I had to speak louder now because the rain was pelting the raspberry bushes and the leaves were reflecting the sound rhythmically. After looking around for a minute, I noticed a small shed a little while away from us. I pointed to it and we started to run through the raspberry patch. My shoes were soaked and I could hear the squishing sound they made with every step I took towards the rusty old shed. I got to the door first and opened it for him. When we were both inside I closed it with a reverberating thud.
We were standing there, both with our hands on our knees, painting after our long run. The shed was smaller than most bedrooms, and had a slated tin roof so that we were only able to stand in half the area. The pounding of the rain on the roof was incredibly loud, but also beautiful, nature’s music. The floor was covered in straw and a few rusty, thrown away tools. An old broken down cooler sat in the right hand corner. I walked over and hauled myself onto it, my legs dangling off the side.
He came down and sat next t me, closer then I would have liked, but I guess I couldn’t blame him for the lack of space. I turned to look at him in the dim sunlight coming through the small, dusty windows located on the back wall. His eyes shown very bright and his brown hair was damp. The water had washed away the dirt on his nose. We sat there in silence just listening to the rain. I was hoping so badly he would break it, that I wouldn’t have to be the one to always cave, but I knew him better than that.
“Do you still have the raspberries?” I asked him, reaching my hand out for the pitcher.
“Yeah,” he said, holding it out to me and then pulling it back again before I had a chance to take any.
“You have to catch it,” he said, jumping off the cooler and scooping up a raspberry from the pitcher. He held his muscular arm up and started to practice his aim, darting his hand back and forth in an attempt to get the motion down.
“No, this is a bad idea,” I said, mostly just not wanting my hand eye coordination to embarrass me in front of him.
“Because we have so many better things to do?” He said, brandishing his arms as to remind me of our surroundings.
He had me there. I sighed and jumped off the cooler, waiting for him to throw the raspberry with extreme precision. The first one hit me just above my right eyebrow and then fell to the ground, bouncing a little as it hit the soft hay blanket. The second hit my upper lip, this one was closer, but still off.
“Aren’t you on the basketball team?” I asked him mockingly.
“Yeah, but it’s not all my fault, you have to move to catch it too,” he replied, semi-defensively.
“Let me try,” I said, sauntering over to where he was standing and taking the damp pitcher out of his hands.
He walked over to where I had been position and opened his mouth wide. I didn’t have complete fait that I was going to be able to do any better than he had, but on the off chance of a miracle, I picked up one of the firmer raspberries in the pitchers and took my aim. The first one sailed over his right shoulder and hit the wall with a small thud. He looked at it, and then looked back at me, an expression of slight fear running across his face.
I decided I would go for a light throw this time and the raspberry hit his pronounced chin leaving a small red juice stain at the pack of impact. He started to walk towards me, but I help up one finger to indicate that I wanted to try one more time. He begrudgingly returned to his spot. I threw the raspberry and as it got closer to his face, he dove for it, and landed in a bed of hay.
My face went from one of amusement to shock in a flash. I leaned down and saw that there was a bone saw lying less than an inch from where his left hand had landed.
“Are you ok?” I asked worriedly, not knowing if there had been another saw that had just impaled him.
“Yeah, and I caught your horrible throw too. You’re welcome,” he replied. As he got up, the residual hay in his hair started falling to the ground like a giant powdery dust cloud.
The rain continued pounding the roof as we both sat back up on the cooler. This is what I had been trying to avoid, getting trapped in a conversation with him that I didn’t want to have. Looking at him was painful, but hearing his voice, feeling the heat radiating from his body, just a few inches from mine, that was torture. We sat there in silence once again. My contemplating what was going to happen now. I had yet to tell him that I loved him, or at least I had yet to tell him in those words. 
I had made it clear in the hundreads of emails I had sent him over the years I had known him. I had shown it in small gestures like memorizing his favorite kind of milkshake ad surprising him with it, or trying to take care of him when he was sick. I had made it very clear with body motions every time I made up an excuse to spend time with him, I had done my best to let him know without having to utter those three words that would make it concrete.
I did not want to love him, because I knew he would not feel the same way. If I said it aloud, it would not only change our dynamic, but it would make it real. I would have to face the fact that I had fallen so deeply for someone who was indifferent towards me. I would have to five away the little control I had left over the situation that I had already made a fool of myself over. The relationship was like a battle, with me being the only warrior, and somehow I was still managing to lose. With the utterance of those three words I was slowly impaling myself, the war was over , I would be gone, dead.
“What are you thinking about?” He asked, breaking the silence.
“You don’t want to know,” I said, scooting myself slightly farther away from him.
I was visibly upset and I knew he didn’t know how to handle it. I turned my head so he couldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes. I hated that I was doing this to him. It wasn’t his fault, but still I had blamed him for everything.
