Friendship for Dummies

Chapter Twenty-Seven

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I stretch out my time in bed for as long as possible, even when sunlight comes streaming in through the gaps in the blinds, bathing the room in a golden glow. Emerging from the covers translates as facing the world – something I’m not ready for. At least wrapped up in my linen armor, I can, to a certain extent, push away thoughts of real life.

            Or, more specifically, what happened last night.

            Still, my mom’s determined not to let that happen and – even though she doesn’t know the full details of my disastrous night – bursts into my room around eight, reminding me that the entirety of my packing remains yet to be completed.

            “Georgie,” she says, standing beside my bed, “I don’t know what’s upset you, and listen: you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But we’re leaving this morning. You need to pack.”

            An incoherent mumble into the fabric of my comforter serves as my response.

            “Well, it’s up to you,” she concludes. “Either way, you’re coming with us. If you can’t get a suitcase organized, you’re going to be wearing those PJs for a long time.” Saying no more, she shoots me a satisfied look before leaving the room.

            I know she’s right; she always is. Despite how crappy I’m feeling, the cabin trip is set in stone and pretty much unavoidable. Still, maybe it’s what I need right now. Spending the holidays with the family will at least be a light distraction from recent events, whereas moping around the house will only provide ample opportunity to dwell on my mistakes – something that definitely won’t help my sanity. The choice is clear.

            It just, you know, might be a little easier if “the family” didn’t now include Connor, who is pretty much the center of all my problems.

            Pulling away the covers and preparing to drag my heavy limbs out of bed, I realize Mom was wrong about one thing – instead of being clad in PJs, like I’m expecting, I discover I haven’t actually changed out of my dress from last night. Saying that, it’s barely recognizable as my choice of attire from last night; the sheer amount of wrinkles gained from my bed have given it a whole new look (and not an attractive one, at that). I guess when your life is crumbling beneath your feet, you don’t pay much attention to bedroom fashion.

            I wriggle into a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before dragging out my suitcase from the dark depths of my closet. At this point, I’m feeling more numb than emotional, as if I’ve been administered a large dose of anesthetic. It’s almost as if the events of last night are just part of some twisted dream, even though I know full well they’re as real as the air I’m breathing. The pain’s now more of a dull ache, as opposed to sharp stabbing realization.

            That doesn’t stop the constant swirl of thoughts in my mind, though, reminding me of how stupid I’ve been, as well as how much I’ve lost.

            How many pairs of jeans will I need? I try to immerse myself in packing, hoping it’ll at least filter out some of my thoughts. Then there’s my tops, jackets, not to mention shoes...

            It takes about an hour to stuff everything into my case – ‘stuff’ being the operative word. I’m convinced it’s shrunk considerably since last Christmas, since I don’t remember having this kind of difficulty before. It takes the sacrifice of several sweaters – as well as planting my butt on top of the thing and yanking the zipper as hard as I can – to finally get it closed. That’s when I take a breath of relief. My life may be on the brink of falling apart, but at least one problem’s solved: my suitcase is closed.