Wine, cheese and memories

The night carried that lingering summer warmth, the kind that wrapped around me and made the air feel like velvet. It was far too perfect to keep the top up, so I’d driven home with the convertible open, the warm wind teasing through my hair as the cicadas hummed their endless chorus. Even now, parked in my driveway at ten o’clock, I let the engine tick down slowly, reluctant to let go of the moment.

The scent of freshly cut grass clung to the neighborhood, that sharp, green perfume that reminded me of being young, of long evenings when the world felt wide open. I cut the engine, climbed out, and grabbed my work bag, but before I could sling it over my shoulder, I noticed movement next door.

A man—broad-shouldered, steady—was carrying boxes up the walkway of the house beside mine. His shirt clung slightly to his back with the effort, and something about the shape of him made me pause. Attractive, definitely. But there was more to it, something oddly familiar in the way he moved.

I set my bag down on the grass, not even bothering to hide my curiosity, and called out, “Need a hand with those?”

He looked up, and the porch light caught his face. Recognition slammed into me.

“Deppgrl?” he said, voice roughened by surprise.

I blinked. “Mike?”

I couldn’t believe it—my former lover turned boyfriend from the community college we both attended. Two decades had slipped by since those days, but in an instant, it was him. Older, yes, with lines etched into his face and a gravity that hadn’t been there before, but it was still Mike. The one who had once made my pulse race.

“Well,” I managed, a nervous laugh slipping out. “Of all the people in the world…”

He grinned, shaking his head as though he couldn’t believe it either. “Of all the streets in all the towns.”

We stood there for a moment, both rooted to the grass, the air between us buzzing with memory. Then he gestured toward his front door. “Come inside. I’d offer you dinner, but right now I’ve only got wine and cheese. Don’t judge—it’s all I managed to unpack.”

“Wine and cheese sounds perfect,” I said, following him inside.

The place was still bare, boxes stacked along the walls, the faint smell of paint and cardboard lingering in the air. He disappeared into the kitchen and came back with a half-opened wedge of cheese, two mismatched plates, and a bottle of red he worked open with practiced ease.

“Welcome to my glamorous new bachelor pad,” he said, handing me a glass.

I laughed. “I’ve had worse welcomes.” I raised the glass toward his. “To surprises.”

“To surprises,” he echoed, and we clinked gently before sipping.

The wine was warmer than it should have been, the cheese unevenly cut, but none of it mattered. Sitting across from Mike again after twenty years was surreal. His eyes hadn’t changed, that sharp, direct way he looked at me like he was still trying to read my thoughts.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence first, “what’s your story now? Last time I saw you, we were still figuring out majors and cheap beer.”

He chuckled, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. A lifetime ago. I married young, had a couple of kids. Joined the military, spent more years than I can count being shipped in and out. I’m in the reserves now—less traveling, more stability.” His expression shifted, quiet for a beat. “Separated from my wife. We’re leaning toward divorce.”

I set my glass down softly. “I’m so sorry, Mike.”

He shook his head. “Don’t be. It’s not all bad. The marriage just ran its course. But my kids? They’re incredible and healthy. They’re best part of me, really.” His eyes softened when he said it, and for the first time that night, his grin wasn’t a mask—it was genuine.

I studied him, searching for the traces of the man I once knew. He was still there. Beneath the years, beneath the weight of life, he was still unmistakably Mike.

“What about you?” he asked, nodding toward me. “Where’s life taken you all this time?”

I smiled faintly. “Everywhere and nowhere. Work, travel, burning out, starting over. I’ve had my share of detours. You know me—I never was good at sitting still.”

“That much hasn’t changed,” he said with a grin. “You always had that restless streak. I used to think you’d outrun the whole world if you could.”

“Maybe I tried,” I admitted, laughing softly.

For a while, we traded pieces of the last two decades like puzzle fragments. He told me about the endless blur of deployments, about learning to live out of a duffel bag, about how quickly his kids grew every time he came home. I shared stories of airports and strange cities, of the risks I took, the chances that flamed out, the ones that turned into something real. I never told him about the abortion nor the possibility of who of the four men could’ve been the father.

And when the conversation turned back to the past—our past—it was almost seamless. We laughed over professors we’d both hated, friends who’d vanished into the fog of time, nights we shouldn’t have stayed out so late.

“You remember that old diner?” he asked suddenly, shaking his head with a grin. “We practically lived there. I’m surprised they didn’t name a booth after us.”

“Oh god,” I groaned, laughing. “Don’t remind me. That coffee could have stripped paint.”

“Didn’t stop you from drinking four cups a night.”

I tossed a piece of cheese at him, which he caught easily. “Some things never change.”

The laughter died down, but the warmth lingered, filling the quiet spaces between us. There was an ease here, a familiarity I hadn’t expected.

Eventually, I glanced at the clock and realized how late it had gotten. “I should let you get back to unpacking. You’ve got a long week ahead, I’m guessing.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But tonight was better than unpacking, trust me.”

I stood, and so did he. For a moment, neither of us moved toward the door. Then, with a quiet smile, he said, “It’s good to see you again, Deppgrl.”

“It’s good to see you too,” I said softly.

The night air was warm as I stepped back outside, the scent of grass still heavy in the breeze. It took me all of thirty seconds to walk across the short stretch of lawn to my stuff still thrown on the grass next to my car to my front door, but everything felt different. My house was the same and the street was the same. But Mike was next door now, after all these years.

Inside, I leaned against the door once it clicked shut and let out a slow breath. I could still hear his laugh in my head, still feel the warmth of his gaze. I hadn’t expected to feel this—this rush, this pull—but it was there. And it left me standing in the dark of my living room, smiling like a secret I wasn’t ready to share.