“Why?” He asked in response.
“Because I know you said you didn’t want any more drama,” I said, turning my head back towards him.
“Come on, are we really going to do this again?” He said, his tone still gentle, but is frustration evident.
“I’m sorry, I’m trying. It’s just hard,” I said, tilting my head downwards as to not look at him.
“God, what is it. Why do you care so much about me, about us being friends,” he asked, his tone becoming more and more exasperated.
“I don’t know,” I said, I could feel myself turning off, becoming a stone, incapable of emotion. This was a defense mechanism I had picked up over the years.
“I don’t think that’s true,” he replied. His tone was calming down, becoming less exasperated and more accusatory.
I was silent, on the verge of saying those three solemn words.
“If you have something to say, just say it, because I don’t want to have to do this again,” he replied, going back to exasperated.
“I don’t want to tell you, because you’re going to hate me,” I said, jumping off of the cooler and walking towards the door.
“I’m not going to hate you if you just put an end to this,” he said, shaking his head slightly as if I was something disgusting he had to deal with. Something not worth his time or energy, a pest.
“I love you,” I said. I winced right after they left my mouth, preparing myself for the wave of pain that was about t wash over me. I took my chance to get away.
I ran, ran out into the pouring rain searching for a solace. A shelter that might seem warmer, more open than the one I had just left. I felt mud splash up onto my legs, tricking down and being replaced with each step. After a couple minutes I found the old farm house we use for hay and threw myself into a pile of it. Strips of it tickled my nose as I used it as a pillow. My heart was racing and tears started to roll down my face, mixing with the rain.
I knew he didn’t love me. I knew that there was no possible reaction he would give me that would make me happy. I knew he wouldn’t show up, his masculine shadow cast over me and the bale. He wouldn’t whisper in my ear that everything was ok, that he felt the same way and that we could be happy together.
We would never sit together on on a meadow, the blue checkered patterned blanket my grandmother knit lying underneath us. I would have made him a steak sandwich, making him meat because I know how much he loves it, even though I’m a vegetarian. We would never drink sparkling blueberry lemonade out of champagne glasses clinking and laughing in the bright sun. Worst of all, he would never taste the lemon meringue pie I would have made for him, knowing it was his favorite. Little would he know I had tried over a dozen recipes, trying to make one perfect, just for him.
I had played this guilty fantasy over in my mind many times, but as soon as those three words came out of my mouth, it shattered. 15 minutes had passed since I ran away, and I knew that soon I would have to return to him, face my fears, and I didn’t know if I was strong enough. Couldn’t I run forever? Avoid him for the rest of my time at school. This idea seemed beautiful for a moment, but I realized it wasn’t realistic. I finally moved my face from the hay, little bristles sticking to my tear stained cheeks. I walked lethargically over to the doorway of the farm house, took a deep breath, and ran back into the rainy afternoon.
There was a pit of imminent dread rolling around in my stomach as I made my way back to the farm house. I knew that when I got there I couldn’t cry. I couldn’t let him see me weak, vulnerable, he would think I was pathetic. I am many things when it comes to him, lustful, dramatic, over-pleasant to the oin of nausea, but pathetic is not one of them. My breathing was heavy and I slowed my pace once I saw the house only about 25 feet from me. I stopped, curled my fists, clenched my jaw, and held my head up high. Then I begun walking towards the big wooden door.
I pushed it open and it hit the metal wall with a loud clang. One thing that I could be truthfully said about me is that I did like to make an entrance. He jumped with a stat when the door clanged, one of those shaky, adrenaline filled jumps and I thought he was going to tackle me. When I caught his gaze, his face expressionless my hard armor dropped, the pit returned. I wanted to run, back out into the safety of the rain, but I willed myself to stay. I walked over and sat down on the cooler.
He strolled over to the big wooden door that I had left open and latched it shut. The wind was howling against the metal walls, creating a menacing whistle.
“Do I have to stand in front of the door, or can we sit down and talk about this without you running away?” He said, his tone coming off very patronizing, when I think he was trying for caring.
I felt like a child being scolded by a parent for running away.
“Can’t we just forget about it?” I replied coldly, my hands shaking as I held them firmly in my lap.
“No, obviously this changes things,” he said, his back still pressed firmly against the door.
“It doesn’t have to. I’ve felt this way for a long time, you’ve just been to clueless to see it. I can just go back to my life of quiet desperation, and you can go about yours as if I never said anything. No drama, no pain, everybody wins,” I said, knowing that I had already lost. Lost him, lost this game I had been playing, and I was trying so hard to change the score after the fact. Go back to the seventh inning and pretend I hadn’t struck out with those three lousy words that had filled our air with tension for so long.
