“Also putting french friesonthe burger?” Wren looks up with me. “Revolutionary.”
We stare at each other, mouths full, and burst into a fit of laughter. It’s a mix of realizing how strange we look sitting on her living room floor talking to my late grandma and the mix of alcohol in our systems.
I spring up from the floor to run to my bag and grab my keys. “Wren! I almost forgot! I’ll be right back!” I run toward the door and notice my body start to sway a little bit. Shit, I should probably drink some water.
“What are you—” She cuts herself off seeing that I’m already halfway out the door.
I parked my car right out front so it doesn’t take me long to grab what I need and hurry back inside. I’ve barely looked inside the box myself so I have no idea what’s about to come out of this thing. I honestly have no recollection of ever boxing upanyof my stuff from high school.
“Dude! You cannot just frantically run outside drunk like that!” Wren is standing up now, milkshake in one hand and her wine glass in the other.
Completely ignoring her with a grin, I kick off my shoes and run back to where we were sitting. “First, I’m out of breath. I need water before I pass out,” I say, practically panting which is humbling since I didn’t go far. “Second, when I got home from work the other day, this was sitting on my porch.”
My excitement is both a mix of me forgetting about the box and also the wine entering my system. I take a breath before I gesture to Wren to sit with me, eagerly tapping my fingers on the cardboard. The second she sets her drinks down and sits back on the couch, I shove the box into her lap.
“A… box?” She gives me a questioning look as she eyes the box now in her hands.
“Theoretically, yes,” I say. “But it’s fromhigh school.”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh my, do you know what’s in it?”
“Not a clue, that’s why I brought it so we could open it up together.” I stand back up, a little dizzy. “Let me go get water first.”
Heading into the kitchen, I grab two glasses from the cupboard; if I need water, it’s safe to assume Wren does too. Looking over my shoulder, I see Wren has already taken off the lid.
“Oh my GOD! Look at your student ID card, Mais!” She holds up my senior year card with my school photo. The girl in that photo is nothing like the girl today, thankfully. “Getting bangs days before school started was… definitely a choice.”
I laugh, making my way back with our waters and set them on the coffee table. “Why do you think I’ve kept my hair exactly the same ever since?”
Taking the ID from her, I stare at it for a bit. I take a deep breath welcoming the bittersweet feeling in my stomach. Would past Maisie be proud of who she grew up to be? Would she be upset we’re still here in Ruby Lake working at the diner?
Change has always been hard for me but now I’m wondering if that’s something that’s holding me back.
Change is scary but is staying the same scarier?
“Are you alright over there?” Wren pokes at my shoulder. “You’re spacing out a little.”
“Oh, yeah—” I try to speak but my voice wavers as I blink away tears that try to form. “I’m okay, just stuck in my thoughts.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know.” I try to smile away my tears. “I can’t tell if it’s the alcohol making me emotional or not. I’m just scared that the girl in this photo,” I point at the ID, “would be upset that she’s still stuck in her hometown.”
Instead of holding back tears, I let them fall down my cheek as I look at the girl in the photo before me.
“Oh, Mais.” Wren scoots closer, wrapping her arms around me. “I think Senior Year Maisie would be so proud of who you’ve become.”
“Proud of what exactly?” I let a few tears finally break free. “Proud that I never went to college and still work at the same diner I’ve worked at my whole life?”
Wren hugs me tighter before pulling back, eyes on mine. “You, Maisie Winslow, should besoproud of yourself. College is not for everyone, do not beat yourself up over that.” She reaches a hand up and wipes away another fallen tear running down my cheek. “As for staying in Ruby Lake your whole life, I’m right here with you. Sometimes it’s hard knowing you never left but then you look around, look at the life you’ve created for yourself rather than the life you think you want.”
“When did you become a therapist?”
“You’re my best friend, I’ll always be your therapist.” She reached to the table to grab a journal. “How about we get out of present Maisie’s thoughts and see what high school Maisie was writing about in herdiaryyyy!” She sing-songs the last word which makes me break out into a fit of giggles, wiping away the rest of my tears.
I take another sip from my glass knowing the wine can either make me feel better or worse. Either way I have to know what was so important for me to journal about back then.
Wren flips it open and the first page has my name written in orange glitter gel and underneath in cursive it says “My Senior Year” in pink glitter gel.
