Julian Carmichael

I was a wild teen. I dated around, disobeyed my parents, rebelled and reveled in their disappointment. Then, I met them. Like me, but, not. They partied, smoke, drank, but did it all with a neutral expression. I fell, hard. We dated all our high school years, both of our parents disapproving the more reckless we got, but we didn’t care. They had a bad relationship with their parents —their mom and dad divorced, their dad left, their mom trying to insert a new guy— hurt me everytime they were on the brink of tears. Then, one day, I just… stopped. Stopped wanting to be irresponsible, stopped wanting to be with them. So I ended it. Cold, I admit. They moved out of their parents’ house and with their grandparents miles away. They tried to contact me a few times after, but I had already moved on, and with someone my parents actually approved of. I married her —Lola Briggs, someone I always went back to— young, at just 18. I felt like she was the one. Now, in Colorado searching for a house for our anniversary —5 years of marriage and 6 years of a relationship— we stop in a gallery. The showing called “Adults Now.” Pictures with gorgeous, well crafted ceramics under them. And, in the pictures, someone who looked vaguely familiar, stories of how they ended up here, back with their childhood best friends. And in some of the photos, a baby with eyes that I recognize as my own, and another person, molding the clay. With lips I kissed a thousand times before, dimples that made my knees weak, and tattoos showing in some of the photographs that made me reminisce. Is it you? You: You decide