𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲

I'm always going
to be right here,
no one's going anywhere
-Lana Del Ray

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

I'm still on Frankie's bed, her comforter wrapped around my shoulders. She's pulling up her laptop, a bowl of popcorn between our knees, and she's insisting she has the cure for heartbreak.

"See, the best way to get over a guy, is to move on to someone new," Frankie says, and she tilts her laptop screen toward me. "And everyone knows the best men are fictional—so I introduce you to the Salvatore brothers."

The Netflix logo is staring back at me, followed by the words: The Vampire Diaries, season one. I sigh, but she's already hitting play. We lay our heads on the same pillow, and dig into handfuls of popcorn. Frankie is explaining the whole concept of the show, but I'm barely listening. Because there's still a hole in my chest, and I can't stop beating myself up over causing it.

"I'm sorry that I lied to you, too, Frankie." But she only waves a hand at me. "No, seriously—you're being so okay with it, but it was a seriously shitty thing to do. It doesn't matter my reasons, you're my best friend and I shouldn't have kept that from you."

"Vio, you don't have to apologize, not to me."

I frown, but nod. "Thanks, Frank. I love you, you know?"

"Yeah, I love you too," she says. "But if you aren't Team Damon after this, well, then you are going to owe me a serious apology." She tosses a hand of popcorn at my face; it scatters around her bedsheets. We both laugh.

And then I lay there, like that, watching vampires for the next two days. Sometimes Frankie joins me, but sometimes it's just me and the Salvatore brothers. That seems to be okay, too. But then my phone buzzes, and while I have been ignoring it, today it is persistent.

I finally flick on the screen. There are seven unread texts: two from Frankie and five from Ash. I check the ones from Ash: Where are you? You're late, are you coming in? Are you okay? Seriously, we're swamped. Don't leave me hanging. Do I need to call campus security? Because I'll do it.

I groan. I forgot about my shift at the bookstore. And even though I really do not want to leave this dorm room, I can't leave Ash there to dry. So, I pull a campus sweatshirt over my head, slick my hair back in a pony, and head across campus.

Ash is behind the register, when I arrive. There's a line of customers snaking around the store, and I can tell Ash is stressing. I throw on my nametag and walk up behind her, opening up another register. "Oh, look who decided to show," Ash groans.

"I'm sorry—I could try to explain, but it would just sound like excuses."

"Yeah, well, you look like shit, so that's helping your case."

I sigh, and we spend the next hour scanning barcodes and bagging books into reusable sacks. When the rush dies down, I lean against the counter. "Has it been like this all day?"

"Yeah, why do you think I sent you so many texts? I was in panic-mode."

"Shit, I'm sorry."

"Whatever, you're here now." And then Ash presses a box full of books to my chest. "But you can sort the returns, as a way to make it up to me." They flash me a smile, and I nod because, even though it is a shitty, monotonous task, I deserve it.

I weave between aisles, searching for the correct homes of every box in the return bin, but I'm side-tracked every five minutes by a student searching for a particular author or section. And that's why I hate this task. Because it forces me to be on the floor. And when I'm on the floor, I'm forced to converse with customers.