So, there I was, in an itchy canary yellow—did I mention the damned dress was yellow? As if I didn’t already stand out enough. But maybe that was the point. She knew I would shrink away. Try to blend in as much as possible, though blending wouldn’t have been an easy feat, but I would’ve tried my hardest. But in that bright yellow dress, there was no hiding. Well played, Mom. So, with a deep, quivering breath, I embraced the inevitable. I unglued my eyes from my favorite brown boots, and ever so slowly, raised my head to meet the class officially.
And in that moment, two things happened that changed my entire ten-year old life.
For the first time ever, I felt brave.
I was always the quiet one. I didn’t act out. I didn’t throw a tantrum, or even raise my voice. I did what I was asked, and I did it well. Always, and without the need for praise. Model student, daughter, human being. Apparently, I had always been like this, even as a baby. Which is probably why I’m an only child—my parents didn’t want to press their luck. I don’t blame them. My free time was almost always spent sitting in or under trees, getting lost in someone else’s story, watching birds dance from branch to branch, listening to the music of nature and life flittered around me. Silently and alone. I never really had any friends. Never really wanted any, until that moment. Until, my chocolate brown eyes found a matching pair, three seats down the middle row of desks.
There he was.
Delaware King.
The boy who, I had learned, lived directly across from my house. The boy who I had watched from underneath my Weeping Willow tree almost every day for the first seven days of living in Oregon. As my parents were immersed in unpacking the house, I sat. Knees to my chest, bundled up in my puffy winter coat, heavy-knit scarf and signature boots, and watched. Watched him practice his layups in the driveway with his older brothers. Watched him play touch football in the street with all of the other neighborhood kids. Watched him attempt to play guitar underneath his own tree—a vibrant yellow Gingko, that I swear still had every single leaf even though it was nearly winter. He was almost always surrounded by people—friends and family. Everyone loud and animated. Happy. I thought I was happy, but they were expressive and alive. Their joy radiated off their bodies. His, more than anyone’s.
Every day I sat, and no one noticed me. No one but him.
Every day, at some point in time, the boy would find me, stare directly into my eyes, and smile. It probably lasted no more than two seconds, but it felt like an entire lifetime passed us by, and in that lifetime, it was just the two of us. Existing. Together.
For seven days, I lived for that look—it was unlike anything I had ever felt on my skin. Those eyes—warm and full of a mischief I desperately wanted to be a part of. That smile—free and genuine. Breathtaking.
And then there that damned smile was, in my new classroom, in front of Mr. Nelson, the class rabbit named Chewie, and twenty-four other kids. And there, without any thought or reason I could understand, I smiled back.
I remember my heart feeling like it did an effortless pirouette inside my chest. It felt so foreign and disconcerting but also thrilling. And I wanted to chase that thrill, just to see what it would feel like.
That’s when I knew. Delaware King was trouble.
And I didn’t care one bit.
It was about time I got into a little trouble.
And I did, with Del smiling at my side.
Always.
Until he wasn’t.
Until he left me when I needed him the most.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
If My Name Was Whiskey
Six years ago
Zoey
That motherfucking bastard!
I can’t even… I can’t. This has to be some joke. Like there is no way, no freaking way this is happening right now.
He wouldn’t do this.
Del would never do this to me. Right? Not now. Not after what happened. Not after what we just lost! I know things have been off between us—strained. He’s been different. But he’s still Del. He’s still mine. We’re still us! This can’t be happening. It can’t. This is just a really twisted joke that we’ll laugh at—after I punch him in the balls—over cheap wine that we’ll drink straight out of the bottle on his bedroom floor listening to some new artist Del found on the ’gram or YouTube or on tour who is dope as hell. They always are.
Yeah, that’s what this is.
A joke.
It has to be.
Right?
But what if it’s not?
I knew something was up when I woke up alone in that hospital bed. But I shrugged it off. Made excuses. As usual. I waived it off and smiled through my mom’s questioning glances as she signed the discharge papers. Breathed through the unanswered texts. Blinked away tears when I realized he wasn’t waiting for me at home. Fuck, is this for real?
No. We’ve been together since we were thirteen. Best friends since age ten. We just survived his first world tour, amongst a slew of other shit that has been thrown at us. We have plans. I’m moving to freaking California with him in a month! This is not happening!
He loves me. I know he loves me. Unconditionally, and with his whole damn heart. We’re forever. We’re it. We are. Mother-freaker, we are. There’s no way he would do this.
There’s no way he’s breaking up with me.
And he sure as hell isn’t doing it in a freaking ‘dear John’ letter!
I uncrumple the piece of paper for the sixth time, flattening the creases with the palm of my hand the best I can. My eyes carefully move over the page, just in case I missed a “JK” the first five times I read it.
Zo,
I don’t know how to say this. In fact, I can’t. Which is why I’m writing this letter. Because if I look at you, I won’t go through with it, and I need to go through with it, Zo. I want you to know that I love you, and this is not your fault. This is all me, okay? This is on me. Everything is on me. You are so good. So damn brave and strong as hell. You deserve so much more what I can give you right now. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. But it’s better this way. You’ll see. Take care, Zoey.
Del
The piece of paper crumbles into a ball inside my hand as they clench into tight fists. White-hot tears begin to obstruct my vision as they come tumbling down my face. But they don’t stop me from running out of my room, down the stairs and out the front door, crossing the street without even looking because I’m so damn laser-focused on dropkicking Del’s door open, along with a straight up bitch slap across his stupid, hot face.
Thankfully, my mom got called into work, and after assuring her for twenty minutes that I was going to be okay alone and probably wouldn’t be for long because I assumed my loving boyfriend would be welcoming me home from the fucking hospital, she reluctantly left. And one look at the Kings’ empty driveway tells me no one will be here to witness the serious beat down and bitch-fest I’m about to deliver to Delaware King.
I don’t even bother knocking—just walk on in like I live there—which I have, at least half of the time, for the last eight years!
Take care? TAKE. CARE?
“Take care? Seriously, Del?” I scream as I push open his bedroom door. He turns at the sound of my voice. Our eyes connect instantly, and what I see nearly knocks me on my ass. He’s crying. I’ve only seen Del cry once before, and it was last night. When I close my eyes, it replays like a reel no one wants to watch: the hospital lights casting an unforgiving glow on his beautiful, broken face, an expression that reflected my own. A face I will never forget.