These are the things that Kevin remembers most fondly from college:
Mostly, he remembers the idyllic, lazy Saturdays, all blurring together in a haze of mid-morning sun and twisted bedsheets and long, languid kisses and shared daydreams. Those were his favorite memories, when he felt carefree and comfortable and warm and complete. He recalls one time—or, more likely, an amalgamation of different times—when he'd hazily woken up next to Connor in his dorm on some Saturday morning in early fall feeling like he never wanted to leave, and how he'd rested his head on Connor's chest and wrapped an arm around him and just laid there listening to his heartbeat until Connor finally awoke.
Later they had gone downstairs in their pajamas for breakfast in the cafeteria but hadn't eaten anything, just smuggled out a box of Lucky Charms and snickered at how clever and sneaky they were. They'd lazed around on the couch eating handfuls of cereal out of the box, with Connor trying to throw marshmallow bits up into Kevin's mouth and always missing because he had terrible aim and would dissolve into giggling fits each time.
They hadn't even bothered to fold in the fold-out dorm bed/couch with that scratchy orange burlap slipcover, and Kevin had sat up with his legs stretched out while Connor lay across the bed with his head in Kevin's lap and his feet propped up on the end of the couch. Connor had been telling some story and excitedly waving his hands around and Kevin had just watched him with a look of total dumbstruck love and amazement while absentmindedly running his fingers through Connor's auburn hair, shining in sunlight that filtered in through the tiny window. It was probably at least 11am by then, judging by the sun. It must have been a football Saturday because he could hear the intermittent faint roar from the stadium; he didn't really care, but it had felt nice to know that other people were happy, too.
There were clothes and books and binders scattered around the floor and an empty pizza box on top of the trash bin from the night before when they had stayed in and watched The Office or something similar and made out and then ate pineapple and bacon pizza and then made out some more and then ate more pizza and then thought about either ordering another pizza or having sex but Connor had vetoed the former, and Kevin the latter, so instead they fell asleep with the TV on, wrapped up in each other, and that was just as good.
He remembers other events, routines and moments, too, both significant and fleeting.
He remembers walks across campus when the leaves were changing, strolling past the red brick buildings and trees and gardens, holding hands and trading playful flirtatious insults, and crunching leaves underfoot. They stopped to kiss by the river and Connor ran to chase after some ducks and Kevin couldn't stop laughing at how stupidly adorable his boyfriend was.
He remembers late breakfasts at The Skillet after church on Sundays, picking at a western omelet and reminiscing about Uganda and bemoaning why they had waited so long, why they hadn't owned up to what they were feeling until just months before Connor had left, how tough that interim year apart had been, how they had waited for one another, and how scared they had been that someone would find out, but how relieving it was to be together after all they'd been through.
He remembers the routine of biking over to Connor's dorm after lecture on Friday evenings during the spring of their first year because Connor had a single on the west side of campus whereas Kevin had an obnoxious roommate that never left: pack a backpack (pajamas, change of clothes, toothbrush, razor, laptop, homework), bike across campus, lock the bike, up the stairs, knock on the door, kiss, drop the backpack in the closet, immediately onto the couch.
He remembers the inside jokes and laughing fits and late nights with friends who said admiringly, "You guys are sickeningly adorable." Connor had blushed beet red with embarrassment and buried his face in a pillow, and Kevin pounced on him, saying, "I don't care, let them see how much I love you. I love you I love you I love you I love you," and he said it again and again until Connor smiled so big Kevin just had to kiss him to hold onto that smile as long as possible. All their friends groaned and booed in mock disgust and threw plastic cups and pillows at them and that just made Connor smile harder.
He remembers the way Connor curled up on his side and got tangled in the sheets. The way his ears would twitch when he smiled. The way, at restaurants, he always spooned out the lemon from Kevin's water and put it into his own glass. The way he undid his tie. The way he tasted. The way he could open up to Kevin in ways he never did with anyone else. The way he could easily calm people down or whip them up in a passionate frenzy. The way he would always borrow that old blue t-shirt to sleep in, even when they lived together. The way he could never decide on what movie to see. The way he could drive Kevin crazy and love him so deeply at the same time. The way he blushed. The way he always had a dishtowel slung over his shoulder when he was cooking and he would forget to take it off and how it was so easy to draw it around the back of his neck and use it to pull him close.
