We all have best friends. We make promises with those best friends. Promises that are easily broken. When I was 13, I began to write my book. The one about me and my friend. We became friends during that summer. My mom and her dad used to date and we were both dragged along to this big high school reunion thing. We thought out unmarried parents still liked each other, we were wrong. In high school, as we both applied for college at Savannah, I named the book. It was called " Drawn by hate, saved by love". It was about me and her. When in Savanna, I finished it. I kept it in a brown leather pouch my grandfather gave me. He was a photographer, in that bag he kept his photos and his camera. As I did too, with the addition of 11 moleskines. I held up the picture of the exact spot I was sitting, only 61 years back when my grandpa proposed to my grandmother right on campus. I wasn't giving her a ring, I was showing her the book.
We met at he old bridge on campus, I brought the fragile camera bag with me, exams were over in our classes so we were the only ones out besides the grazers, we call them that only because the sit in that grass like cows when they do yoga. I brought lunch, a ham sandwich on wheat for her and a peanut butter and jelly for me. She told me what was happening in her wing, she wanted to be a director. I handed over the bag and she smiled. She asked if it was a book, I told her it was about us. She told me she would read it later when she had the chance. She did look at the pictures, it sent her back too. Then I asked for permission, permission to publish it after she read it, she said yes.
When she read it, she fell in love with it. She told me how it was going to be a bestseller, and only in my sophomore year. I sent it to New York. I didn't tell her, after all I wanted it to be a surprise. And that it was.
One month and two weeks later, I greeted her at told her our book was in Mew York . She was ecstatic. When I was sleeping and she wasn't, she took the book and the bag and began to shuffle through it. She found 11 moleskines, some pictures, and letter, a letter that confirmed that I was moving to New York for a job and college. I don't know how she was feeling, I was asleep, all I know is that she was mad enough to sneak out and throw the bag, with my book and my pictures 20 feet down a bridge into cold water. It was gone, the pictures, the book, and my future. All that was left was an old camera, shattered at the lens. The book that died like our friendship.
