Our First Love Read Online Free PDF Page B

Barney’s funeral had become my guilty pleasure. I didn’t know her name or anything about her, but I could still hear her saying, “Just doing my part.” I could still see her graceful smile. Her brown eyes, they were mesmerizing.I was trying not to obsess about her, but it’d been a long time since I met someone I really wanted to get to know personally. For the past nine years, I’d been a journalist and the first rule of being a reporter was to remain objective. Stay outside the story and don’t get too close to the people you’re writing about. This rule, which I applied to my personal life, was never a problem. I didn’t want to get too acquainted with anyone I interviewed or met. But it’s not like that with her. I’d been dying to see her and to talk to her. I want to know who she is. Know her favorite color. Her favorite food. Her favorite song. I want to know what makes her smile. I really, really want to know what makes her smile. One day soon, I hope to know everything about her, but until then, I’ll settle for just knowing her name.
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    Who am I hurting by keeping her to myself?
    No one, I told my conscience.
    Then, why am I keeping her a secret?
    Because…
    Because why?
    â€¦
    You better be careful. Keeping secrets can be risky.
    Shut the hell up, I cursed my conscience. You don’t have to keep reminding me. I know how destructive secrets can be. But think about it this way. I’ll probably never see her again. So what’s the harm in keeping her a secret?
    You’re not hearing me. So go ahead and do what you want to do, my bedraggled conscience snapped back. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you.
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    Am I being selfish by keeping her to myself? I’ve pondered this question nearly every hour since I met her. So far I’ve been able to justify keeping her to myself and not sharing her with Caleb.I’d convinced myself that he doesn’t need to know about her because I don’t know anything about her. However, the real reason I think I’ve kept her a secret has to do with how desperate I’ve become since I met her. There’s no way I want to share this asthmatic feeling with my brother.
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    It was Sunday afternoon and I’d been in bed all day. Caleb had been doing something in the den most of the day. The den was divided into our home office and Mom’s sewing room. Neither of us sews, so the only time either of us go on that side of the den was when Caleb steps over there to dust the sewing machine and change the faded spool of black thread during his spring cleaning frenzy. Now, the office was mainly used when Caleb wrote his blog, but we used to use it when I brought home interview notes so Caleb could write articles for the newspaper under my byline.
    When I got up to get a drink of water around noon, Caleb had already prepared lunch: slaw dogs on toasted buns and baked beans. He was sitting at the desk working on the computer. I figured he was working on a new blog. I still was not sure how I felt about Caleb writing this blog. I knew it gave him something to do, but I didn’t think it’s a good idea for him to make up memories about our childhood. Caleb looked up and saw me, and I nodded toward the door. He got up and went to his bedroom, and I went outside to get Saturday’s and Sunday’s Capitol Sentinel out of the delivery box. When I got back inside, I fixed two slaw dogs and a large bowl of baked beans and went in the living room. The television was off, so I didn’t bother to turn it on. I didn’t read the newspapers either. I haven’t since my photo appeared in the sidebar story to the article about Barney’s suicide. I sat there eating and periodically glancing at Caleb who was working diligently at whatever he was doing.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” I finally broke down and asked, “Working on your blog?”
    â€œNo,” he answered.