Dead & Gone (DARAGON)

What becomes of the broken hearted? ~

My soul had gone totally numb.

It's her. It's Sadie.

"No," I whispered, collapsing onto my
knees as I watched my first love take my
best friend's hands in his own. I'm not
sure how long he held her, and I'm not
sure when they finally broke apart so he
could walk back to his car and she could
sneak back to Emma and Tess. I'm not
even sure how long it took for Patrick to
find me there, curled into a ball, my eyes
locked on the horizon ten miles out to
sea. Time didn't matter anymore.

Because I was in hell.

"Try not to think about it, Angel,"
Patrick said when he finally gathered me
up like it was nothing, and carried me
back to Slice.

All I could see were Sadie's arms
wrapped around Jacob's. Her eyes
squeezed shut so tightly. His hands
resting on her lower back. It made sense.
They'd been close friends since we
were little. She'd probably been in love
with him the whole entire time. And he
with her.

No. Stop it. You belong to ME. Both of
you.

It's a strange thing to find yourself
suddenly obsessing over every single
moment you've ever spent with your best
friend. Replaying the millions of sleepovers,
the giggle-fests, the girl talk, the
boy talk, the boob talk (or lack-of-boob
talk), the sex talk, the blowout fights, the
sobbing makeups, the weekend bike
rides, the birthday hugs, the Britney singalongs,
the lunchtime texts, the afterschool
shopping trips, the four-hour
phone calls about Everything and
Nothing all at once.

All of the memories, still just as
familiar. Just as meaningful. Except for
the fact that none of it meant what you
thought it meant. That actually the whole
thing was one big Capital L. Capital I.
Capital E.

I mean everything. The good stuff; the
bad stuff; the in-between stuff; the stuff
you'd never even tell your sister (if you
actually had a sister). And even though
you're still desperate to believe that
deep down, nothing could ever, EVER
come between you and your BFF, now
you've got to face the reality that the
whole entire friendship—the whole
freaking thing—was one big joke.

The worst part?

The joke was on you.

This was Sadie. This was my best
friend. My oldest friend. The friend who
had known me longer and better and
closer than anyone, ever. She knew me
backward and forward and upside down
and practically better than I knew
myself. She was the friend I'd cried to
when my parakeet Crackers flew away
and never came back. The friend who
used to stretch out with me on my roof
and wish upon stars hours after my
parents had gone to bed. The friend I'd
giggled with all night long once when
we'd made the unfortunate (um,
fortunate?) discovery that, whoa, her
parents had a subscription to the Playboy
Channel. She was the friend who'd
taught me one million card tricks, and
had come with me to my grandma Rita's
funeral, and always had my back no
matter what.

Sadie was the one I'd called the second
I'd flown through my front door and up
the stairs to my bedroom that night last
summer: August 11, 2010. My fifty-fifthto-
last night on earth, when my heart was
still pounding and my cheeks were still
warm and no matter how hard I tried, I
couldn't stop shaking. In a good way.

The night I lost my virginity.

Sadie answered the phone and guessed it
right away, without me even having to
say a word.

"You did it, didn't you?" she whispered.

"Maybe." I giggled. "Or maybe not."

"Ohmigod you DID. How was it? Holy
shit, Brie, how was it?"