That Was Then

57-Now

Dad doesn't say anything when I get into the car. He looks me over to make sure there is no apparent physical damage and then nods before driving off. The radio is off and the ten minute drive passes in silence.

We pull into the garage and he turns off the car but neither of us moves to get out. "Thanks, Dad," I finally say.

"Thanks for calling me," he squeezes my leg and we go inside. When I get to my room I send Caleb a text to let him know that I am home safely. Then I think to ask if he is okay.

I'm good, but we need to talk.

I stare at his message until the screen blurs. I don't want to talk. I shut my phone off and lay down in my clothes, wishing for sleep. Drifting in and out of a restless sleep, I give up around six in the morning.

My head is pounding so I drink a gigantic glass of water, take four ibuprofen and get into the shower.

Then I do what I do best when things are hard, I leave. Convincing Dad and Mama that I need to go see Petra for the weekend, I book a flight and am on a plane out of Denver by three in the afternoon.

Petra meets me at the airport with an obnoxious sign. Pink glittering letters spell out my name on black poster board and I wonder how she had the time to do that on such short notice. She drops the sign as soon as she sees me and nearly tackles me. I catch her as she leaps at me, she's as tall as I am but a total waif and when she wraps her skinny arms around my neck and our hair tangles together in one long mop of pin straight dark hair. I squeeze my eyes shut and even though I'm currently holding her up, she is holding me together. I didn't realize how badly I needed to see her until now.

Growing up the only concept of a best friend I had was Kya, but Petra showed me how it's really done. I let her lead me out of the airport and we take a cab back to her tiny apartment. I look around and it reminds me of our dorm at Hotchkiss. Silky bandannas hang in a rainbow of colors from the windows and mismatched pillows decorate the couch. There is color everywhere. Along with pink glitter from her impromptu art project. 

I sink into the comfy couch and Petra disappears around a corner, "I'm getting supplies." I hear her fridge open and shut, glass clinks against metal. "Shit," something hits the floor with a thud. Finally she sits next to me on the couch, bowls heaping with ice cream and just about every topping imaginable on a tray. She hands me one of the bowls, "okay, now tell me everything."

My ice cream melts while I give her all of the details of the night before. She shovels sprinkle covered spoonfuls into her mouth and listens intently. Occasionally she makes me repeat something or adds an expletive.

When I finish she sits back. "Well shit Blake, what do we do now?" We. That's a real best friend, this is my problem but even so, I am not in it alone. I shrug and absently twist a charm from my bracelet. Petra grabs my wrist and inspects it, "any new charms since you've been home?" I shake my head and squeeze the Colorado charm between my fingers. Part of me already wishing to be home and another part figuring out a way to never go back. The family charm stares up at me next to the three legged dog and I instantly feel guilty. "Did it at least feel good to yell at her?"

"Yeah," I grin, "for like a second. It wasn't like I thought it would be. I thought I would feel some big weight come off of me or something dramatic like that. But the thing is, she doesn't care. She never did and she never will. And nothing else is like I thought it would be! Her friends, they aren't pathetic minions who worship her, they're actually pretty amazing." Then I think of Marley and Seth, "well most of them anyway."

"But not as amazing as me, of course," she stares me down with her shiny midnight eyes. She's only half joking. 

"Of course," I confirm. 

We spend our evening "watching" movies. They're more like background noise as we talk about anything and everything under the sun. We talk about her relationship with Damon and her character's rising importance in her soap opera. She tells me how awkward it is to have to kiss other guys on set while her boyfriend watches. We talk about Caleb, I'm convinced I've blown things with him as well as all of the people I've grown to call my friends. Petra isn't so sure. 

"Call him," she urges. I text him earlier to tell him I would be gone for the weekend, I didn't have to hear his voice to know he was upset with me. 

"Hello," he clears his throat sounding sleepy, "Blakely?" 

"Hey," I turn away from Petra because she is staring so intently. "You're mad at me." I say, it's not a question.

I hear him sigh loudly, "I'm not mad at you." He doesn't elaborate, which tells me that he is, in fact, mad at me.

"Everyone else is." My voice sounds like a little girl, whiny and afraid. 

"They feel like you've been lying to them since you got here, yeah. They're upset. They're feeling the same toward Kya though, if that makes you feel any better." It doesn't, I don't want anyone to ever feel the same about me as they do about Kya. 

He tells me about the cops showing up at the party, confiscating some alcohol and then telling them to go home if they had a sober driver. Just like they apparently do at all of Jackson's parties. No wonder he continues to have them. I tell him that my dad picked me up the night before and about coming to New York today. 

"You can't run from this Blakely. They're upset but they care about you. You need to talk to them." I can hear Abuela shouting for him in the background.

"I will," I promise, "when I come home." 

He says something to Abuela but I can't hear because his voice is muffled but then he speaks into the phone again, "when will that be?"

"Tomorrow," I tell him and that's what my ticket says but I'm not feeling so sure.