the summer after their childhood best friend commits suicide, six estranged friends meet up in his hometown for a holiday to clear their heads and honor his life. when the only thing that connected their different lives, backgrounds, and personaliti...
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friday, june 30 day one
IT was morning. The air stung against the skin, the dankness of the early humidity trapping the universe in a chamber of moisture. Withstanding the heat felt both torturous and visceral, as if man did not spend the first thousand years of his existence without the aid of ice water and ceiling fans. It was not refreshing, but sleep-inducing, and standing underneath the sun any longer would lull Sam to a hazy stupor.
He felt more in-touch with nature than he had been all year. Although he was not far from his apartment in the city, it felt good to be in the suburbs, and a feeling of calmness washed over him as he looked up at the quaint house. He felt pleased with himself in his rubber flip-flops, an impulsive purchase that satisfied some nondescript desire for preparation, something so unlike him to wear and do so with pride. A return to simplicity, to kitchen linoleum scratched from the wooden legs of chairs, to creamy hand soap that smelled of almonds and vanilla, to souvenir mugs that will forever smell of instant coffee, seemed to be the old wives healing remedy he was looking for—wholesome and organic, witch-hazel to the unclean wound.
Sam felt the beads of sweat that studded his unwashed face begin to trickle down and wet his eyes, to which he wiped away with the sleeve of his shirt. He continued to look straight ahead at the house from the sidewalk, focusing his vision on the screen door that caved inwardly, bent and kinked by the sway of the heat. He was hesitant to move forward and to walk up to the front door, unready to mumble banal formalities to whichever sorry compatriot answered his knock. He did not want to pretend to be nice, to be chirpy, to be kind and polite to people he did not necessarily want to see, figures from his past that he shared very few genuinely pleasant memories with. They would bombard him with questions about city life, an existence that they were so detached from and dreamt of with nine-to-five fervor, beaming and offering him a glass of whatever cheap liqueur they were drinking.
—Have you seen any celebrities yet?
—What's it like to live ten blocks away fromthe theater?
—Are you, like, living the dream?
When he would lie or sugarcoat an answer, unwilling to admit the cruel reality that adulthood has imposed on him, they would clear their throats and pose an accusatory counterargument. But I thought you said liked it. They knew him too well to see past the façade of unfazed coldness that he had spent so much time erecting.
Exhaling, he felt around his back pocket for a lighter, running his hands over loose change and a circular plastic token. He pulled down a cigarette that he tucked behind his ear and lit it excitedly, knowing that it would be the last smoke he would be able to relish for a week. He left his apartment without the familiar weight of a cigarette pack in his pocket, vowing to quit for the week—a gradual step towards moderation. His sponsor suggested that it would be a step in the right direction.
Pulling on the cigarette, Sam looked back up at the house. It was cute and charming in the most provincial of ways, a quaint ranch-style home tucked away in a rainy Pennsylvania suburb. It was a starter home, something a young couple would spend their life-savings on and decorate with cheap Home Goods furniture, vowing to install a pool in the backyard for their nonexistent children to enjoy once they came of age. Something he imagined his friends to find comfortable and attainable within the near future. Although feelings of doubt and regret clouded his mind, he reminded himself that he agreed to the reunion on his own terms and did so for the sake of his own mental health, hoping that the quiet week-long trip would clear his head and make him feel whole again.
It had been a hard year. It seemed as if a switch flipped in the final moments of New Years' Eve, rendering the rest of his year luckless and doomed. He was physically unable to pinpoint more than two moments in the year where he felt genuine emotion overcome him—joy, happiness, love, anything. He spent the year recklessly and lost all interest in what once brought him joy, choosing to miss rehearsals, neglect showing up on set, and sit in the darkness of his apartment to smoke weed until he was lulled to a heavy sleep. He indulged in vices that he did not care for in the past and alienated all that he loved and cared for in the process—his friends, his career, the love of his life. He expended energy and time searching for anything to fill a void that was created by a profound feeling of emptiness that he could not get rid of, a struggle that left him wearied and spent.
"Sam?"
Fuck.
He heard the metallic smack of the screen door and looked up to see Yael Andrews standing at the top of the porch steps, her right hand shading her eyes from the sun. Tan legs, ugly department store clothing. She hadn't changed much.
"Sam!" She called out, stretching her arms out to motion him to her. "My God, how are you?"
He smiled instinctually, stepping forward to approach the house. The cigarette continued to sit between his lips, releasing a thin stream of smoke into the humid air.
"I'm hot," he responded indifferently. As he inched closer, he noticed the sheen of sweat and oil that glistened on the apples of her cheeks. Yael had always been beautiful, but the lack of cakey makeup that once clouded her complexion in high school now underscored her natural beauty. He suddenly understood why Elliott stayed with her after high school.
"You probably aren't used to this weather," she remarked, hinting at the exotic life she believed Sam was living in the city.
When Sam reached the top of the steps, Yael locked him in an embrace, something he found to be both off-putting and uncomfortable.
"It's so good to see you," Yael murmured with a catch in her throat.
Sam was careful to not let any ashes fall onto her shoulder.
Yael pulled away and beamed at him, unaware of his discomfort and unease. She motioned to the door. "Elliott's inside, but you're the first to arrive. I was thinking that we'd wait until Bobby got here and then go out for lunch. The rest are arriving later tonight."
Sam nodded in agreeance as he took one last drag of his cigarette. As he looked around for a place to put it out, he felt Yael reach over and take it from him. He watched as she took a long drag and blew the smoke over her shoulder.
"Our secret," she winked, putting a finger to her lips, "Elliott thinks I quit."
✦
i apologize for the faceless skam gif at the top; i now realize that there is not necessarily a wealth of fionn whitehead gifs in existence lmao
hope you enjoyed this chapter! it was my favorite to write thus far. we love a jaded actor