He remembers Thanksgiving at Martin's house in their first year, being deliriously happy to be an adult with other adults and be able to be himself. He snuck into the kitchen and wrapped himself around Connor from behind, resting his head on Connor's shoulder and putting his hands into the pockets of Connor's ridiculous red apron. Connor batted him away playfully as Kevin nibbled at his ear, trying to distract him, and Connor obligingly fed him pecans as he worked—"one for the pie, one for you, one for the pie, one for you…"
He remembers, after Connor's first show, how he waited at the stage door with a takeout container of chicken lo mein and a dozen glazed donuts from Molly's Bakery because he knew that was exactly what he'd want, and it was, and they sat on the curb outside of the theatre eating donuts under the street lamp.
He remembers the night he spent hours exploring and discovering every single square centimeter of Connor with his lips and tongue and fingertips and how he felt like he knew both his partner and himself better than he ever had before.
He remembers having separate apartments and roommates the second year, but spending most of his time at Connor's place—how he'd made a space in his closet, and on his desk and in the bathroom and how they were so much a part of each other's lives that it was perfect and complementary.
He remembers midnight karaoke at the bar with friends, Kyle, Dan, girl Max and boy Max. He and Connor sat in the back of the booth and held hands under the table like coy schoolboys while everyone else was obliviously drunk. Connor dragged him up to the front of the bar and they sang 'Ice Ice Baby' with Connor doing preposterously exaggerated dance moves and Kevin barely able to get out any words because he was keeled over laughing the whole time, and it was the worst and absolute best thing they'd ever done.
He remembers Connor sending him terribly salacious text messages during his Plato seminar and finding it nearly impossible not sprint out of the room and back to his apartment.
He remembers lunch breaks with Connor and Martin and Jean and Katherine at the phone bank in late fall of their second year, after Connor had cajoled him into volunteering for the marriage amendment campaign, drinking apple cider in the next-door café and talking about the 'big issues' and how when they talked about the amendment there had been those flickers of moments when they didn't say it, but he and Connor looked at each other he knew they were both thinking, "What if we…?" and the thought was terrifying and preposterous but it also seemed right.
He remembers wet, sloppy, needy kisses under the State Street bridge after escaping from a sudden spring downpour. Slow, exploratory, romantic kisses behind the chemical engineering stacks in the library. Ravaging, insistent kisses in the alley behind the used bookstore, when Connor whispered in his ear that felt like he could never be whole unless he had Kevin right there under the fire escape.
He remembers how easy it was to comfort and reassure one another, through failed tests and family problems and job stress and bad days. How when Sal was in the hospital they'd sat on the bench outside his room with the others for two days straight, taking shifts sleeping and getting food, and they didn't let go of each others' hand even once while they were together there and they got through it and everything was okay.
He remembers senior year, that first day in their apartment, their own actual real human-adult apartment with walls and a dishwasher and a balcony, when they were so tired from moving boxes all day that Connor fell asleep on the living room floor in the middle of the afternoon halfway through setting up an ikea couch, and Kevin's momentary frustration was quickly subsumed as he marveled at how beautiful and ridiculous Connor looked curled up on the bare floor, screwdriver in one hand and instruction manual in the other.
He remembers that winter, the nights spent huddling together by the space heater touching and tasting and sharing each others' warmth. The plastic Christmas tree they set up in the corner of their living room that made it feel like a real home, their home, and the twinkling gold lights that Connor strung across the kitchen entrance that reminded him of Uganda. Eating Chinese takeout and watching 'It's A Wonderful Life' on the couch, wrapped together in the big quilt from their bed, and falling asleep on Connor's shoulder.
He remembers those times when they couldn't stop talking, when they needed to know everything about each other all in one moment. He also remembers those times when they didn't need to talk at all, when they were completely comfortable, Connor at his computer doing homework, he on the couch with a book, or Connor cooking dinner in the kitchen and him folding laundry on the living room floor, and it all felt so blissfully domestic and simple.
