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"Audra's pregnant and Diane and Randy are in Denver, and he doesn't want to be alone," gushes from my lips in a single breath.
Mom's hazel eyes widen, flash with shock and confusion before she nods her head slightly. "Sure, baby, that's fine."
"Thanks, Mom," I tell her as I hug her waist, inhaling the faint smell of peaches that always puts me at ease. The smell of Mom. Of home.
—
Matt softly snores beside me as I lie awake, watching him sleep. I need to go to my bed in the room down the hall, but I can't tear my eyes away from him as the soft white glow of the moon filters into the room.
He looks so peaceful, so boyish with his brown hair crumpled against his forehead and his mouth slightly open, inhaling the same air I'm breathing. I want to reach out and touch him, but I don't.
Because he's not mine.
I just need...I don't even know. A few, quiet moments to look at him before I let myself cry one last time?
Matt Thompson.
Best friend. Boy who used to consume my every thought. Every whim. Every need.
Person I'm most likely to get stuck in the backseat of a police car with. Also the person I'm most likely to geek out over Pokémon cards with.
First hand hold.
First kiss.
First heartbreak.
And even though it hurts, it's not as painful as I thought it would be. To let him go. To move on. To accept what is.
Mom always says whatever's meant to be will always find its way. And while it used to annoy me when she'd say it at the most inopportune times, I find it comforting now. That this isn't meant to be anything more than friendship. And I'm somehow OK with that.
I give myself a few more seconds to take him in. The faint freckles on his nose, the smooth line of his jaw, the cords of his throat that constrict with each inhale, exhale.
It's time to let go of the dream that we could be more.
He's going to be a father. Responsible for a tiny human life.
I just know, as my eyes prick with hot tears, my nose starts running, that he's going to be amazing at it, even if he can't see it yet.
—
My alarm clock blares through the room, and I turn it off, throw the covers off of me, refuse to open my eyes.
I really hate mornings. Especially Monday mornings. The stupid birds chirping. The stupid sun shining in through the slits in my blinds, bathing my room in muted tones of gold and orange. The stupid smell of coffee wafting through my partially open bedroom door.
I stumble down the stairs in my flannel pajamas, hair thrown up in a messy bun, my head pounding from the hard cry I had last night before drifting off to a fitful sleep at one in the morning. My eyes are stinging, and my face feels puffy, swollen.
I rub my forehead, aimlessly grip the pantry door, and pull it open. I fumble around in there until I find the box of Fruit Loops, clutching it tightly against my chest.
Sugar. I need sugar.
"You really should eat a healthy breakfast," I hear from behind me.
Startled, I turn around.
And then I'm 12 years-old again, trying to boogie board on that white, sandy beach in St. Petersburg, but drowning beneath the unabating waves instead.
When I couldn't hold my breath any longer, and I thought I'd never survive, two arms wrapped themselves around me, and pulled me to safety.
