𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐟𝐢𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐧

You were there all the time,
you're the worst of my crimes
-Gracie Abrams

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

December 2015,

I woke up to Tenny, soaked in daylight. He was already awake, smiling at me. "Merry Christmas," he said and I pressed into his ribs.

"You shouldn't be here," I whispered. "I'm sorry, I wish you could celebrate with us, but it's seven in the morning, and how would I explain you?"

"It's okay, I get it." He sat up, pulled the bedsheets around his bare chest. "But where else should I go?"

I frowned. I thought of Tenny back at Pip's, drunk with a bunch of burnouts. I imagined him back at home, in his house that was probably flooded from last night's storm. I tried to picture him wandering around River Bend, looking into the windows of a closed down general store or lounging on frozen park benches. I sighed.

"You'd have to stay in here," I said. "And be quiet—seriously, you couldn't say a word. My Aunt would kill me, if she found out you've been staying in here."

"I could do that," he said. "Promise."

Tenny smiled, stuck out his pinky and wrapped it around mine. "You know, when I was a kid, I considered myself lucky when Christmas was quiet." And then I was picturing him young, toothless and barefoot, cowering from Red and praying for silence.

But my bedroom door flew open and my brain stopped thinking. Tenny went under the comforter; I smashed a pillow over his head. Cousin Nolie ran in, red-nosed and sleepy eyed, pleading for me to get up so he could open presents.

I ushered him out the door. And I turned back to Tenny, pulling the covers down from his face, laughing at his wild hair. I promised to return to him, as soon as I could, and I told him we'd celebrate in our own way, as soon as we could.

And then I left him there. Alone.

To spend Christmas, hiding in my bedroom while the rest of us celebrated outside.

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

I wake up in my little twin-bed, but Tenny isn't there. It shouldn't feel weird—we haven't spent a night together in years—but for some reason, it does.

When I head to the living room, cousin Nolan is already awake. Normally, he's a little old man, acting wiser than his six years of age, but on Christmas morning, he's Nolie. Sleepy face and twinkling eyes, he's itching to tear open his presents.

I know they've been waiting on me. I'm the last to wake up. My uncle is in his chair, a cup of coffee in his hand. Aunt Kali is on the floor, next to Nolie. Her face is fuller, and her stomach is starting to show.

Maybe I should feel out of place, crashing their family Christmas, but I don't. Because they love me, and I love them. And since that first day when they brought me home, we've been a family. They've never given me a reason to question that.

"Good morning, sleepy-head," Aunt Kali says. "Nolan has already sorted your presents. You have a pile on the couch."

I smile, and we spend the morning ripping through presents and watching Nolan play with every new toy he's been gifted. My uncle makes breakfast, waffles and bacon, and he makes me a fresh cup of coffee that I only pretend to drink because I hate coffee, but he loves it.