The Fleeting Happy

Twenty

By the time Montana and I got back to Severn Valley, we were both so tired that we didn't remember much of the trip. I don't even remember saying goodbye to Montana or even thanking her like I'd been meaning to. I just remember coming home to an empty living room with the faint sounds of my mother's crying emanating from her room and passing out on my bed.

The hardest part of coming back to Severn Valley wasn't seeing my mom again after our awful argument— although make no mistake, that part wasn't exactly paradise. The hardest part was having to say goodbye to my father a second time, after all the trouble we'd gone through to come and see him. Even if the goodbye was temporary, since Dr. Weiss had promised me that Dad would join us shortly and be transported to a hospital in town. The transportation wouldn't take too long, just a couple of days to get all the papers in check. Still, I knew it would feel eternal.

In the meantime, he'd told me regretfully, I would just have to manage.

And that meant shouldering through the mess I'd left for myself at home, with my mom.

Things were awkward, to say the least. We weren't on speaking terms and we hardly saw each other during a typical weekday, so that wasn't too bad. However, when we did happen to run into each other around the house (it was a small house), things would grow to be almost insurmountably uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, my mom kept to herself and I kept to myself.

We were both equally terrible at communication, and there was no telling how long this mutual silent treatment would last. Our longest record to date was two and a half weeks of not speaking to each other. I had no doubts in my mind that we'd top our record this time.

Truthfully, I was no longer angry at her. Rather, I was tired. I was exhausted. I'd run out of energy to play my mom's game. I was done. I don't think my mother understood that. To her, I was just inexplicably... mad. I was a moody, angry teenager in her eyes. She wouldn't let herself believe that I was anything more than that, which is really a shame.

On Sunday, the day before I had to somehow return to school after the big Atlantic City escapade and pretend like everything was back to normal, I was surprised by a visit from Greene, whom I'd actually forgotten about amidst all the hype.

The last I'd seen him, he was greened out and unconscious on my bed. I'd been screaming and sobbing and pleading at his side, shaking him and urging him to stir, to wake up and just be there for me when I needed him the most.

He wasn't there.

I knew right then, seeing him standing at my door, that our relationship wouldn't work out. Frankly, I didn't want it to. I wanted the relationship between Greene and I to remain purely friendly. I loved the big guy, but not as a boyfriend. Not as a lover.

"Hey, Rory," Greene said awkwardly, fidgeting with his hands as he stood at my door. "I-I figured I should probably drop by. I think we need to talk. Last time we saw each other was..." He sighed deeply.

"I think so too," I said softly. "But not here." I peered cautiously over my shoulder— my mom was home. "How about outside?"

"My truck's parked in the driveway, we can talk in there," Greene suggested brightly.

I nodded. "Yeah, that's a good idea."

Still in my pajamas, I slipped on some shoes and followed Greene out into my porch and then my driveway, where his truck sat haphazardly.

Though it had only been a few days, it felt like an eternity since I'd last seen Greene. He looked just like he always did— tall and gangly and broad-shouldered, with his hair long and his smile goofy. The smell of marijuana masked by cologne lingered slightly on the flannel shirt and jeans he wore. He looked handsomer than I'd remembered. Maybe it was because I was about to break up with him. I don't know.