Dead To You

22. how to make friends 101

It wasn't that I wanted to be, but I was quiet, trailing a few steps behind Bronwyn and Ethan, still holding onto this stupid ham sandwich and Gatorade I was slowly being tempted to drink myself the further we delved into the woods. I knew I was making it awkward every time Ethan attempted to make conversation with me whenever he turned to look over his shoulder to see if I was still following, asking if I was a senior too and if I was on any teams or something, and I just nodded or shook my head, offering some brief reply that probably made them regret their invitation to join them.

I didn't want to seem like I wanted them to leave me alone, because I really didn't want to be left alone, but I couldn't bring myself to ignore her name shouted throughout the forest or the twisting it brought to my chest every time I heard it, the thought that this might have been my fault. It was like heavy smoke I couldn't clear through, a weight that sunk lower with each step over the crunching pine needles, like the quicksand cartoons made seem commonplace when I was younger. I was waist deep, slipping in deeper, and I couldn't pull myself out. I should've just gone home. I shouldn't have gone to the party. I shouldn't have chased after Bridgette. I should've just left her alone, like she wanted. I shouldn't have come back at all.

Then I noticed a tree root protruding through the earth, a knotted curve lifted from the ground like a set trap, and a part of me thought that it would've been too cliché if I stumbled over it. The quintessential moment when the universe made a bad day even worse. Except, it wasn't me, it was about to trip. "Hey, Bronwyn!" I called out, gesturing with the Gatorade bottle in my hand when she made a half-turn toward where I had fallen behind, her brow furrowed at the abrupt and loud sound of my voice. "Careful, there's a root right there by your foot."

She glanced down, giving the root a kick with the toe of her sneaker after a moment. "Thanks," she replied before she, pointedly, stepped over the root and matched her pace with Ethan once again, me several strides behind them. Then Ethan came to a sudden stop and bent down to fiddle with the knot of his already tied shoe—I couldn't decide if it was sweet or kind of pathetic that he had to pretend to tie his shoes to politely give me an excuse to catch up—and when I reached them, Bronwyn kind of met my eyes. For a second. "So, can I ask you something?"

"Sure," I answered, tentatively.

"Why are you carrying around a sandwich if you're not going to eat it?"

I glanced down sheepishly at the ham sandwich and the Gatorade, with a side of potato chips, and offered a small shrug. "For later?" It felt easier to make a joke about it than to actually admit the real reason I was holding onto a paper plate with a cheaply made deli sandwich, embarrassment threatening to worsen the warmth I already felt in my cheeks. But then something shifted in her expression, like I could see the distance creeping back into her gaze as she blinked and then offered a slight nod in response, already about to turn away again. "It's for her brother," I blurted out, with a sigh. "Stepbrother. I heard he's out here and not eating so...I got a sandwich in case we ran into him. Knowing me, I probably will."

She frowned. "Who's her stepbrother?"

"Noel Preston. You might remember him as the guy I kind of...argued with at the pizza place last week. Reddish brown hair, a few inches taller than me, superior complex. Always looks like he's in a little bit of pain," I sighed, again. "That was mean. I shouldn't say stuff like that right now."

I noticed, as we resumed our stride, that her steps were slower, kept more in time with mine. "So, is that why you're out here? You feel guilty about getting into a nerd fight with her brother?"

"We didn't get into a nerd fight," I corrected her, although I suppose I did correct him on his literary terminology, which seemed like a decent comeback at the time until Bronwyn pointed it out. When she raised her eyebrows challengingly at me, I scratched my thumbnail along the ridges in the orange bottle cap because what kind of fight was I going to tell her it was? The kind of fight someone has after their academic rival does the expected thing and screws them over, except the screwed over one had feelings the whole time? "And...no. It's not. Bridgette and I...we used to be friends."