𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐯𝐞

You asked to walk me home,
but I had to carry you
-Phoebe Bridgers

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

June 2015,

My first summer back at River Bend, me and Tenny spent it a lot like our first one.

We hung out in the church yard and bought sodas from JD's. In the evenings, we headed down to the creek to sink our toes into the mud. We listened to the bullfrogs, wondered why we'd never seen one. We'd talk for hours that way, most times, about nothing.

Me and Tenny were funny that way—as if we had some sort of unspoken agreement not to speak about real life. Parents, home, disfunction and problems; none of that existed when it was just the two of us. He never asked, and I never told.

I had thought it made things easier, somehow.

But truth is, that shit's hard to keep buried.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

It's the dead of Fall, and yet I find myself sweating as I walk back from class. Mississippi can be that way, even in the dead of winter, some days, the heat just lingers. The sun is out, the grass is green, and aside from the falling leaves, it appears like summertime.

Other students are taking advantage. Some lay out on colorful blankets, an impromptu mid-morning picnic. Others toss around a frisbee or lounge on the outdoor seating. I'm heading toward Pittman when someone catches my eye.

Bailey is slumped on a metal bench. It's meant to be facing a fountain, but it's been dormant for weeks in preparation for winter. He's staring at his hands, face uncharacteristically solemn. I take a seat beside him.

"Morning, Bailey," I say. "How are you?" The last time I saw him, Frankie had him on the dance floor. I assumed the worst would have been behind him, his first colossal hang-over under his belt, but his face tells a different story.

"I'm alright, thank you."

I nudge his shoulder. "You can tell me if you're not."

He sighs, drops his head into his hands. "I'm a home-wrecker, Violet! I ruined everything for Frankie—her new boyfriend won't speak to her, and it's all my fault...I feel sick about it."

"Oh, Bailey." I throw my arm around his shoulder, press him into me like I've seen Dalton do a thousand times. "It isn't like that at all...none of this is your fault. Frankie doesn't think so, either. I promise."

"But if I hadn't said that I loved her, none of this would be happening."

"No, no," I assure. "Everyone understands—no one is blaming you, so you shouldn't either. And besides, it's Frankie. All of this will blow over in a couple of days and her and Andres will be back together, happy as ever. I'm sure of it."

His face crumbles into his hands, again. "But that's the worst part," he groans. "I'm not sure I even want things to blow over." He peaks at me through his fingers. "I think I really do love her, Violet. And I hate myself for it!"

"It will be okay." He folds into my side, and I pat his shoulder. But my face is creased with a frown, because I knew that this would happen. And it sucks to watch it unfold. "It's hard not to love Frankie," I say. "She's this big light, high-energy—everyone gets pulled into her orbit. But she can be forgetful of that. Sometimes she forgets that the things she says, or does, they matter to people."