How A Heart Breaks

Porter never really forgets things. They’re just tossed to the back of his mind for later use, like when he’s finally proved someone wrong after even years of trying. He can recall the memory with startling clarity, and I admit, it’s kind of annoying. But it’s Porter so, there’s something else to it that makes it somehow okay for him to do that. Even if it’s directed to me, just as it is today.

“And do you remember two years ago, when we had our first band practise?” I roll my eyes, but I’m not really mad at him. Actually, I don’t really remember a time I have been mad at him. Our disagreements stayed as disagreements and never truly branched off to something more. I cross my arms over my chest, and raise an eyebrow. I decide to play dumb.

“It was two years ago, Porter,” I groan, “Why does it matter?”

“Obviously, because you owe me something huge!” He shouts, “You never really thought this band would get anywhere.” As if it was a big deal. He never took it seriously enough for me to think that he was serious about anything that had to do with the band. It was a hobby, it seemed.

“Alright,” I sigh. He steps in closer to me, so I can smell the mint of his breath, the nectarine of his hair, and it smells so good. But I just grunt, as he waves the paper in my face rapidly.

“Do you see what that says?!” He screeches, still dangling the paper there. I growl, snatching the paper from his hands, not bothering to scan my eyes over it. I just already knew what was on there.

“You better not let this whole thing get to your head,” I warn, because I’ve seen what can happen to guys in bands. After they’ve got signed, and played on a tour. It’s really a shame what fame can do to a person, given the person was susceptible to giving in to everything they never truly wanted to in the first place. He rolled his eyes at me, ripping the paper from my hand as I had done to his.

“We got on warped tour, of course it’s getting to my head!”

“You know what I mean,” I frown, plopping down on the sofa in his basement. He jumps into my lap, and pokes my nose, grinning.

“Aw,” he coos, “you’re worried I’ll turn into a little dick-hole.” I sigh again, and press my hands to his side to push him away.

“Just get off.”

“You know, Nathan and Julian and Hayden would be, like, really happy,” he pouts, getting off of my lap to sit on the space beside me. “What’s wrong with you Mr. Grumpy-gills?” I don’t know what’s wrong with me, truly. But I know that something’s going on and I wish I knew what it was. Maybe it was that time in my life that everything just seems shit, even if our band is practically signed, and we are playing warped. And maybe that’s the real answer to all of my unknown problems: I just need to go away for a while, so maybe warped won’t be so bad.

So I tell him what everyone does when they just don’t feel like talking about things that are wrong. “I’m just tired.”

It’s as easy as that. I sink back into the couch for effect, and he just nods and rests his head on my shoulder, just because. I smile lightly, because after six years, here we are. And he’s not that twelve year old whose life I saved, he’s that eighteen year old, who’s my best friend- whose life I saved. And for some reason, that’s a dramatic difference, or it feels like one, at least. I didn’t think someone would stick around this long, other than Nathan.

We sat in silence for all but three minutes before Porter squeals and jumps to his feet to look at me with the biggest grin on his face. His electric blue eyes sparkle, and he claps his hands together three times, fast.

“Pash!” He yells, “You know it’s your birthday in, like, two days!” My eyes narrow at his words.

“Don’t remind me,” I groan, letting my head fall back onto the sofa. I only really liked my birthday until I turned twenty, the number just frightened me. And now, at twenty-one, I am reminded I’m turning twenty-two. Which means I’m one year closer to thirty, and fuck that scares me. When I lift my head to look at Porter, he’s sporting a frown now.

“What’s wrong with aging?”

“Wrinkles!” I shout, throwing my arms in the air. It makes him laugh lightly before plopping down beside me again. “I don’t ever want wrinkles.” I pout, but as I watch his lips stretch into a smile, I know that my pout is about to be replaced with a smile as well. It’s hard to imagine he went from that twelve year old kid, to this pretty attractive eighteen year-old. But his smile shines brighter than anyone else’s I’ve seen, and maybe that was why I felt uneasy when he returned to resting his head on my shoulder.