She came back two days early because she said she was sick to her stomach the entire time she was gone, because she misread me.
Misread me? Understatement of the fucking century, dipshit.
“Savvy, come on; talk to me,” she whines.
I slide off my bed, walk past her, and into the bathroom. Then I sit on the closed toilet and take a selfie to send in response to the one Patrick just sent me captioned, “Boooorrrrreeeeedddd.” I roll my eyes as I snap the picture, send it, then type out my response.
Truthfully, I have no idea how he gets the text on the picture, and honestly, I’m not invested enough in technology to figure it out. I am, however, getting invested in him.
10:00 p.m. - You’re with your people. Music is your jam. There is no way you can be, “Boooorrrrreeeeedddd.”
10:01 p.m. - Bet?
10:01 p.m. - Step away from the phone and enjoy. I’m shutting off this evil device.
10:01 p.m. – Fine, I’ll “enjoy,” but only if you leave it on.
10:02 p.m. - I’m going to bed. Have fun.
10:03 p.m. - Sleep well, Savannah. GN.
This entire break, he’s dragged me out of my … existence and brought me more holiday joy than I have ever felt. Some of that joy is due to the texts and the conversations that are incredibly deep. In one, he told me he never would understand why anyone ever muttered the words, “I wish I could be a teenager again,” because it was seriously the most confusing time of our lives. How is it we’re supposed to make a decision within the next year that is supposed to determine the path to the rest of our lives? When I said I thought he had already decided, he said he had, thanks to me, but the question of college was now hanging heavy over his head.
His parents want him to have that experience; therefore, it’s confusing in a different way. He wasn’t sure if he needed a three-hundred-thousand-dollar experience or some assholes accepting him because of his name, therefore fucking over a kid who was probably better prepared, had better grades, and had more of a need for that piece of paper to get ahead.
Another four-hour text conversation was about SATs and his annoyance that the college board had created a test that can ruin a person’s dream in less than four hours, simply because they didn’t test well. I didn’t tell him the scores I received on the three that Whitaker made me take because I, too, think they are a shit way to measure someone.
This whole conversation, via text of course, reminded me of Mom and Liberty and gave me a little bit of confirmation that maybe they weren’t that far from normal. Well, at least their thought process wasn’t, and maybe, just maybe, I’m not either.
Another discussion was on college essays and how he wondered if every other teenager heading in that direction got pissed that two people raw-dogged it almost eighteen years ago and now they had to pay the price for their irresponsibility.
I’m so incredibly convinced he’s not one of “those men” that I created a freaking fake profile @basicbitch214, because I feel like one for getting sucked into this social media shit and now follow him on all his social media platforms.
On Christmas morning, he did a live video of him playing guitar and singing “White Christmas,” a gift for his parents, and then he and his dad did “Mary Did You Know” for Taelyn, his mom, together. Patrick sang, and that voice … truly incredible.
The other videos of Christmas were of him and his cousins—mostly Max and Amias, some with Brisa, and a couple with Truth—and they were funny, sweet, and telling of how much he loved them and how close they all were.
In a sense, had we stayed at any one of those “communities” for any length of time, I’m sure I would have made deeper connections.
This conclusion, yet another one brought on by Patrick, allowed me to draw the conclusion that so many of the things I was passionate, sometimes overly, about were because those were the things that were important to me. They were my constant. They were consistent.
And then they were gone.
What has become very consistent is every day that I work, he shows up for coffee at the very end of the shift, always the last customer, and the texts and daily pictures.
A banging on the door brings me from my thoughts.
“Savvy, I have to use the bathroom.”
God, if You’re really a thing, I’m really in no hurry to be taken now, but I could seriously use some clarity as in why … just … why?
It’s me,
Savvy Sutton
I flush the toilet and wash my hands for show. When I open the door, she’s crying. It never affected me before, but this time, it does.
It does because, when I lost it a few days ago, while crying in the rain, I wasn’t made to feel it was selfish to do so, that it was weak, which now seems to be yet another contradiction from my last life. Or maybe not? This shit is so confusing.
“What?” She sniffs.
I shake my head and walk to my bed.
While she’s in the shower, I scroll through hundreds of messages and back to the one from Christmas Eve when he stopped at The Bean before heading home after church and his family dinner. He didn’t just get coffee that night, he stayed until I came out, carrying two trash bags to put in the dumpster.
Standing against his Jeep, he waited for me, in suit pants, a matching jacket, and cashmere scarf. I couldn’t help but laugh at the way he looked in comparison to how he looked for the past couple days that we had spent together.
“Laugh it up, Savvy. I may not look like me, but I still look good.”
“You look like my worst nightmare.”
He smiled. “You sure
