47. Lolly
forty-seven
Lolly
He read my most recent text but hasn't yet replied.
I hear from him every couple of days. Generally a superficial conversation with quick, vague answers.
But it’s something. It’s him.
I often find myself wishing things were different. That he hadn’t run from me—from us. Wish that I was the one comforting him now.
The thoughts come and go, rising and falling like the tide. Sometimes they threaten to pull me under, but I refuse to give in.
“Lolly?” Mom calls from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
“Yes, Mom, it’s me. Do you want help with the cookies?”
I round the corner to find her sitting at the kitchen table, her favorite cookbook laid out in front of her. A soft smile forms on her face when her eyes meet mine.
“Oh, there you are. I was wondering if anyone was coming to see me today.”
I don’t remind her that I’ve been here for months now.
I don’t ask about the cookies she’s already forgotten about.
I don’t allow myself to entertain thoughts of freckles and green eyes. Of soft kisses and dorm rooms.
I stay here, trying to appreciate this moment. The one in which she is smiling and still knows my name.