𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

but I'm not gonna go down
with my hometown in a tornado,
I'm gonna chase it
-Phoebe Bridgers

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

February 2016,

The first time me and Tenny hooked up, it was February. I remember because there was a tornado ripping through River Bend, but it was too early in the season for that. Aunt Kali was in a panic, blowing up my phone to get home.

But me and Tenny were hammered, way too drunk to drive my car back, so we walked. Rain drenched our clothes; the sirens going off around us. And we laughed as the wind ripped through our hair, like we didn't care if we were swept up into that tornado, right then and there.

When we got back to my room, we were soaked. The power was out and Aunt Kali had laid a flashlight on my dresser. Tenny put it under his chin and made a face that made us both laugh. I was shivering, and so was he. We stood in a puddle of rain water.

My hands went to his shirt, and I was pulling it up over his head. He stood there, basking in the moonlight, as I traced a finger over my name inked into his chest. I kissed him and he kissed me back, hands in my wet wind-blown hair.

We were drunken and stupid, shivering and soaking wet, stumbling backwards onto my twin-sized bed. Clothes hit the floor with a sopping-wet plop. I knew what we were doing—Tenny knew what he was doing, and I was drunk but I wanted him.

I wanted him like a drunk wanted liquor.

His hands trailed along my hipbones, his mouth placed kisses on my collarbone, Tenny knew me better than anyone. He knew every whimper and flinch; I'd never had someone who read me so perfectly. We fit into each other like it's what we were made for.

I stared into his face, hovering above me. Moonlight on his skin, water dropping from his hair. The scar on his left eyebrow, his eyes out of a story book, my name over his heart. His mouth was parted. His brows were furrowed. He smelled of whiskey, cigarettes, and rain-water.

And I remember thinking, I never wanted to forget that image. I wanted to save it, snap it like a picture and hold onto it for a lifetime. Tenny, coming undone—for me. Me, coming undone for him.

But like everything in life, it was only for a moment.

So as the next morning came, I did as I had done on that first night he first kissed me, I woke before he stirred. I slipped into my clothes, and waited for his eyes to flutter open. So that I could make fun of his bed-head and the way he slept with his mouth open.

So that I could pretend as if that night had meant nothing.

Because that way, nothing between us would ever have to change.

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

I'm picking at my nails, fidgeting on Emily's leather sofa. Ripping my cuticles until my fingers are bloody and raw. I'm thinking I deserve that—the pain and the discomfort. Emily folds her hands over her lap.

"It seems something is troubling you today, Violet." She frowns her thin lips. "Would you like to talk about it?" No, no, no—I don't even want to think about it.

"Me and Dalton got into a fight."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she says. "Do you know the root of the argument?"

I run a hand through my hair, but it trembles. I place it back to my lap. "It was my fault—he's upset because I lied to him."

"Was there a particular reason you lied?"

"Yeah," I say. "I—It was to protect him." Another lie. I didn't lie to protect him, I lied to protect me. I go back to ripping my cuticles.

"So your intentions were good?"

No. "Yes."

Emily takes a deep inhale, and I brace myself because I know that look. She's about to flip this all back on me. "Do you believe that because your intentions were good, then it was okay for you to lie?"

"I guess so."

"But Dalton still got hurt."

I stare at the floor. Because I'm pretty sure she's trying to draw a larger comparison, here, but my mind is too tired to make sense of it. I decide I'm over talking about it, so I sit in silence for the remainder of our session. She says that's okay, too.

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

February 2016,

Me and Tenny don't talk about our night together. Not about the tornado. Not about his hands on my hipbones. We don't talk about anything. Not anything that matters, anyway.

We just get drunk together and watch all of our problems melt into a blur. Nothing matters after that.

It's just me and Tenny. Tenny and me.

His hands in my hair, his body on mine. It's messy and it's reckless, but it's easier that way. Everything is easier when I'm drunk. Because then, nothing matters.

But then the morning always comes, and the liquor leaves my system...

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

I dial Frankie on my way back to Pittman. I can't stand the idea of being there, without her. Without Dalton. Without anyone.

I'm afraid of what I might do.

She's there by the time I arrive, throwing her arms around me and walking me to her bed. We crawl into it; she wraps me in her comforter and strokes my hair. My cheeks are wet, my tears gather on her polish-stained sheets. I don't even know when I started crying. But now the tears won't stop.

"It'll be okay," Frankie soothes. "It's Dalton—whatever it is, you will sort it out."

"No." I sob. "He hates me. I lied to him, I don't know why I did that." She keeps stroking my hair, wrapping her arms tighter around me as I try to explain my mess between broken sobs. And she comforts me. Tells me she understands. She doesn't even get angry when I tell her I lied to her too, about Tenny and about us—she just keeps wiping my tears and telling me everything will be okay.

I don't deserve her. I wipe my nose and try to tell her that. "I was awful to you when you had your fight with Andres," I manage to say. "Why are you being so nice to me?"

She only shakes her head, settles my head back to her pillow, and says, "That doesn't matter right now. You're my best-friend, and you need me. I'll always be here when you need me."

I don't think she'll ever understand how badly I needed to hear that.

...
Author's Note:

A shorter chapter today.
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