[Quote Aesthetic of the Chapterish]
...
But what did he mean? 'I'll find you before I leave.'
Like, tonight? Or in life? Leave like when he dies? Find me alone? Or to tell me something? Find me because he knows I'm lost? Did he say it because he knew that I would obsess over it? Obsess over what he meant by it?
"That went about as I expected." Trix says, interrupting my fuzzy brain.
"Don't get ahead of yourself, babe." Travis swings his arm around Trix's shoulder. "It's been years."
"Please," Trix laughs. "Do you have eyes?"
"Do you?" Travis laughs back.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Trix. I thought it went –fine." I make a feeble attempt to smile.
She surveys me for a minute and then shakes her head. I can tell this isn't the end of the discussion. But for now, she seems resolved to put it aside.
"Let's get you another drink, doll. First night back in years and it would be a pity if you remembered it tomorrow." Trix stands and outstretches her hand.
"I could use a refill," Meg says.
I walk with them, in the middle of them, across the sand toward the bonfire.
"Hey, bring us back some!" Travis shouts after us.
"None of that fruity shit!" Nate echoes.
"The fruity shit," Meg laughs like a 12-year-old, "is far better than beer."
"I'll take the fruity shit," I nod.
"You won't regret it," Meg says, already handing me another cup filled with the fizz.
"Thanks." I take the cup.
I follow her back to the group. Nate slides his hand around her waist. She giggles. Again, like a 12-year-old.
Then the music gets louder and her laugh dies away.
Three drinks later and I am honestly convinced this fruity cherry fizz shit is the undiscovered elixir of life. Better than beer by far and about twice as strong. Everything comes in and out of focus. Travis and Trix on the afghan spread across the sand. Meg sitting back into Nate's shoulder, twisting her hair around her finger. She always does this when she's thinking.
Alex strings a guitar, its chords harmonious with the lapping waves. I watch the way his fingers move over the strings and the look of delight on his face. There's an ease to it, to him. He's hardly the boy I remember.
No one is who I remember.
It's been hours; the bonfire is dying down. A golden luster is cast over everyone's faces as though they've been painted by a brush made from light.
I'm reminded of my own sentiment from hours ago. People change, but they don't really fucking change, ya know? Sitting here, surrounded by the people I grew up with, lulled into that drunken state of satisfaction, compliments of cherry fizz shit, I realize I haven't changed. I'm long-conning myself. Sure, I'm more progressive now and probably in better shape, and older and more mentally aware of crippling emotions. But then I look around and I blink and nothing's changed.
I am who I've always been.
Which is why I'm still shocked like a little bitch when Brooks doesn't come find me before he leaves. When the crowd dwindles to nothing but overly intoxicated 26 year-olds girls trying to find their missing flip-flop.
He left me hanging. Again.
A-fucking-gain.
Held out hope for a while though. I kept glancing around for him, expecting to lock eyes and you know, feel a cosmic shift or something. I waited on the afghan in our circle of friends –waited to see him walk up to me again –waited until I watched him walk back to the promenade.
Man, he's the fucking worst.
No, I'M the worst. But hey.
"Girl, ready to go?" Trix leans over to me, her eyes misty.
"Yea. So ready," I say, hopping up.
She crosses her arms as we walk back to my car in the lot. I notice she's frowning. "What?"
"So ready? Are we really that bad?" Trix asks. Damn, she does a great wounded bird impression.
"Trix," I sigh. She looks away from me still. "Teresa, it's not like that, stop it. It's just AH."
There are no words.
"Just ah?" She raises her eyebrows. I know she knows. "What's just ah?"
"Him!" I fling my arms in the air.
"Him. Always him," Trix laughs.
"I just fucking hate him. How's he do it? It's been nine fucking years and look at that," I say, holding up my arm to face-level. "He's already under my skin again."
"Did you guys even talk?" She asks, not unkindly. But I mean, would you judge her for judging me?
"Not really. Which just makes me more pathetic! We talked enough though. Seal broken," I whine, rolling my eyes at myself. We reach my car and I lean against the hood, watching Trix evaluate me.
"Em. Emmeline," she says, taking my face between her palms. "I missed how dramatic you are."
"Ya. Don't envy it." I shake my head and look up. "Ugh! It's just –I fucking knew it. He says five words to me and then–" Then what, Em? Doesn't come back to say five more? Leaves without saying bye? How fucking old are you?
Trix nods her head then shakes it, trying to calm me down. "I get it, boo. You love to hate him. And hate–"
"Don't say it," I cut her off. "Seriously don't even fucking think it."
"Fine," Trix laughs next to me, shoving her hand in my face. "You'll just think it for me."
"You're kinda the worst too."
"You love me," she says, nudging me. "You know it."
"I don't know shit. Come on. I'll take your drunk ass home."