The Last Time

The aging wood beneath me causes my muscles to ache, screaming for me to stand up, to move. But I am too happy here, just like this, to move. I can hear the soft chirping of birds just outside these walls; I can feel the sun setting, taking the heat with it. The combination of sensations effectively blocking out the sound of my parents fighting. Not that I care anymore. It has just become part of my life; it has become uncomfortable, inherently wrong when they aren’t at each other’s throats. But I think this is a good thing, because, so long as they are fighting, they haven’t given up on each other yet. I know that their divorce is inevitable. It doesn’t scare me like it used to.

My best friend’s mom passed away a few years ago, and it made me realize that even if they split up, they will both still be here, and they will both still love me just the same. And at least they would be alive.

“Hey, pass the beer,” Quinn says from beside me. Her long, skinny form stretched out across the small wooden room. She holds out a hand for the singular beer bottle that we have been passing back and forth for the past fifteen minutes. She is never able to steal more than one from her father, who claims to have sworn off drinking, yet drinks like it is his religion every weekend. Quinn is always with me on the weekends.

I pass her the bottle with a soft lethargy. It is almost gone. It never actually does anything to make us feel better, but just the idea of it seems to help. A sort of placebo effect. I’ve never actually been drunk, but I have a feeling that I prefer this.

“Do you want the last sip?” she asks after taking a slow sip.

“No, you can finish it.”

I watch as she turns the bottle upside-down and watch her throat move as she swallows the room temperature liquid. She sets the bottle on the other side of him and looks over at me, her eyes full of a weight that I will never understand.

After her mom died, I stopped complaining about my parents fighting. I doubt that she would ever get upset with me for it, but I knew as soon as I heard the news that no matter how ugly the divorce was, it would be a thousand times better than what she had to go through. My heart ached for her, but it took her pain to realize how fortunate I am. So, I stopped complaining about my parents fighting; I stopped caring.

“Am I allowed to smile?” she asks softly. “I feel like I am never allowed to be happy again because my mom is dead.” It almost sounds like a lie. She doesn’t sound like a girl who has lost her mother.

I reach for her hand and twine my calloused fingers through hers. I don’t say “Of course you can be happy, it’s already been two and a half years.” This is what people tell her when they are tired of caring about her and just want to talk about themselves again. Telling her to just be happy already because enough time has passed. I know that telling someone they should be happy often has the opposite effect. It makes you feel broken because you still cannot be happy. So, I tell her that she has every right to be happy, but that does not mean that she has to be happy right now.

“No two people process grief the same way. You need to find what makes you happy, no matter how long it takes.” These words also sound foreign to me. I could almost fool myself into thinking that we are not actually the ones who are talking.

Quinn suddenly throws her head back, silent laughter rattling through her body. Her mouth shapes a smile that seems genuine, real. In that instant, it feels like three years earlier, when both our lives were easier. It starts up an aching in my chest, not only back I would do anything to be back there, but also because I know that the pain is necessary. This pain, like wind, rain, and water shape stone, will shape Quinn and I into something far more beautiful than those who are not touched by misfortune.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Never be sorry for laughing, especially not at me. I am yours to laugh at.” I am startled by how much weight my words hold. And by how true they are. I am Quinn’s. I’m sure that she has known this longer than I have, but I suddenly realize that every atom of my being belongs to this girl.

“I want to be yours,” she says quietly.

I watch the way her face morphs from one of quiet delight, to one of deep sadness. Her loneliness reverberates through my chest, reaching me from her place besides me.

“You have always been mine.” Even as I say it, I know it isn’t true, which makes it hurt worse. I don’t know why she isn’t mine; I have never had a claim on her soul like she has on mine. The look on her face makes me want to gather her up into my arms and never let her go. Suddenly the space between up feels impenetrable.

“Will I ever be someone’s?” she asks earnestly, without pausing to tell me that I’m wrong. Her voice is pure, untouched by sorrow or happiness.

I look down at my hands, which are splayed against the paling wood of the treehouse that my dad made for me and Quinn when we were in elementary school. I think about how it has transformed from a place to play to the only place where we felt like we were protected from the world. The only place where it was just the two of us.

Before answering her, I reach for my water bottle. The sticker covered plastic feel almost as heavy as her eyes on me. I take a slow drink, the cool liquid in my throat a stark contrast to the warm afternoon air.

“Of course—”

“Stop lying to me.”

Her voice breaks something inside me. A single tear brims in my eye. “No,” I say softly, “you are too you to belong to someone. It makes you strong.” Strong is the wrong word.

“But I will never be loved the way you will.”

It’s not a question. I let Quinn’s words ring out through the treehouse. What feels like minutes later, I can still hear her cadence as she says what we both know.

The wood creaks under Quinn’s weight as she shifts. I turn to see her crawling over to me. I stiffen as she moves on top of me. I stare at her with wide eyes, noticing that hers are bloodshot. She drops her chapped lips to mine, neither of us bothering to close our eyes. They taste unequivocally like Quinn; pressed tight to mine, without movement.

I always imagined out first kiss to taste like fireworks and feel like flowers, but this just feels wrong. I can see the flawed texture of her skin, as I’m sure she can see mine. She lets out a shaky breath through her nose, her mouth still unmoving. I realize, just as she pulls away, that I hated it.

Quinn pulls away and sits back in her place, as if she didn’t just kiss me. I straighten myself up, resisting the urge to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. It is in the moment of silence that I realize just how right she is. She will never be loved in the same way as the people around her.

Silently, I sit up and move towards the small opening that leads to a ladder. As I turn, placing my feet on the first step, I analyze Quinn’s face. It is soft, content almost. She gives me a small smile as she watches me leave. I can’t help but to feel as if she wanted this. I reach up and grab my water bottle before jumping down the last few rungs. From where I am standing, I can just see the top of her head.

I don’t feel bad as I leave. I thought for years that I loved her. I was wrong. I walk out of my back yard, opening the gate that leads to the drive way. I reach into my pocket for the keys to my car and unlock it. I drive down the street aimlessly, feeling empty, not knowing that I will never set foot in that treehouse again. Neither will Quinn. I run a red light, not knowing that I will never see Quinn again.