𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐮𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

this chapter is from Tenny's POV.
it's not essential to the story,
but I've included it
for those who might care
to know what occurred
between him and Dalton
in the parking lot of Tipper's
Enjoy!

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

My hands are shaking as I fumble for a cigarette.

I can see Vio, across the parking lot, through the glass window, sitting at the table surrounded by her friends. Her skin is pale and her hair is dark. I know that she's watching me. Worrying about me. And I hate that I do that to her—make her worry.

But the walls were closing in. I could see her tense, feel her body turn to stone beside me at the mention of that night. Prom. Because I was so fucking stupid that night.

I lean against a car hood, put the cigarette between my lips. I smell the smoke, and it brings me back to Earth. I hear a bell jingle; I worry it's her, chasing after me. I relax when I see it isn't.

It's only Dalton. His hair is slicked over his forehead, and he's frowning.

I wish I could say that I hated him, but this isn't high school, and he isn't Gavin Peters. He actually seems like a pretty decent guy. Probably a better guy than I am. I don't think that's hard to find.

"Hey, man," he says, and he stops in front of me, stuffs his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I ash my cigarette onto the pavement, nod at him. "This is kind of awkward, huh?"

I shrug.

"Yeah, I just wanted to clear the air," he says, but I don't think that's necessary. Because I've always been one to sit in the thick of things, and just pretend like the smoke isn't eating at my lungs. I nod again. "I'm not trying to get back with her."

"Okay."

"It's not that I'm still in love with her," he explains, and runs a hand through his hair. "I just worry about her, is all." And it sounds like he is in love with her, but I'm not angry. I can only empathize. Because I know how it feels to try to stop loving Violet.

It isn't possible.

"She's not as strong as you think," he tells me, but he's wrong about that. She's stronger. I know because when we were kids, she was strong enough for the both of us. But I don't say that. I don't say anything, I just stare back at him, ash my cigarette. "She's complex; she keeps a lot of things inside, bottles everything up and acts like nothing can hurt her."

I wonder how well he knows her. I wonder how much she's told him. My eyes flick back to her, sat inside the diner, illuminated under fluorescent lights. I can almost see the crease between her eyebrows. And I know that she hasn't told him everything; I don't think she's told him anything.

Nothing that matters, anyway.

"But she does hurt," Dalton says. "And she won't ever say that—she doesn't know how to ask for help." But I already know this, and I don't care because she doesn't have to ask me for anything. She doesn't have to tell me when something's wrong; she doesn't have to speak, at all. Not if she doesn't want to.

Because I know her. And I can read her.

I know what the crease on her forehead means. I know that when she can't find her words, she stares up at the ceiling. And when she doesn't want to say what she's thinking, she stares down at her feet. I know her; better than words could explain.

I nod, again. "Thanks for the advice."

He shakes his head. "I'm not trying to tell you how to act," he says, but that is what he's doing, and it's not that I care. It's just that he hasn't said anything I don't already know. "I only care about her, that's all...and I think she deserves better—"

"Than me?"

Dalton raises his hands, palms out to me. His eyes are on the pavement, and I wonder if they're there for the same reason Vio's would be: he doesn't want to say what he's thinking, which is yes, she deserves better than you.

And I can't even argue, because I already knew that.

I've already told her that. Years ago, on our old playground, over Gavin fucking Peters.

"I don't even know you," he says, and then he sighs. "But I do know her, and I know how she deserves to be treated—so, just be good to her, yeah?"

I nod, again.

And I wish that I was good to her, back then. I wish that I could promise to be good to her now, and always. But I try not to make promises I know I can't keep. Because someone once told me, on an old rusted swing set, that a promise shouldn't ever be broken.

Dalton sticks out his hand for me to shake, as if we've called some sort of truce. And I shake it because I don't know what else to do. But it feels silly because Vio never needed him, and she's never needed me, and who are we to sit out in this parking lot and act like we're doing this for her.

She's always been better off on her own.

I'm the one who needed her—who still needs her, more than I need air in my lungs.

And that's why I don't deserve her; because I've only ever dragged her down with me.

...
Author's Note:

The first (and only) time
we will see things from
Tenny's POV—

What did we think?

Thanks for reading!