It felt a bit like the world was ending right now, even if I knew that wasn’t true. My world as I knew it was gone but is that not the start of a new beginning? I was struggling for a thread of that silver lining to grasp onto, trying to think of something Mom would say.
What the hell did I really have going for me?
A smooch that was all too brief and knocked my socks off. I could check that off the list? Pfft. Yay me? Womp-womp.
Instead of looking for the rainbow after the rain, masochist that I am, my mind has subconsciously decided to tie me to the bumper of my clunker and drag me down memory lane, willing or not.
I couldn’t help but wonder what I had done to find myself cast aside from their lives so thoroughly. Had I been deemed a bad influence? Had I committed offenses I was unaware of? Had they spoken to my parents about any of this? Perhaps it was none of that entirely. Maybe I’m not meant to know.
My mind kept circling the drain. I was obsessed, fixated. I’ve got a real problem here and the problem isn’t really the problem. I’m so the problem.
Elm hadn’t just been my best friend. That boy had been my world.
Was I the weird girl to them too and they were too nice to just come right out and say it? Was I being too… clingy? Coming around too much? Were they tolerating me all those years because Mom and Sunny were so tight?
My Mom would know what to say about all of this, and Dad would back her up, ludicrous as my worries I purged to them may or may not be.
I missed them so damn much I physically ached. No jokes with Dad that had Mom snort-laughing, no sweet familymoments to be thankful for, no one shouting my first and middle name because I thought it and I said it and it was a wee bit too far because I was comfortable and unfiltered.
“This is all fucked,” I muttered as I adjusted my beanie. The hair attached to my wig, a wig-beanie— or wignie as I found it more fun to refer to it, if only in my head— had gone askew at some point and the hair was slapping me in the left side of my face.
I’m totally overthinking all of this crap. What the hell does any of it matter? It’s all ancient history.
Hell, soon enough I’ll be moving to who the hell knows where for good, doing god knows what just to make ends meet, and they’ll all be nothing more than a bunch of wonky memories from an ill fated point in my life I’m not crazy about dwelling on.
Glancing at the car stereo, still stuck on the old days, I turned off my playlist and switched to the radio and put it on a pop station. The bubblegummiest song I’d ever heard in my life popped on.
Snorting at myself, I listened for a few minutes and then announced grandly, “This one’s for you, you smooch stealing, slick bastard,” and attempted, quite horribly if I had to speak on it, to sing along to Cypress’ secret love.
By the time I pulled up to the house I’d mangled three more songs, a stupid, goofy smile on my face as I gave up trying to keep up with the last song and put the car in park.
Catchy shit, I had to admit.
Locking the car up, I made my way towards the front steps. I was just shy of reaching the door, humming along to the earworm from the radio I feared had clearly infected my brain— a pleasant distraction— when I caught movement through the corner of my eye.
Shoving my hand into my bag, my fingers curled around the small self defense spray canister rolling around in there as I turned sharply.
“Jus’ Elm. No shoot,” that familiar, haunting, once upon a time comforting, voice from my childhood rumbled out.
“How the hell did you beat me… home?” My voice trailed off as he popped out from the side of the house looking bashful as hell.
“Truck,” he grunted out, meaning he’d driven his truck. A truck I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of, so he must have hauled ass past me flying down the back road behind my house. The Tree boys’ vehicles were not exactly quiet but to be fair I’d been blasting my music. Cy took it as his personal mission to make sure all their trucks roared. Why was Elm sneaking around back to beat me home?
My gaze darted down his thick frame, past a blast from the past plastered to his chest, the customary unbuttoned flannel over it, pausing briefly on the box in his hands.
Familiar stickers plastered to the side had my insides feeling like they’d gone from soupy and all over the place to congealed.
I knew that box.
My heart sank at the sight of it.
That used to be our box, shared items we kept in there together. It was THE box. Guessing he meant to give it back, my heart dropped.
“What do you want?” I didn’t mean to sound so harsh. My chest felt like he’d stabbed it and then just dropped a weight on it with no sign of that crushing burden letting up as I freely bled out.
Elm flinched but stood tall.
I supposed if he felt he needed to firmly shut the door on this part of his life, he’d best do what needed doing. I understoodit— I’d love it if I was capable of doing the same— didn’t have to be a willing participant. I mean, did I?
