They were childhood sweethearts. At least, that’s what the grownups used to say. In the small town of Immaculada, one of the popular adult pastimes was to sum up which boy should marry which girl when they’re both old enough. Walter lived three blocks away from her, in a tall, ancient house with wide capiz windows. He went to the same school she was in, took the same classes as hers, and joined the clubs she was also a member of. Looking back, it’s quite safe to say that they virtually shared photo albums, which would have made any wedding planner happy to create a slideshow of.
She and Walter had walked home together since they were 7 years old. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they just trudged in silence. It was never awkward, for Walter was as comfortable as a pair of old sneakers, the kind best worn for long walks, especially when you’re going nowhere extraordinary. All the time, they walked at the same pace. Well, most of it, because Walter started slowing down sometime between 6th grade and freshman year in high school, when his legs had become a lot longer than hers. There was only one time that he did walk ahead of her.
It was past oracion, and they were running late after choir practice. Halfway through their brisk walk, huge drops of rain began to fall. In a short moment, it was already a downpour. The houses closest to the road were already closed for rosary hour, so they had no choice but to race against the rain. When they got to the creek, they were dismayed to find that the water had overflowed and flooded the road. Worse, the power had gone out, and something in the way the water sounded told them that the current was strong. But forward was the only direction they knew how to go.
She was afraid of and grateful for the darkness. Their hair was plastered to their heads, and her Catholic-school skirt clung to her legs like wilted hibiscus petals. More than these, they were drenched, shivering, and fighting hard not to think about the things—living and dead—brushing against their legs as they waded through. She gripped Walter’s arm so hard she almost expected to hear his bone crack any minute.
“Stay behind me!” Walter shouted through the angry beat of the rain.
“No way!” She yelled back and shook her head vigorously, forgetting that Walter wouldn’t see and that any attempt at body language was futile at the moment.
“Please don’t pick the wrong time to be bull-headed!” He pleaded. “Take my left hand.”
That seemed fair enough, so she did as she was told. And then he added, “If I slip or fall, let go.”
Walter’s fingers were as crinkly as hers, and there was a faint tremor in his hand. He’s cold, she thought stupidly, pointing out the obvious. Then, lightning flashed overhead. She caught a glimpse of Walter’s eyes, and she knew. Walter was scared.
Miraculously, she got home safely, and for the first time, she was glad that she always walked home with Walter. The rain had softened to a drizzle, and they stood outside her door. Through the window, she could see the oil lamp casting flickers of orange light against the walls.
“Thank you,” she almost cried in relief. The same orange light danced across Walter’s face. Impulsively, she threw her arms around his neck and laid her head on his chest. She was surprised how tall he suddenly was.
“Get inside now. You’re soaked.” He mumbled. If it weren’t for the vibration his voice made on his chest, she wouldn’t have understood. Embarrassed, she yanked herself off him, turned the knob, and never looked back.
She heard the faint click of the coffee maker and remembered where she was. Miles and miles away from Immaculada, and running late for a client meeting. She took a mug out of the cupboard and poured her precious black liquid into it. The aroma was “simply orgasmic.” Haha. When did she hear that one before? Oh, yeah. That’s how one of the girls in high school had described the cologne she wore.
She started hanging out with these girls after Walter had stopped walking home with her. Or was it before? She couldn’t remember at all, except that Walter seemed different in the next three years of high school. He had grown too tall for the front row, and she never dared turn her head toward the back of the room from sophomore until senior year. He stopped singing in the choir and started tinkering with electric guitars in the music room. He wore his hair longer, kind of like the way Edward Furlong looked in Terminator. He hung out with a group of guys who played a lot of basketball and even made it to the team. She would see him in the hallway surrounded by girls, although she never saw him with anyone in particular.
On graduation day, she was having her picture taken with her friends, who were gushing about how moving her speech was.
“Come on, girls, get over it,” She said through her smile, while she knew she’d be replaying her speech over and over in her room later.
Her smile faded as she looked beyond the camera and saw Walter. No scanning. No craning the neck. He seemed to know exactly where he was going. He moved painstakingly slow until he was right in front of her—and her friends—blocking the photographer. Without a word, he held out the flowers he was carrying. Awkwardly, she took it, hoping it would make him leave sooner. He didn’t. His lips were curled in a half-smile, and his eyes had a self-assured glow. She looked down.
The card read, “I loved you. Still do.” Heat rose to her cheeks and continued its way up to her head. How dare you make me suffer 3 years, she thought angrily. How dare you wait until graduation day, when I’m leaving for a scholarship the day after tomorrow, she wanted to ask. But all she could muster was, “How dare you?” His face went blank. He turned, and that was the first time he walked away from her. She didn’t get to see the tremor in Walter’s hands.
She never heard from him again. One of her old friends had mentioned he became an engineer. Some say he became a pilot. No one knows for sure, because Walter’s family left Immaculada two months after graduation day. There was a tinge of bitterness as she sipped her coffee. One that plain sugar couldn’t fix.
