I've been working on this one for months and I'm not sure if I like it or not but it's very personal for me in a way.
6231 words
Enjoy
You’ve never been good at talking about your emotions.
That’s why it’s so strange that you’re opening up this readily to this girl you barely know, but now that you’ve started talking you can’t seem to stop the words that flow out of you. It’s like something about her has dismantled the dam in your throat and unleashed a river of honesty and tears.
You feel exhausted once you finally stop talking and you sag lower in your chair, waiting for her to bolt away as others do. Instead, she takes your hand and tells you you’re sensational, of all things, and you’re suddenly so overcome that you’re sobbing into her shoulder before you can stop yourself.
//
She offers to drive you home later when you admit that you took an uber to the theater, and you don’t hesitate to agree even though you know it means you have to get on that death trap of a motorcycle. It’s not so bad, though, when you can wind your arms around her waist and hold tight to her body so you don’t fall. You’re used to being pushed away, rejected from physical contact, but she warns you not to let go and actually drives with one hand so she can hold on to you with the other.
She takes her time but still you wish the drive was longer; she’s so warm against you and you feel so safe—something you never would have associated with sitting on a motorcycle—that you wouldn’t complain if she decided to drive around the city for the remainder of the night.
She doesn’t, though, and you reluctantly disentangle yourself from her when she stops the bike at the entrance to your driveway. You can see your mother’s silhouette through the ivy-adorned window and you shiver a little as you hand back Toni’s helmet and run a hand through your flattened hair, the chilly spring air suddenly reaching your skin now that you’re no longer touching her.
“Thanks for the ride,” you say.
“No problem.” She’s looking at you, carefully, almost like she can tell that the last thing in the world you want to do is walk in the door and face your mother. She looks almost as uncomfortable as you feel, her leather jacket and pink hair starkly out of place against the sprawling backdrop of Thistlehouse.
You turn to leave but her voice stops you. “Cheryl.”
You raise an eyebrow and she leans forward to rest her forearms against the handlebars. “If you ever...need anything,” she says intently. “Or a place to stay, will you let me know?”
“I don’t have your number,” you stall, hesitant because you’ve learned time and time again that accepting kindness only means you’ll be repaying it later in other ways.
“Well, that’s an easy fix,” she says, producing a pen and crumpled receipt from her bag. She scrawls a number down and presses it into your palm, her fingertips lingering at the back of your hand. “I mean it,” she says softly. “I just want to be your friend, if that’s something you want too.”
You offer her a nod and a half-smile, and it isn’t until you’ve opened the front door of the house that you hear her drive away.
