Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #51

It's been a year. As of today, it's been a year. A year and I've come to terms with nothing. Not with the end, not with my guilt, not with all the said and unsaid things. Not with her kissing me, or with our storms, or with her buried under six feet of dirt.

Lacy's out tonight, and we didn't talk about it either. Everything hung in the air between us, oppressive and heavy, until she couldn't take it anymore. She didn't tell me where she was going; I don't think she even knew.

So I've got a single lamp on, a glass of wine, and angry music blaring to fill up all the silences in my head. (Of course I spilled the wine, leaving a bloody stain on the table, and it dripped and pooled onto the floor before I could do anything about it. It only took me a minute to wipe it up, but the residue is still visible in the yellow lamp-light.)

It's fitting.

Wine and blood dribbled on the floor. The same and not the same. The perfect déjà vu.

The beginning of February, and you've cut yourself stupidly. A slip on a dark patch of ice, a jagged rock in the snowbank, and a sliced open palm. Clair hauls you up by your elbow; her hands are firm through all the layers.

"Are you okay?" Her eyes latch onto yours, and the corners of her lips twitch down.

"Yeah, thanks." It comes out breathless. 

There's something solemn and scared in the way she's looking at you, the way she's studying you. (Winter is bleak and bright. Those things seem contradictory, but you hold them next to each other in your head, and they both ring true. That's how Clair's eyes look in that moment. Winter eyes.)

Drops of blood speckle the snow, and you grimace. Clair takes your hand in hers, gingerly tracing your flushed skin. "Shit. I haven't got any band-aids."

"I have some stuff in Lacy's room still. I've got some there, I think."

Your feet crunch over the snow until you reach the next slick of ice. This time, you slide gracefully across it and pretend to stick the landing like a gymnast.

"Easy there." Her crooked smile can't quite compete with her feverish eyes. Her head tilts away from you, but you can still make out a cloud of breath before her next words. "Why're they there?"

You shrug. "When we got back from break I just never went and got everything."

"Want me to come?"

You do, but you also know better.

Distance is more than a number. Distance is not living with your roommate anymore, or leaving her texts unanswered or not going out on Friday nights with anyone but Clair. Of course, you've got plenty of reasons (well, one) for your actions, but if Lacy is going to be upset, you'd rather have it be at you. Clair's distance is a product of yours. Or maybe that's how you rationalize it.

No matter. You wave Clair off, and she retreats back to Centen. You turn before you can think too much about it; you don't like seeing the back of Clair. It makes you realize that you should be by her side.

It's been a while, but your feet still know the way back to your old room, and they beat down the hall without you even thinking about it. (Which is good because your mind is filled up with thoughts of distance. And it's not about Lacy this time. Should you have let Clair come? The thought gnaws at you.)

It's almost jarring when you get to Room 266 and slink back inside for the first time in a month.

"Ah, the prodigal son returns!" Lacy's painting her fingernails black, and she almost bumps the polish off her desk when she swivels towards you.

"Hey, Lace." You nod at her, and duck your head, beelining for your desk. A film of dust clings to the top of it, and you brush it off. When a bit of blood smears with it, you grimace.

"Hey yourself. How've you been? And why haven't I been able to get ahold of Clair lately? It seems like she's always busy."

Lacy's words bubble through the room and buzz in your ears, and you can't help but crack a smile.  (Clair never texts when she's with you. "Who would I want to talk to more than you?") And there's something in you that fractures deliciously. Relief.

"We're good," you say.

Lacy cocks an eyebrow. "Huh. Well, ask if she's got time to help me with Bio. It's kicking my ass."

"Sure thing, Lace." You shove an armful of clothes off your desk and start rummaging through the top drawer. Finally, you fish out the box of band-aids and stuff them into your backpack.

"M.?"

"Hmm?"

"Want to stay for some hot chocolate? There's some stuff going on, and I can't talk to Jay about it." She rolls her eyes. "He tries to be reasonable, and I just want to rant." Lacy snorts, shaking her head.

Dead air hangs between you two, and you pause. "I should really be getting back."

Lacy's face crumples a bit, but she raises her brows, pulling all her features tight. Maybe you were just imagining her reaction. "C'mon, M. Just one cup?"

"Better not. Sam'll listen, though."

"Yeah, okay." Her words cut, and you know you've disappointed her or hurt her, but it's late and you really should be getting back.

The moment you're out the door, your thoughts light up like flame. Elemental, that's what Clair is. Like water and air and food. Something you can't live without. Like heat and shelter. You don't need to love her (though you do), but you need her in a fierce, animalistic way. Anything else is unsurvivable.

Yes, fire and warmth. You grin thinking it and think about Lacy no more.