i love you, i'm sorry

chapter five

Hannah sipped her apple cider, hands cupped around the rose patterned ceramic. Her fingernails were painted orange, tiny jack o' lantern faces on her thumbs leering at me. Hannah had been doing her own nails (and mine) since we were in sixth grade.

"So?" I asked, taking a sip of my vanilla latte. Steam rose from the cup, and my tongue burned faintly.

She raised an eyebrow, "So what?"

"So do I have a milk mustache?" I rolled my eyes.

"Yes."

"Hannah," I groaned. Her dark eyes sparkled with laughter. "Axel. What do you think?"

Axel had departed barely a minute ago. He'd needed to pack. His flight home left early the next morning, and thankfully he'd been considerate enough to arrange his own transportation, sparing me the drive to Charlottesville.

She shrugged, "He's fine."

"Hannah."

"What?" she said. "He seemed nice."

"He seemed nice?" I folded my arms. "He's gone. Tell me what you really think." Hannah was possibly the most judgmental person I'd ever met, save for my mother and Lou when they were in a mood and talking about someone from high school.

She took another sip of her cider. The owner's cat twined itself around the leg of our table, tawny tail grazing my jeans. A cold gust of air caught my ear as the door open and shut. I waited imploringly for her response.

"I thought he seemed nice, Jules."

"That's it?"

"What more do you want?"

"Literally anything other than 'he seemed nice'," I told her. "You're my best friend."

"Best girl friend," Hannah corrected wryly, instinctual smile flickering across her face. She paled slightly, and her smile faded, realizing what she'd said. My mouth went dry. She lowered her cider slowly back down to the table, pressing her lips together apologetically, "I didn't—"

I shook my head, forcing a smile, "No— it's okay. You don't have to—"

"It's just—"

"Habit. I know."

She didn't have to explain. For a moment I'd nearly laughed too. It was so immediate. So natural. We'd been saying it for years. Since she'd moved here really, and we'd become close. Even in third grade Gavin had begun making the distinction, sensing someone infringing upon his territory as my sole best friend. And so came the phrase, best girl friend. And in Grant's case, because there was no way Gavin was allowed to exist in hypocrisy, best guy friend.

It became somewhat of an inside joke between the four of us as we grew older and realized people were allowed to have more than one best friend. Thus, whenever I referred to Hannah as my best friend, she corrected me as Gavin would have in the third grade. It was sweet and reminiscent and always made us laugh. Our way of teasing Gavin. At least, it used to be.

I picked at the edge of my napkin, tearing tiny holes in the layers of paper.

"Anyway," Hannah cleared her throat, sniffing, "I'm pretty sure best friends are supposed to pick up each other's calls and respond to texts with more than one word."

I looked down at the table, cowed.

"I'm sorry." The words didn't feel adequate enough.

She was right again. I had not been acting like a best friend as of late, girl or not. It was just— hard. Everything about home was wrapped up in my memories of Gavin, including Hannah. The same memories I was trying with every atom of my body to permanently scrub from my brain. The memories that were now coursing through me with every second I spent back in Lovingston.