“Thing? Girl…” I’m instantly myself with her. “It’s not some rabid disease.”
“It is to me,” she mutters. “What’s up, girlie pop? You haven’t posted, didn’t text, and now I’m wondering if you still love me.”
“Hello?” I pull my phone back and stare in shock. “Is this my best friend Sunny? It can’t be because that girl hates affection.”
“Har-har. You’re so funny.” She says dryly. “Quit the florist-y shit and start stand-up comedy.”
“Only if you’re in the front row for me to make fun of,” I add.
“I’d like to see you try,” she snorts. “You’d start complimenting me.”
Very true. “How are you?”
“Ain’t no way you’re putting it back on me, answer me first.”
Bottom lip is going to rip off if I keep biting it. “My mom keeps calling me.”
“So… Answer?”
“You know I can’t do that, Sunny. She’s…”
“Send her a text, telling her that you can’t talk to her. When did she call you?”
“This…” Morning. Last night. Whenhasn’tshe called me? “Since yesterday. Doesn’t she sleep?”
“No worried mother can sleep.”
I resume my petting. “I wish she could just…”forget about me again.
Sunny knows almost everything about me, except my life before my dad got released from prison. Those are some… what do people call it? Trauma? Yep, that’s what it is.
Using trauma as an excuse for my actions is a thing for the past, I can’t do that anymore because that just means I haven’t grown. Butif I tell someone like Sunny about it then she’s gonna think I’m being dramatic, and I’d rather feel like I’ve grown myself than have someone tell me that I need to move on.
“You’re not gonna listen to anything I say, so tell Nadine to make up some excuse for her and then deal with it when you come back.” I don’t say anything. “Now tell me what it’s like being on camera?”
“Weird,” I reply.
“Scripted?”
“Technical,” I say. “Nothing is pretty behind the scenes. It’s awkward and forced.”
Sunny yawns. “Can’t wait to watch the first episode and screenshot ugly pics of you.”
“It’s cute that you think I can look ugly.”
“Whatever,” she yawns again. “You still love me.”
“Always,” I reply and then I say goodnight because she’s about to start snoring in less than two minutes.
Mindlessly, I rub over Lottie’s fur while staring out at the mountains. I can’t see them, but I can see the outline of them.
If you told me when my professor talked about the Swiss Alpines during my third year British Romanticism course, that I’d have the chance to see it in person—I’d accuse you of lying—but then I’d be saying sorry becausewow.
I don’t know how Mary, Percy, or Byron did it.
I’m having a hard time believing they didn’t stare from this exact spot and back out. You need courage and a whole lot of energy drinks to climb those mountains.
None of which I have.
