When I’m with him I’m 17 and sitting on a truck’s tailgate, my booted feet swinging back and forth.

We’re sitting close enough that our arms brush up against each other when we take a sip of beer.

We’re not so close to be actually touching, but we wish we were.

And the beer is warm by now because I don’t like it, and I’ve got way too many butterflies in my stomach to add bubbles. 

But I’ll hold it in my hand and pretend to sip, grateful that it gives me something to do.

Otherwise I’d be fussing with my hair.

Or chewing my nails.

When I’m with him it’s always early summer. 

It’s too warm for a coat, but just cool enough to be comfortable in jeans.

And there are no bugs and the air is fresh.

His truck didn’t even get dusty as it bumped down the dirt road to the creek that we sit beside.

He brought a bag of sunflower seeds that he holds out to me.

We crunch, and spit, and I try to make sure I don’t end up with shells stuck to my chin.

He says something funny, and his shoulder bumps into mine as if to say, “get it?”

And I do, but his shoulder stays pressed against mine just the same.

When I’m with him I’m 17 and I can be anything, and go anywhere, but I’d like to stay here for now, where there’s no internet, no cell towers, and nothing to rush off to.

When I’m with him, I’m perfect, and I know because he says so, right before he leans in and brushes a kiss along my jawline.

His breath smells of barbeque Spitz and his mechanic’s fingers are rough as he runs them down my arm, along the inside of my elbow, to my hand with the warm beer clutched inside.

He pulls the beer out of my grip and threads his fingers with mine.

What a gift it is to be 17 at this age.