a small park. 

“I got in,” you said. 

I dropped our shared cup of dessert. “You did?” 

You smiled. “UC Davis, class of ‘84!”

One step closer to being a veterinarian. 

All the way in California. 

It was your dream. To leave this small town of Nowhere, Ohio. To run away from your parents who never seemed to understand. To find your people. 

But I was right there. 

Right?

I spent every day at your house that last summer. We went to the county fair where I won an orange cat keychain at a booth. I gave it to you to remember me by, but also as an homage to that T-shirt that bonded us. 

“My little Ruby,” you said, holding it up with pride. 

I wish I could’ve taken a picture of you then. Seeing you smile while you held the trinket up flooded me with a wave of invincibility. I’d get you a thousand Ruby’s if I could. Hell, I’d get you the real thing if I could. Instead, I soaked you in, my heart fluttering with delight. 

From then on, it was hot nights and fireflies. Sparklers and crowded lakefronts. Melted ice cream and piles of memories, slowly loaded into boxes. You might’ve remembered all that, but I just soaked in everything about you as if each night was our last. The way your eyes shone at summer parades like amber and embers. The whiskers you grew in were patchy and umber. The heartiness of your laughter after a beer, the smell of your sweat, the way you made me feel comfortable and alive. And when our last day together approached, I tried to be strong. 

It hurt. My heart was nothing more than bits and pieces, but I wore a happy expression as I squeezed into your parent’s dingy car on the way to the airport. 

At first, they didn’t want me to come along, but you insisted, as you always did. The ride was quiet except for the few teary-eyed statements from your mother. She tried to spark a conversation, falling flat. Your dad had nothing to say. In the silence, we relaxed. The barriers we put up in front of people melted away, as if the backseat of the hot car were miles away from anyone else. The jolt I felt when my fingertips touched yours, the two of us looking out our respective windows as if we weren’t committing a damning sin like your father always suspected. This was more than just silly T-shirts and keychains. I wanted more time to acknowledge this feeling. This was more. I knew it was more. That warmth for you never stopped growing inside me. 

Did you have it too? 

I caught a sob in my throat the moment we rolled up to your terminal. I would’ve bawled right then and there if I looked at you, so I stared at your little Ruby dangling from your suitcase. At least you’d have a piece of me in California. A piece of us. 

“I have to go!” You struggled against your mom’s hug, floundering to catch a breath.

Despite your rush, you still turned to me. 

I clung onto you, lip quivering and eyes tight with tears. “I’m so proud of you,” I whispered in your ear. 

Your eyes were misty when we separated, my gaze lowered to your lips. They trembled.

I hung onto that moment, knowing that I wanted to. I needed to. But your parents were there. Your father standing only feet away, waiting for concrete proof of his suspicions of me. He would’ve loved a reason to abandon me here. 

But God, I wanted to kiss you.  

I think you wanted to, too. 

You left, and I stayed. Our letters dwindled over the months. Each one became more and more vague with life and college. I felt our relationship disintegrating and turning into strangerhood despite the rush of adrenaline each time I saw your name in my mailbox. Eventually, it felt useless. Pointless. 

Then they stopped altogether. 

I didn’t think it was because of anything I did or said. I didn’t think it was because you grew tired of me. I thought that maybe our time was up, and it was best to part ways, but you were always in the back of my head. You still remained with me in Nowhere. 

I regretted not going with you. I regretted not saying anything over our last summer or in our last moment. I could’ve gotten a plane ticket and figured things out. I could’ve tried harder in my studies to follow you to California. I wish I kissed you at least once. I wish I had done more…

No one was like you. 

No one smiled like you, smelled like you, wanted to go on walks, or eat vanilla ice cream by the fountain. 

You would be just a pleasant light in my adolescence, but I moved on with you in my memories. I hoped you did, too. 

Years went by. Without you, it felt like summer never came again. I moved from Nowhere, Ohio to Somewhere, Ohio, which lacked all the things that reminded me of you. I did what I thought I was supposed to do as an adult; got a job, a car, a house. Nothing filled this void where the warmth once was. I tried dating, but nothing felt right, not with women, and not with other men. 

When I finally thought I had moved on, summer made its return. In my hermitage, I got a cat – an orange one who howled and knocked my things from the countertop, who kneaded against my leg with his claws, who dug around in my trash for scraps. He always acted as if I never fed him. One day, the bastard found remnants of melted chocolate and lapped it up. 

“You asshole!” I scooped him up while he swatted at my face, meowing. 

I crammed him in his crate and rushed to the vet’s office. 

The receptionist was nice. She smiled at me, even when I tossed my cat in his crate up on the counter. He mewed, proclaiming his innocence. We checked in. We waited. 

Veterinarians came in and out, calling for their animal patients. I guessed that was just their normal practice.

My breath caught in my chest when I saw you appear in the waiting room, white coat wrapped around you and clipboard in hand. 

“Appointment for Ruby?” you called.

I watched your face soften when I stood, your gaze fixated on me as if I were in a spotlight. Your eyebrows furrowed together, lips spread apart. You hurried over, smiling, and threw your arms around me. The warmth returned.

It was as if we had never been separated. As if all those years apart didn’t matter, and we picked up where we left off like we were back in our last summer again. I could taste vanilla on my tongue.

We were grown. Living alone without prying eyes from parents. No more school with gossiping peers and cafeteria fights. We didn’t question what this was anymore. We finally knew. 

Do you remember when you asked me to marry you? 

God, I wish we could have. 

Now, I sit, holding your hand. Machines beep, and those sheets are too bleached and too crisp. You begged for your quilt I made you years ago, but summer’s approaching now, so it lies folded on a chair in the corner. A suitcase of your personal belongings rests beside it, your little Ruby still attached. Our new cat, Sapphire, is at home. This is nothing like home. 

“Do you remember?” I whisper after recounting the memories. 

You smile. “I still want to marry you.”

Old age crept on us, and your illness even more so. No amount of medicine could slow either. Years of happiness, of love, and of sacrifice weigh on our shoulders. We wear rings, golden and unpolished, only for show and in spirit. 

I kiss you as I have done time and time again. For a moment, we are young. We have the world figured out and youthful optimism on our side. “I know.”

Those machines let out a long, continuous tone. 

You move on without me, and that’s okay. I hold what remains of you, unafraid of what anyone may think. It isn’t like what happened so long ago. I know we will see each other again, like that day in the vet’s office. Ruby will be there, too. 

Save me a seat in heaven.

I am sure to follow.