He prefers to forget the fights that started in their third year, the screaming matches and slammed doors and nights alone, the stupid squabbles about who would buy groceries and the bigger arguments about intimacy and trust and commitment that inevitably ended with Connor locking himself in the bathroom and Kevin pouting on the couch. Connor railing at him and pleading with him that he needs Kevin to be present in their physical relationship, needs to feel that he is loved and wanted, and that Kevin is always so stubborn and self-centered and he can't just charm his way through life. And Kevin yelling back about everything that he does for Connor's benefit and isn't that enough and of course he loves him so much why would he even question that and how he moved to Ohio just to be with him and how Connor has known this and they've talked about it a million times and how he can't just change, just like that.
He doesn't like to remember that month during the second year when they broke up, or those four days during their third year where the broke up again and it felt like the end, and all the times they were too stubborn to apologize to one another, to admit to mistakes and harsh words that they immediately regretted but didn't retract. He hates being reminded of all the things he said but didn't mean and all the things he wished he had said but was too arrogant or scared to say out loud.
He doesn't like to remember election night, 2012, when they watched the numbers come in and Connor held his hand so tightly his fingers went numb and all the air was sucked out of the room as everyone stared at the TV full of hope and anxiety. When they called that the marriage amendment had failed, Connor looked utterly broken and furious and he slumped down into the chair and cried, "No no no no no no NO! God DAMMIT!" and buried his head in his hands and curled his knees up to his chest. That was both the first time he's seen him cry in public and the first and only time he'd heard him curse, and Kevin felt empty and useless because he just didn't know how to care about it as much as Connor did. He wanted to; he wanted to feel the connection to the gay community that Connor did and be passionate like him, but he just didn't, and he wasn't. He both marveled at Connor and resented him for their dissonance.
He doesn't like to remember, during the spring of the second year, the denials upon denials that turned into shouting telephone calls with his parents when they had found out and the jealousy and undeserved anger he felt toward Connor because his mother was so accepting. He felt bitter about how Connor had changed so much more than he had—how at first Connor had been so hesitant and scared and ashamed and Kevin had to be the strong one, but how Connor so quickly become comfortable in his own skin and proud and confident—because when Kevin was with Connor he felt that way too, but when they were apart the old shame and guilt and doubt crept back in and he felt like less than himself.
He doesn't like to remember the times he started to despise Connor: Connor being evasive, Connor avoiding talking about how to fix things, Connor pushing him too hard, Connor putting on a show of being collected and in control even when he wasn't, Connor doing that nervous, pacing, hands-behind-his-neck, I'm-not-talking-to-you thing that he did so often, Connor storming out at night and not coming home until the next morning.
He doesn't like to remember the intense, consuming, misdirected jealousy of their mutual friend Martin—all put-together and professional and straight-forward and passionate and perfect Martin—and reading too much into every look Connor gave him, every touch and movement and kind word. He never confronted Connor about it, instead letting his jealousy and suspicion seethe until it boiled over in undeserved bursts of passive aggression that he knew were hurtful but he couldn't help it.
He doesn't like to remember how they had the same arguments over and over again, and how inevitably each time afterward they held each so tightly and he kissed Connor so desperately and wanted to feel every part of him, and together they swore they'd make it work but each time they believed it less and less.
He doesn't like to remember that single moment, that millisecond when Connor said he wasn't sure if he was in love anymore.
He tries to forget the moment it was finally over for good, but he can't. June 13, 4:38pm. How it was mutual but it wasn't really because he knew Connor was certain, but Kevin couldn't imagine being without him. He gripped onto all the cracks in their relationship, holding on as tightly as he could, trying to mend the pieces back together because he didn't want it to end, because even though it was painful and destructive he couldn't let it end.
He can't accept that sometimes people are in love and sometimes they fall out of love and it isn't anyone's fault, it just happens. All his memories from then involve Connor, and he can't sort out the JustKevin from the ConnorandKevin. He doesn't know how to be JustKevin any more because the only time he felt real was when he was with Connor, and the only way he remembers himself is when he was with Connor. He can't stand to keep clinging onto the good memories just as much as he can't forget the bad ones because is still in love with Connor, and he is fairly sure that he won't ever not be in love with him.