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Summer after the Summer of Love
I’m even a little surprised at how good it is to see you. It’s silly how we didn’t keep in touch all year like we said we would. And a lot of the blame falls in my court, considering you sent me that sweet note in August and then those less sweet notes September through November—notes I deserved, sure, but issue being that while I was still obsessing over my reply to that first letter, trying to say what I wanted to say just right, I got that second letter, which really froze me up. I had to tear up the obsolete one I was working on and start all over. It might’ve been wise to exchange phone numbers and emails, but we’d bonded so much over Luddite anti-tech stuff, it felt so romantic to just . . . And when your third note arrived just as I was finishing my second, which was getting really long and indulgent anyway, I had to just throw the whole thing out. After that, the school year got a hold of me, soccer season and all, and I looked up and it was June. But on the van ride over here, I started wondering if I’d see you, and had all these positive thoughts about you and about the talks we had and about that last night of camp we shared and the rashes we were so sure we were going to get since we couldn’t see a damn thing in that forest, and about those sweet young promises we made to each other. Now here we are, smiling, all that stuff behind us, slates clean, fresh air, ready to laugh over new jokes. You’ve got to tell me what’s been going on with you, but hey, first, I want you to meet my girlfriend.
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