Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him-it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at leas...
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My head is buzzing, I think.
Not the type of buzzing that comes from a substance or a loud noise, or even too much ear wax like when I was seven. My head is physically buzzing. The sensation is enough to force my eyes open, but I remain with one cheek glued to the silky fabric of my pillow.
I reach a sole hand underneath the cushion and grab for my phone, using the incessant vibration it's producing as a guide. I curse at it, and at my best friend for calling me at six thirty on a Saturday morning.
I ignore the call, and the five texts that accompany it. Even though each one claims an emergency, I've known Gabriella Brown long enough to know that she struggles to identify the size of a problem, and her reactions never quite match.
I lay my phone on the empty space of my mattress beside me and roll back over. I close my eyes again. Not to try and catch more sleep, even though the four hours I did get wasn't nearly enough, but to try to resume the dream I was having. I can still picture it clearly in my head.
As if Adam Sandler himself lent me his special time warping remote, I move back to the beginning until I can hear the creaks of the door hinges as they slowly open. As if I were still fast asleep, I feel my mattress shift under the new pressure applied to its edge from the weight of her body. The nerve endings along my jaw tingle and tickle as she brushes a stray curl out of my face.
Every single action is so familiar, so automatic, they feel like breathing. I wait quietly for her to say something, anything. I would even settle for her yelling at me for stealing her favorite lipstick again. I wouldn't even argue back and tell her the color looks better on me.
I would just take it if it meant hearing her voice again. But just like before Gabi's phone call woke me the first time, the dream stops there. The image frozen on the screen in my mind is a mute shadow of my imagination in the shape of my mother smiling down at me. No amount of pleading or good behavior rewards me with even a single word.
It feels like my brain has waged a war where betrayal is the goal. A cease of fire can only be reached when I fully accept that maybe I can't conjure up the words because I forget the cadence of how her words would sound as they leave her mouth.
"Ryn!" I hear my father yell from the other side of my door. "Ryn, you need to move! Big day!" His words are accompanied by a double clap, a signature that I have never appreciated in the past. Today is no different.
I mumble a response that must sounds a little too like my intended words of, "Fuck off," because my father bursts through the door a moment after.
"Excuse me?" he asks.
"Can you please stop yelling. I'm fighting a massive hangover and the octave of your voice is paining me."
"Your jokes are never funny, Camryn. Now get up and get dressed. Breakfast is in the kitchen."
