Time has been a test, though, and distance proves to be a struggle. It’s harder to find things to talk about. I don’t know many of his friends, and he doesn’t know mine, our colleges are different, our classes are different, somedays everything feels different.
Matt: Good to hear from you, Olivia Reid. Things have been crazy here. Spring football and classes. How are you?
My heart pitters and then patters.
Me: I’m well. Busy with school and work. I miss you.
I bite my bottom lip, thinking of flirty innuendos I could send in hopes that he’ll respond sooner than his two-week average. But our lack of conversations and texts make that seem almost misplaced. I wait for several minutes, then go, realizing I’m already going to be cutting it too close.
A pang sits heavy in my chest—one I’ve grown familiar with and expect since moving to Washington halfway through my junior year of high school, nearly four years ago. Some days, I miss simple things. Little things. Things I unknowingly took for granted. I miss Whataburger and being able to drive eighty-five on the highway. I miss the H-E-B grocery store I’d shopped at my entire life, where Miss Deb, who worked the bakery section for as long as I can remember, would slip me cookies even though I wasn’t a kid anymore. I miss big, open skies and kolaches for breakfast. Sometimes I miss Texas so much the pain in my chest feels crushing, and other times—moments where I’m laughing with Rose, or am experiencing something new that only the Pacific Northwest offers—I feel optimistic, realizing life goes on. This morning, I’m stuck near crushing, hearing from Matt usually has that effect. It leads me through a darkened maze of what-ifs that connect to a tunnel of what would’ve happened if I’d stayed? I know I shouldn’t dwell on the hypotheticals—since there’s literally nothing I can do to change the past—but sometimes, my heart doesn’t get the memo.
My trip down memory lane fades like the miles as I reach Brighton University, one of the most prestigious and sought-after schools in the state of Washington. Home of college kids who drink coffee like it’s water and who are itching to save the planet while becoming the new tech bazillionaire. And while I’m team save the planet, sometimes I feel like a complete outsider.
I never saw myself attending Brighton. I always imagined I’d be going to a school in Texas because I never thought I’d leave the state. I know I’m lucky and that this opportunity isn’t one to scrounge, but days like today make it a bit harder to remind myself of this as I narrowly avoid a puddle that could easily be the sixth Great Lake and choke on a cloud of bong smoke. Not that kids I grew up around didn’t occasionally smoke, it’s just so openly accepted here that I still catch myself staring when someone smells like they’ve been locked in a hot box all day.
My tennis shoes hit the sidewalk in a rhythm, hearing my mom’s words in my head. “Dust yourself off, and try your best. No one else knows what they’re doing either.”
Her words offer a bloom of comfort as I pass by person after person who all seem to know exactly what they want and where they belong.
My professor looks at me as I slide into my seat five minutes after class began.
I try to smile my apologies, but he does a short shake of his head as he continues his lecture, confirming he’s going to be telling my dad about this.
3
Arlo
My older brother, Theo, gave me shit when I bought my Tahoe because it’s an automatic. Right now, I’m thanking what’s left of my lucky stars that I got a killer deal off my old neighbor when I moved from Jersey to Seattle. He was moving in with his adult daughter and no longer needed it, so he sold it to me for four grand—those were the days when luck was on my side.
I shove my crutches behind the seat, struggling when one gets caught on something, the rain falling fast and hard in my face like it’s laughing at me. “Fucking piece of shit,” I growl, pushing them harder. They finally succumb, falling behind the seat in a tangle of things I need to clean out.
I stretch my neck and pull in a deep breath. This isn’t me. Hulk is not my alter ego, but lately, I sense myself growing greener every day. Unfortunately, I think it’s stemming from jealousy, as much as I hate to admit the fact. Being laid up sucks. It sucks to watch my teammates play without me and even more to have Tyler replacing me. Crutches suck, and knee braces suck, and finding time for physical therapy sucks. I’ve been trying not to focus on the suckfest and remember the positives that have come with this situation, like having my mom come for a week and finally watching every last episode of Lost. But, there are times like now, when it’s hard to hold onto those bright spots.
I shove my dampened hair back and pull myself up into the cab of my Tahoe, focusing on another bright spot: I wouldn’t be able to drive if it were a manual. Maybe my luck isn’t completely gone, I think to myself as I physically lift my left leg, so I don’t tweak my knee in the confined space.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, calling for my attention.
Kayla: I can’t wait for you to get here. You’re going to love what I’m not wearing.
I grin like the Grinch after he’s stolen Christmas. I still have plenty of luck. I met Kayla yesterday on my way to class. She’d giggled as we talked and then asked me if I had a girlfriend. When I told her I don’t date, she asked for my phone and suggested we get together.
Me: OMW.
I start my SUV and put it into gear with the push of a button. I crank up the radio, a good song starting like a good omen. My thoughts begin to clear like the skies after a thunderstorm as I drive down the narrow two-lane road that the house we rent sits on. We found this place three years ago. Caleb, Paxton’s childhood best friend, knew the owners through his parents, and they offered to rent it to him for cheap as long as we did some updates to the house and kept up the yard. It’s an old fifties house with large bedrooms and giant picture windows in nearly every room. It’s cold during the winter, and in the summer, it’s hot, but we don’t give a shit because the four of us have become brothers over the years, and living with them beats apartment living any day. The darkened skies pause their assault of rain, and I take that as another positive omen.
I glance at my phone, trying to recall the directions to Kayla’s that she’d texted to me. Murietta. Murietta. I repeat the street name in my head and glance up at the road in time to see a stark black object dart in front of my truck.
I slam on the brakes, my tires screeching with protest. My body lurches forward, the impact going to my feet that brace for impact. Pain shoots from my knee like a firecracker, one burst of pain after the other.
“Son of a bitch,” I groan, sitting back as I close my eyes. Generally, the pain is tolerable, a dull headache that has taken residence in my knee. But this pain is gruesome and has me half-expecting to look down and see blood gushing from the small wounds that managed to inflict so much change in my life. I lift my basketball shorts even though my brace covers much of my knee. Still, I can see there’s nothing. The pain is all internal, invisible to the eye.
I breathe out a heavy sigh and check my mirrors, grateful no one had been behind me because that would have confirmed my bad luck has a perverse and vindictive sense of humor.