𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧

romanticize a quiet life,
there's no place
like my room
-Phoebe Bridgers

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

April 2015,

When I learned Tenny had nowhere else to go, I let him crash on my bedroom floor.

I would sneak him in the back door after Aunt Kali had taken cousin Nolie to bed, and he would crawl out my bedroom window as soon as the sun came up. I told him Aunt Kali couldn't ever find out about it. She'd taken me in because I was family; she wouldn't feel the same about him.

He slept on the hardwood with my spare pillow and a throw blanket, and most nights I'd fall asleep to the sound of him talking about nothing.

Tenny loved to talk. About airplanes or old movies. About books and places he wished to see. He didn't much care about the topic, he just liked to talk. And I liked to listen.

"You ever been anywhere special?" he asked, one night.

"I went to Kentucky."

"I'm not sure that counts," he said, and I pictured him frowning. "I mean, some place special, like the scenes they paint in stories: castles in Ireland, ancient ruins in Peru. A sunset on Mount Everest. A thunderstorm on the beach."

"I don't think I want to see a thunderstorm on the beach."

"I do," he said, and I could hear him sigh. "I'm tired of River Bend. The same faces, same crummy houses. I'm even tired of the creek."

I wrinkled my face. "But you love that creek."

"Do I?" he asked, and we fell quiet. At the time, I didn't understand what he meant. I thought we loved the creek—it was our secret-spot. Where we could run away from everything: parents and school, friends and gossip. There, nothing existed. Except for us.

But now I get it.

Tenny never did love that creek, he just loved what it stood for.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

I wake up in a sweat. Dalton's arm is flung over my chest, his cheek is on my shoulder. There's a dampness covering the both of us. Daylight floods in through the blinds, and I carefully reposition Dalton off from me.

He stirs a bit, but quickly returns to a soft snore. My feet touch the floor, but I nearly trip over an obstruction: Frankie, sprawled across the hardwood. Her hair is a bird's nest, curls sticking every which way, and she's still in her clothes from the night before.

I sigh, bending down to pull a blanket back over her body. She nestles into it.

Last night, I refused to let her sleep alone in our dorm room. She, however, refused to ruin my birthday night. Don't let me stop you two, she insisted, pretend like I'm not even here. Little did she know, nothing was going to happen that night, with or without her presence.

I step over her body, snagging two empty glasses and heading into the hall. From experience, I know there's nothing better than a glass of cold water after a long night of drinking. I wander down the hall, past the boys' bathrooms and the communal kitchen area. I stop at the water fountain and fill up a glass.

There are posters all over the wall before me. Notices for campus events, literature club or bible study. One catches my eye, it reads: Collegiate Recovery Community. There's an address to the Student Services building, and a schedule for their monthly meetings. I'm surprised Emily hasn't mentioned it to me, already. It's exactly the sort of thing she'd love to rope me into.