Me: You could. Or you could come over for breakfast. Or an even better idea—I’ll meet you at Judy’s for apple fritters.
Boone: I’m going back to bed. Find someone else to entertain you.
Me: Come on, Boonie.
Boone: Ask Riss.
I stick my bottom lip out.
Me: Riss won’t answer.
Boone: I’m not going to again because I’m turning my phone off. Good luck with your breakfast situation.
Me: Don’t! Don’t leave me.
But he does. My last message shows delivered but not read.
“Ugh,” I say, dropping my phone on the blankets.
I waited until six in the morning to text my friends. I wanted to message them at three but held off out of respect for their normal-people sleeping habits.
I haven’t slept well in years. For some reason, my brain just decides to turn on as soon as the sun goes down, and I replay everything I’ve ever said, everything I didn’t say, and every missed opportunity and humiliating event.
Strangely, a large percentage of those things all involve Coy.
My shoulders sag against my pillows.
He’s the singular thing in my life that I can’t rectify. He just hangs out in my head like a perpetual mental hangnail—festering and unresolved.
“But there’s nothing to resolve,” I admit, my voice piercing the darkness. “It is what it is.”
It’s a natural progression of our friendship if I really think about it. And I’ve really thought about it.
Our connection was always different than mine and Boone’s. Boone and I are like brother and sister. Never once have I wanted to kiss him or gotten jealous when he dated another girl. Heck, I’ve set him up on dates lots of times.
My first regular kiss was with Coy when I was twelve. It was behind his dad’s shed after a game of flashlight tag. My first real kiss—tongue and all—was also with Coy when I was thirteen. We were on Tybee Island, and it was the first time I realized that I liked what he looked like with no shirt.
As we got older, things remained the same—just more.
Boone and I went to the movies. Coy and I would wind up at the creek behind our properties in the middle of the night to talk. I’d divide my homework up with Boone and spend the time I saved trying to see if Coy was around.
I liked Boone, but I loved Coy. Always.
It hurts when I let myself realize that. It’s uncomfortable and embarrassing because I let myself believe that Coy looked at me differently. I trusted him when he said there was something between us. I gave him my virginity in a tent in his backyard when I was seventeen and my heart on my sleeve on my twenty-first birthday three years ago.
I got nothing back either time but heartache. Watching a phone screen for a comforting text when you need it the most was more painful than I thought possible.
I need to accept the situation for what it is. The blame going forward lies on me.
I know that you can’t believe everything you see in the tabloids, but sadly, there have been too many Coy photos with too many women not to see a distinct pattern. He’s carefree, careless, and reckless—not someone I should ever pin any hopes on.
Nor should anyone else.
My conversation with Lauren is on my mind as I yank the blankets off my body. The air is cold, prickling at my skin, so I slip on a robe before heading to the kitchen.
“What am I going to do?” I ask the empty room.
I find a coffee pod and plop it in the Keurig. The delicious aroma of caffeine fills the air.
“Why do I let him have this kind of power over me?” I pour creamer into my cup. “Why do I let him bother me so much?”
I sip my drink as I sit at the table. The stillness of the kitchen helps to center me despite my lack of sleep.
My gaze scoots across the kitchen. It slips over the refrigerator filled with images of my friends and me. It skips the sink and the dishes that still need to be done from two days ago and over the countertop riddled with mail. It doesn’t stop until it lands on the built-in desk at the end and the calendar hanging on the wall behind it.
A circle encompasses the last day of the month. A more optimistic version of me drew a smiley face inside it—the day I was supposed to have completed my introduction to manifestation.
“That must’ve been a vodka version of me,” I say before sipping the coffee again.
Late one night a few months ago, Larissa and I watched a video on YouTube about manifesting happiness. You’re supposed to be able to bring good things into your life through attraction and positive thinking. There were steps to take and a prettily colored journal you could order from an Etsy shop—which I did, complete with the cute little stickers—to help you manifest the life you always wanted.
I don’t know if Larissa went all-in and ate the high vibrational foods and spent time in nature or what, but she manifested herself Hollis Hudson. All I can say is that my junk food diet and time spent with a pre-teen and Netflix did not give me a Division One tight end.
“Maybe I was onto something,” I say before finishing my coffee. “Maybe I need to clear my head and start fresh.”
The more I think about it, the more I like it. The more it makes sense.
It worked for Larissa. She’s in bed with the man of her dreams right now. The only thing in my bed is a remote control with dead batteries.
Standing, I take my cup to the sink. The bills and envelopes scattered on my counter only reinforce my newfound hope for the future. Sure, things are a mess right now. My life is definitely on hold because of Dad. But maybe I need to open my chakras and invite positive energy in. Perhaps that will bring clarity and direction.
And dick, but that’s a close third on the priority list.
I head toward my bedroom and change clothes in a hurry. I try to remember the things the guru told us to do. The only one that seems doable at this hour is to reconnect with nature.
I toss my hair into a misshapen bun, and I ignore the stain on my sweatshirt as I head out the door.
My breath billows in front of me. I shiver against the chill in the air. This temperature might freeze my chakras before I open them.
Not knowing what to do and feeling very out of my element, I sort of amble around the yard. I remember someone saying to touch the ground with your bare feet, but it’s too damn cold for that. Instead, I find a chaise by the pool and sit.
I shiver again.
My hands slip between my knees as I try to keep them from shaking. I move in the seat in an attempt to stay warm.
Immediately, I regret this decision.
I stand, ready to abort my mission, when I look toward the gate and see Coy. He’s leaned against the post in gray sweatpants and a black hooded sweatshirt looking downright edible.
“Morning,” he says.
“Yes, it is.”
He grins. “Why are you up so early?”
“Why are you standing there like a creep?”
He rolls his eyes as he walks toward me.
My body stops shaking, and I don’t shiver anymore. Instead, a warmth fills me that heats more the closer Coy gets.
“I was standing there because I heard a noise from over here,” he says. “I was making sure no one was breaking in.”
“We have cameras.”
“Good for you.” His grin gets wider. “Why are you up?”