The Fleeting Happy

Twenty-Two

The following morning, Montana and I left Stef's house at about noon so that she could spend some time with Owen before his football practice later that day. With my mom gone at work until 9, we had the house to ourselves, giving us the perfect environment to do our homework together and work on our Radley poems— which had become something of a personal project between the two of us, giving us both a common goal. It was nice.

"I'm thinking, maybe I can do something with a rhyme scheme?" Montana mused aloud. She was lying on her stomach on the shag carpet, trying to balance her pen on her upper lip.

"No," I decided. "Don't. Your best work never rhymes. Go for a free-versey kind of poem."

Montana cracked a smile. "You know, I still can't get used to your hair."

"Good or bad?"

"Good. Infinitely good."

I crawled over from where I was leaning against my bed to my dresser, peering up at myself in the mirror. Montana was right— even I can't get used to the sight of myself with my new hair. I'd woken up that morning shocked that the bangs that fell over my eyes were not a faded muted blue— instead, they were pink. Somewhere between bubblegum and cotton candy.

It was a nice change, I'd decided. It was exactly what I needed.

"So," Montana declared loudly, sitting up and crossing her legs. "I know I've been working on my poem for Radley... but why aren't you? You've been staring at that blank piece of paper for two hours straight."

I shrugged. "I'm not much of a writer. I told you that already, at the start of the year."

"Anyone can be a writer," Montana said. "You just... write."

"It's not that easy."

Montana met my gaze and nodded. "Yes, Rory. It is that easy. See, people get so caught up in trying to sound like they know what they're doing. Plot device this, allegory that. Rules, rules, rules, rules, rules. But the best writers, the best poets... they're not the ones who know the most words or the ones who know what to do. They're... they're the ones who bleed the most. They're the ones who put the most of themselves on paper. And you, Rory? I know you're not the best at putting yourself out there, but I believe you can be." Her voice cracked straight to a whisper.

I blinked, refusing to meet Montana's eye. "Montana..." I was beginning to feel uncomfortable with where this conversation was headed, but Montana didn't seem to pick up on my message. She just kept going:

"I know you've got eyes that see all these beautiful things," Montana went on. "And if you knew, Rory. If you knew how to show people the way you see the world... I bet you'll make the world that much greater."

I was shaking my head. "Montana, it's okay. I get it, I'll try to write something—"

"All you have to do is let people know how you feel!" Montana continued, getting to her knees and approaching me slowly. "I know it's scary. I know it's terrifying, but it feels damn good, Rory. It's a scary jump, but when you're up there—"

"I believe you, just please—"

"I know you hate feeling vulnerable. You save yourself a lot of pain avoiding it, but you know what, Rory? You save yourself a lot of love, too, and—"

"Montana, I know you're in love with me," I blurted out, mostly just to get her to shut up.

Montana stopped where she was with her hands on top of mine, kneeling right in front of me. Shock registered with her. Her eyes were filled with utter confusion, followed by a look of what I would best describe as shame, and finally, she settled with a look that I couldn't read. An expression that was totally blank.