Boy meets girl, girl falls in love, blah-blah-blah.
Let me be clear with you from the beginning. This is not that kind of story.
My name is Cait, and I live in the great city of New York. Okay, so maybe I've only lived here for a week and a half...
Damn. She caught me. I always watched Mr. Holland's Opus when I was stressed or worried about something, mostly about my future, and it had become my security blanket over the years. Even though Val and I had only known each other for less than half a year, I'd watched the film at least ten times in that period...so much so that she started quoting it sarcastically along with the characters when I made her watch it with me.
"Maybe," I admitted.
She laughed, "I knew it."
I wrinkled my nose, mocking her teasingly, before reaching forward and grabbing a bottle of red nail polish from her pile. My toenails were bare, courtesy of a combination of laziness and apathy, so I shook the bottle lightly before unscrewing the cap and carefully painting my big toe. Since I dropped out of school, I felt like my free time had become a vacuum. Sure, I could hang out with my friends whenever I wanted, but I didn't have many friends besides Val and my coworkers. I was scared of building friendships with people I would only abandon when school started, because I knew myself. I knew that school would always come first.
Why make friends when you wouldn't have time for them in another six months and they'd hate you for it?
Val argued that they wouldn't, but my experience told me otherwise. I'd had friends back in Texas. There were several of us who left high school and stayed in the city to attend UT Austin, and three of my closest friends and I opted to get a cheap apartment near the school's campus rather than commute in the horrible Austin traffic. I saw them every day for a year - every single day - but when I left, it was like we were strangers.
Even when we were still friends, they didn't understand my dedication to my studies. They hated the fact that I would rather stay in on a Wednesday night to finish my coursework rather than go to a concert or go out to dinner, and they thought I was judging them for not doing the same. I didn't mean for it to happen - and I didn't expect them to have the same dedication to schoolwork that I did - but soon enough, they ditched me. After everything happened, they paid to break our lease and move to on-campus housing.
It was better, in the end, that it happened that way. Several months prior, my mom was diagnosed with stage four metastatic breast cancer. By the time the doctor caught it, it had spread to other organs in her body, including her bones, lungs, and liver. They estimated she had 26 months to live, but my family couldn't afford treatment and we didn't have insurance, so we were forced to rely on alternative medicines. Some worked, lessening her pain slightly and allowing me to see a glimpse of the vibrant, energetic woman she once was through her frail exterior, but others did nothing.
After a month of at-home treatment, she caught pneumonia. Everything went from bad to worse, and in less than two weeks, she was dead. The cancer had spread to her lungs, impacting her body's ability to function, and made breathing nigh impossible. Before we could get help, she passed peacefully in her sleep.
After that happened, I didn't really care about my friends anymore. I didn't want to rebuild friendships, I wanted out. Out of Austin, out of Texas, and away from the reality that my mother and best friend had left me. I was angry at my father for letting her die, and I blamed him in more ways than one, so I acted out. He destroyed my family, destroyed my life, and I couldn't let that go.
The fact was, there's too much baggage in my past to look back, and I didn't want to give anyone else the opportunity to add to that pain. It was too much of a risk to open yourself up to people like that, and I had no intention of doing it again. Not after everything that happened.
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"We need margaritas," Val said, stretched out on the sofa while we watched reruns of How I Met Your Mother on Netflix.
I nodded. Between last night, the heat, and a busy day at work, I was definitely down for a frozen margarita. Val pushed herself off the sofa, grabbing her empty Starbucks cup and box of nail polish, and headed toward the bathroom.
"When's your birthday?" She called through the door. "June?"
"June 3rd," I told her, scrolling through Instagram photos on my phone.
She stuck her head out of the bathroom, running a brush through her long hair, "Wait, in two and a half weeks?"
I nodded, and she grinned, "Good. You're almost twenty, I don't feel guilty about getting you drunk tonight."
"Wait, what?" I tossed my phone onto the sofa and pushed myself off the floor. "I'm not getting drunk. I don't do drunk."
"Not drunk drunk," she told me. "I'm not gonna make you do shots or anything. I'll save that for your birthday. But you are going to split at least two pitchers of margaritas with me while we scope out Tinder for new conquests."
I groaned, "I don't need a new conquest, Val. I'm not looking for anything."
"I know that," she replied, "but I am. Besides, you need to get out of the apartment and you need a distraction from last night. I'm providing both."
She tossed my makeup bag at me before handing me her favorite red lipstick. I loved wearing makeup, believe it or not, but I never had the time to put it on. Today, apparently, that wasn't going to be an issue.
Opening my closet, I grabbed an oversized sweater to go over my shorts, opting for comfort over style, and pulled it over my head. My hair was a frizzy mess, so I ran a brush through it before throwing it back up in a ponytail and grabbed a tiny mirror from my makeup bag to begin applying it.
Less than half an hour later, a new record for Val, we were both done and headed out the door. Opting for a cab instead of the bus, Val flagged one down and we hopped inside.
"Gran Eléctrica in Dumbo," Val told the driver before leaning back on the seat.
"Seriously?" I asked her.
Dumbo was one of the most expensive neighborhoods in Brooklyn. Typically we went to Taqueria De Los Muertos in Prospect Heights when we needed some good guacamole because Val refused to spend more than $4 for a taco.
She nodded, "I've heard their guac is amazing, and it's the perfect afternoon to sit on the patio."
"You know they won't have pitchers of margaritas, right?" I replied. "At least, none we can afford."
"Maybe not," Val said, giving me a mischievous grin, "But Anastasia texted me forty-five minutes ago and said that she and Roxanne saw a certain someone hanging out there with his entourage, so we're going to join them."
Alarm bells went off in my head as I clutched my cell phone tightly. The cab driver slammed on his brakes, jerking me forward, while Val turned to look out the window happily. She was cooking up a scheme and dragging me along with her, which usually didn't end well.
I hesitated before asking, "Who?"
"Lincoln Shepherd," she said with a squeal. "AKA, my future husband."
