Beside

39 - friends

"I tried to build a sandcastle, but the sand keeps falling down."

"Did you use water? You need wet sand, Jellybean."

"Oh. I thought it was just being mean to me."

"Sand can't be mean. It's sand."

"You don't know that."

"Um, yes I do."

"Um, no!"

ｃｈｒｉｓ

Lavender, everywhere.

It's evening now, and the last of the day's light spills over the city, casting everything in that soft, golden glow that's just too pretty to ignore. I sit in a towel on the corner of my bed, dripping and damp, the air cooling my freshly showered skin.

I'm holding my stone, the one Jed gave me. It's smooth, cool to the touch. Droplets of water plop off my hair to the rock's black, glassy surface.

When it remains black, I frown.

Fox has been gone, these days, and I feel it—his absence is like a missing chapter in a book. I don't want to read the next one. It feels wrong. I'm missing something.

I move around my room, set my rock back on my window, and go open my last honey stick. A thick dollop lands on my tongue, melting into that floral, golden taste that makes me sigh. My throat's better now, but I still love these. The stick crinkles as I finish it.

The lightheadedness is a shadow now, rather than the crazy spin it's been these past few days. Days or maybe weeks. It's hard to remember. But I do feel much better now.

Across my room, the lavender candle Fox brought me is nearly melted all the way down. I inhale the air in my room, and its earthy scent is fleeting.

He was here, wasn't he? In all his bruised, battered, strangely gentle self, he was here. I hadn't imagined all of it, I hope.

Whit's been here too, since Cam and Noah are gone. Cam, I miss her. My friend. Before she and Noah left, Charlie, her loyal shadow, had curled up at the end of my bed each night like a guard. But it's been a few days, now.

And Fox... Fox hasn't been by. At least not since my candle wasn't so melted.

I reach for some clothes, pulling on soft underwear, a pair of pink sweatpants Cam lent me, and one of my knitted purple sweaters from Paps.

Once I'm dressed, I go blow out the lavender candle, watching the smoke unfurl in a soft, lazy swirl. I don't want to burn the wood of this dresser.

When there's a sound outside my door, my heart skips. I stand here, holding my breath. It's silly, but I almost feel like a kid. Like he'll come into my room holding stardust and a kiss.

No one comes, so I swallow my honeyed tongue and strip my sheets and blankets. I need a reset. I bundle in my arms before heading to the laundry across the hall.

Then, Jed and I have cereal for dinner and sit down on the couch. We watch a show that shows how stuff is made—tonight's coffins—and talk about death, but not for long because he has to go to his room and wait for a call from Mick, his boyfriend. So I finish the show by myself.

I clean the kitchen, do the dishes until my fingers prune, and realize I could've worn rubber gloves, but I only find them after I'm done. Turns out I don't know the apartment as well as I thought.