“But you did say something, and now that it’s out there, something needs to be said. I have things you need to understand,” he said, his face remaining expressionless.
“Really, because I know how this conversation goes. I have gone through it enough times in my head to be able to tell you what you say and so you actually saying it is just a waste of time,” I said, a hint of anger in my voice.
“Even so, let me say what I have to say,” he said.
I looked up at him, the hint of a smug look on his face. I wanted to hit him, wanted to punch him in the gut. He was about to break my heart and he couldn’t even have the decency to act like he cared, even a little bit. What the h*ll did he have to be smug about anyway, the fact that someone was so enthralled with him? Did that make him feel big, powerful? I have him a flick of my wrist, to let him know he could start speaking, and then returned my hands to my lap, fists forming as I did so.
“I don’t love you,” he said.
I knew this was just the beginning, but I was already feeling the warmth in my cheeks that occurred just before I was going to cry. I bit my lip in an effort to distract myself from the tears, hold them off until he wasn’t looking.
After a breathe continued, “I have never loved you, and I never will love you. You will never be more than a friend to me, so it’s good to get any notion of that out of your head right now,” he said in a monotone.
I scoffed. Did he really think it was that easy to get me to drop the idea of us? Did he think I hadn’t tried to stop feeling how I did?
“I’ve gotten pretty tired of this bulls*** over the last couple of years and I’m frankly annoyed by the amount of drama you bring into my life,” he continued.
I couldn’t deny this. I did bring a lot of drama into his life, but it was all leading to this conversation. All the drama leading to this moment I had been dancing around for so long.
“I mean you’re a cool person, and at times, I get along with you great… but this love thing is not going to fly on my end. Obviously I can’t stop you from feeling that way about me, but again, I don’t feel that way in the slightest,” he said, his voice calm, steady. It was still giving off a tone that was cold as ice.
“If you feel like you can hang out with me without bringing drama into my life, or complaining about how I don’t reciprocate your love, then great, maybe we can be some type of friends.”
“Don’t give me the “we can be friends” line. We both know we haven’t been “friends” for years,” I said shaking my head slightly in indignation.
“What do you mean? I thought we had,” he said.
“No, what we were is civil. Friends is having conversations with me about things that actually matter. Friends is trusting me enough to tell me things that you wouldn’t tell just anyone. Friends is asking me questions about me. I have been trying to be friends, and you keep blocking me at every turn, “I said.
“See, this is you trying to bring drama into my life. Can you ever just be happy with what you have? Be happy with my definition of friendship or are you always going to want more? If you are cool with what we have, great, otherwise, I’m tired of this,” he said taking a step towards me. He flailed his arms emphatically.
“I’m sorry that you see this as me trying to bring drama into your life. I see this as me trying to stop the drama. I’ve been haunted by these feelings for you for years now, and instead of telling you and wrecking our friendship, I kept it to myself.”
“God, I am so tires of you blaming this on me!” He said and he hit the cooler with his fists making me jump.
“I didn’t ask you to fall in love with me, he said, his teeth gritted.
“And you think I did?” I hate that I love you. I hate that whenever you walk into a room I play with my hair in order to make it look like I’m not staring. I really hate that even when you’re a total di*k to me I make excuses for you in my head. All I ever wanted to do, all I want to do now, is make you happy,” I said.
“Well you’ve done a lousy job of it,” he said bluntly.
“I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry that all .I’ve done is make you miserable, but did you for one second ever stop to think how I feel. I’ve been trying to be friends with someone who is totally and indefinitely indifferent towards me. I could not be here and your life would be exactly the same, maybe even better,” I replied.
“No, I never thought about that,” he mumbled.
“Ok, so what happens now?” I asked resignedly.
“Well I’m not going to change how I act towards you. I’m going to treat you the same way I’ve been treating you for the last few years.” He said.
“Ok, and I’m not going to stop trying to break down these walls you put up,” I replied.
He rolled his eyes at me, but it seemed to be more playful then actually exasperated.
The rain was starting to die down and all we could hear was the plink of drizzle hitting the tin roof.
“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about all this,” I said catching his gaze for the first time in the conversation.
“It’s ok, it’s not all your fault, I’m pretty great” he said. I laughed at his pride and confidence and the tension in the room started to evaporate.
We sat there for a few more minutes before exiting the farmhouse and making our way back through the marshland to campus. He didn’t love me, but I already knew that. What I knew now is that we could move on. No more passive aggressive emails trying to gauge how much he cared about me. I wouldn’t have to wonder what he saw when he looked at me, a pathetic romantic, or a devoted friend. In the end, it was probably good he didn’t love me, because now I could give up the notion that we were perfect for each other. As we walked back I knew for the first time in years what was going on between us. We were friends, just two boys walking through the mud with a pitcher full of raspberries.