- 16 -
February 2045
Hallee
Avery’s text to meet at the apartment woke me up this morning. Well, almost afternoon. Apparently we all had nights that led to sleeping in.
“Spill the tea, Hallee. We saw you leave with him.” Marlowe nudges my leg, and I take a sip of my coffee to hide my growing smirk.
“There’s nothing to tell!”
Oh, there’s plenty to tell . . . it’s just not the story they want. Dean was everything I needed without having to ask. In my weaknesses, he comforted me. In my strength, he watched me like I was a shooting star—like he was making a wish on me and couldn’t bear to let it burn out. We weren’t overcome with passion, crossing all boundaries like jumping off a bridge, but it was absolutely perfect. Slow, respectful, and laced with self-control. Connection through tears, laughter, and vulnerability in conversation, going no further than a forehead kiss. He thought I’d already fallen asleep, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t and I felt it, and now I can’t unfeel it because I know that he meant it.
He held me all night, careful of where his hands fell. Requested nothing, expected nothing, and accepted me wholly as I was. It was a form of protection, his lack of expectation, relieving me from the guilt of being the one to say no. He not only saw the invisible boundary, but held it and defended it. I was safe and cared for, and isn’t that what love really comes down to?
Not that I love him. No way. Not yet, but belong to him—I might. Could swear I have for a lifetime, but they don’t need to know that. It’s safer to hold a few secrets sacred in the hope of whatever’s to come.
Marlowe’s glare cuts into my widening eyes. Holding her stare, and my ground, I repeat, “There’s nothing to tell! Really. Avery, why don’t you share the details of your night?”
Their eyes roll, but deep down Avery’s excited. Her foot is bouncing, and that’s her tell.
After the beginning of her story, my mind trails off, adrift in a Dean daydream. He’s holding me, he’s walking me home, he’s lending me the heaviest sweatshirt he has. It’s another item to tip the boat toward a label for whatever we are, which is the nerve-wracking in-between of something to imagine and nothing to hold.
“. . . and then he called a car . . .”
I’m not a very good friend. A good friend would pay more attention, but here comes the vision again, sweeping me away into the bliss of his hand holding mine, of us grabbing coffee, of him taking my heels off and carrying me so my toes don’t freeze from the cold sidewalk.
I recall the shock of Avery and Marlowe as he kissed my forehead when I hugged him goodbye this morning. I lingered a little too long, desperate for the comfort of him to not fade like his smell would the second the door closed. Their giddy cheers followed him down the hallway and out the door to the street.
“Whatcha thinkin’ about, Hal?” Marlowe nudges my leg, interrupting my escape from reality.
“All of the details that you don’t have to share?” Avery teases, winking and theatrically fist-bumping her.
“I’m sorry! Ugh . . .” My hand flies to my forehead. “I can’t stop thinking about him! Backtrack to the car ride, Avery. I’ll listen this time, I promise.”
Their silent stares burn into me.
“Come on! Tell me about your fun nights!” I insist. “That’s what this was, right? Our night of fun !”
My voice cracked, and they flinched, and now it’s weird. They’re waiting for me to unravel, which I won’t. Except, maybe I might. My mouth goes dry, and there’s a lump in my throat that wasn’t there before, and the fluffs on this blanket aren’t distracting enough because I’m still feeling. The truth is, I failed at fun. Who the hell fails at fun?
They play a game of hot potato with their eyes, bouncing them from me to one another before yelling, “Intervention!”
Marlowe runs to the kitchen, grabbing three wine glasses and the bottle of red. Red over white? They mean business. Avery runs to her room, returning with three more blankets, nail polish, and a face mask for each of us. Within a minute, we’re settled back in the living room, and they’re staring at me a little too patiently, as if they could break me. Silly girls—you can’t break what’s already broken.
“Let’s say, theoretically, you didn’t have the same definition of fun as us. That doesn’t mean we don’t want to hear about it,” Avery encourages, gently touching my knee.
Marlowe reaches for the red nail polish and shakes the bottle before handing it to me. “It matches the fire on his sweatshirt,” she says.
“Why am I this smitten over a man who will only forget me?”
Avery’s jaw hits the floor, and Marlowe’s eyes flare. Told you, I’m broken. Devastation kicks open our door, sucking out the oxygen in the room.
“I sound crazy, but I can see it already. Going on dates, watching movies, dancing in the club. Riding bikes in the park, painting and laughing together. Coffee runs and calling in sick for work because we can’t bear to part. What is wrong with me?”
Avery grabs my hand as a tear falls from my face, crashing onto her skin like the first raindrop in a rainstorm. Her eyes line with pools of empathy.
“There are no rules to this life and how you want to live it. Don’t judge yourself too harshly. There’s nothing wrong with you. You just don’t know what you want.”
Her words press the gas before the clutch, stalling my mind in place.
“What if I do know what I want, and it’s just not what we’re supposed to want?”
“Then you make your choice and we rally behind you,” Marlowe answers.
Apparently, you can belong to friends too.
“If he is how you want to spend your year, then we will cheer for you every step of the way,” she continues.
Together, we take a deep breath and they absorb the rest of my insecurities.
“Here’s to living out our own version of fun,” Avery says, smiling as she raises her glass.
“To many more days of girl talk.” Marlowe laughs, joining in.
My voice comes out barely above a whisper. “. . . And to maybe falling in love.”