The Fleeting Happy

Thirteen

Saturday morning was miserable, and I woke up at around noon with a slight cold.

For a moment, I forgot about last night. Its events were hazy and far away and each time I grasped for a memory, all I could summon was my ringing ears absorbing deafening music and the feeling of Montana's hair running through my fingertips.

And then I remembered.

She loved me.

Or, at least, she thought she loved me. Or maybe she was just drunk and rambling nonsense. Either way, those three words had passed through her lips, strung in the same sentence as my name. Previously, I had thought that this was everything I wanted.

Now, I wasn't so sure.

Everything was complicated again. Just when I thought I was beginning to like Greene. Just when things were growing simpler. Montana just had to come in and rearrange the puzzle pieces again.

I didn't know what I was supposed to do. I didn't know how I was supposed to feel.

Inexplicably, I was angry.

I was mad at Montana for not letting me move on. I was mad at her for dropping a bomb on me like she did last night. I was mad at her for bringing all this confusion and distress into my life. It took me all my strength not to call her and yell at her.

On Sunday morning, I didn't have to, because Montana was the one who called me.

"Rory?"

Hearing her voice again made me want to cry. Nevertheless, I steeled my nerves and went: "Hey."

"Oh, my God," Montana went on. "Friday night was amazing, wasn't it? I had such a good time. It was almost worth the hangover on Saturday morning." She laughed, until she noticed that I wasn't laughing with her. "You okay?"

"How much of last night do you remember?" I asked carefully.

Montana hesitated. "Not much. Why?"

I felt my heart breaking. Should I mention it and complicate things even further? Should I express how angry I was? How frustrated I was? How hurt and confused I was? She sounded so happy. There was no way I could bring myself to ruin that for her. Especially not on the phone.

"Nothing," I said shortly.

Nothing.

I knew I did the right thing by keeping it to myself like I did then, but I hated myself for it nonetheless.

I think Montana suspected that I wasn't okay on Monday morning, mostly because I didn't talk much and kept brushing her off or changing the subject. I know it was unfair of me to give her the cold shoulder like I did, but I couldn't help it.

That week passed by uneventfully. I continued to share my locker with Carter, which proved to be less problematic than I'd originally expected, mostly because he kept all his things stowed away on the topmost shelf. I continued to stay on top of my studies and call my dad every night.

I found myself confiding in him about my problems with Montana, too.

Except I used Carter's name again. Just to stay on the safe side.

As far as my dad knows, Carter got crazy drunk at a concert and professed his love for me. He currently does not remember anything.

"That compromises things," Dad had said. I was practically able to feel his thoughtful frown over the phone.

"I know it does!" I'd groaned. "And now, I have no idea what I'm supposed to do. Am I supposed to tell him what happened and ruin his relationship with Montana? Am I supposed to keep quiet even though it'll mess me up? Either way, I lose. I don't know what to do, Dad." I collapsed on my bed in desperation, smushing my face against my pillow.