Like Water
prologue
Hannah and I perch on the front porch of the house that’s no longer hers. Our shoulders are pressed together, my left knee knocks against her right. We don’t say much, but just sit there, watching the movers drag the last of the boxes up the steel ramp and into the back of the cube truck.
The weight of this day has been slowly descending onto my shoulders for months. And now, the mass of it has settled, engulfing me with a thick sort of despair. I’m not prepared to lose my best friend.
The thunk of the closing trailer rattles my entire body. “Five minutes, Hannah!” Roxanne calls at us. She’s already at the vehicle’s front door, leaning against it. My eyes are blurry with water so I can’t see it, but I know her face shows nothing but pity.
After taking a shaky breath, I push myself off of the steps. I’m the first to do it because I’m the most confrontational. Hannah shortly follows, clasping my hand in hers. The only ever time we’ve done that is during her brother’s funeral, three years ago.
I’ve never been a touchy-feely person, but I keep my hand in hers anyway, because pretty soon she’ll no longer be tangible. She’ll be a face on the computer, words in a text message. She’ll be across the country. May as well be on the moon.
“We can always visit each other,” I say, even though our sadness goes much deeper than just not being able to sit in the same room. Rooted in both of our minds is worry. Fear that one of us will lose interest, that we’ll move on from each other. It’s not a concept that we’ve talked about openly, but I know Hannah well enough to be able to assume that she’s thought about it just as much as I have.
She squeezes my finger tips as we trudge toward the moving truck. “You better visit me.” She says it with her typical snark, but it’s only half-hearted. “God, I’m gonna miss this place.”
“Well, you know,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood, “They say that it’s the people that make the place.”
Hannah grins, but her blue eyes are shiny with tears. “Get over here, goof,” she tugs me into a hug.
We cling to each other, using each other’s shoulder to muffle our crying. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I mutter into her brown tee shirt.
“I’m going to more than miss you,” she replies. She sniffles and inhales, gurgling the snot in her nose.
There’s nothing I can do but laugh. “Ugh. You’re disgusting.”
“Shut up.”
“I promise I’ll come visit you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The weight of this day has been slowly descending onto my shoulders for months. And now, the mass of it has settled, engulfing me with a thick sort of despair. I’m not prepared to lose my best friend.
The thunk of the closing trailer rattles my entire body. “Five minutes, Hannah!” Roxanne calls at us. She’s already at the vehicle’s front door, leaning against it. My eyes are blurry with water so I can’t see it, but I know her face shows nothing but pity.
After taking a shaky breath, I push myself off of the steps. I’m the first to do it because I’m the most confrontational. Hannah shortly follows, clasping my hand in hers. The only ever time we’ve done that is during her brother’s funeral, three years ago.
I’ve never been a touchy-feely person, but I keep my hand in hers anyway, because pretty soon she’ll no longer be tangible. She’ll be a face on the computer, words in a text message. She’ll be across the country. May as well be on the moon.
“We can always visit each other,” I say, even though our sadness goes much deeper than just not being able to sit in the same room. Rooted in both of our minds is worry. Fear that one of us will lose interest, that we’ll move on from each other. It’s not a concept that we’ve talked about openly, but I know Hannah well enough to be able to assume that she’s thought about it just as much as I have.
She squeezes my finger tips as we trudge toward the moving truck. “You better visit me.” She says it with her typical snark, but it’s only half-hearted. “God, I’m gonna miss this place.”
“Well, you know,” I say, hoping to lighten the mood, “They say that it’s the people that make the place.”
Hannah grins, but her blue eyes are shiny with tears. “Get over here, goof,” she tugs me into a hug.
We cling to each other, using each other’s shoulder to muffle our crying. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I mutter into her brown tee shirt.
“I’m going to more than miss you,” she replies. She sniffles and inhales, gurgling the snot in her nose.
There’s nothing I can do but laugh. “Ugh. You’re disgusting.”
“Shut up.”
“I promise I’ll come visit you.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
♠ ♠ ♠
cheesy, cliche summer romance :)