(no subject)
Still fighting a slight case of writer's block, but I got a little bit of an update done. It's actually half of the whole chapter, but I can't seem to find a good ending to the whole thing, so I ended up splitting it.
I honestly have no clue what I’m doing. I mean, I literally must be going out of my mind to be even considering this. But that hasn’t stopped me from feverishly packing a couple of suitcases, emptying out most of my drawers in the process. According to Brooke I shouldn’t even be packing anything.
Yeah, as much as I love the girl, it’s a rare day when I actually listen to her when it comes to spur of the moment, must be out of your mind, ideas. And it’s bad enough that she’s talked me into flying across the country on a few hours notice. No way am I not taking anything with me.
Never mind that I hate flying. It’s my least favorite form of transportation. When we were down in Texas for cheer camp a few years ago, Brooke literally had to hold onto my hand the entire flight. It’s something that’s been an almost ritual for us over the years. Every time I’ve been on an airplane, Brooke has been sitting next to me.
The first time I ever flew was back when we were twelve. My father was apparently getting desperate trying to cheer me up after my mother passed away. I guess he figured two years was a long enough mourning period. So he sprung for a week in Disney World. He was shocked when I steadfastly refused to go unless he let Brooke come with us. By that time she had become my living and breathing security blanket. I really should have worried about how dependant and attached I was to her, but I guess at twelve and in the throes of an amazing amount of grief, I didn’t care. In retrospect it was on the selfish side, but Brooke never seemed to mind. If anything, she hovered even when I didn’t ask her to stay with me. Her presence was comforting, the only thing that really could give me that feeling back then. So why would I have wanted that to go away.
Dad got it. At least I think he did. And after all, the trip was to try and get me out of the dumps, and Brooke was the only person in the world that was capable of getting me to cheer up at all those days. So after some begging and lots of pouting, he let Brooke tag along with us. It was no surprise that her parents didn’t care one way or the other, and they even gave her quite a chunk full of change to pay her own way for everything.
So there we were, waiting at the New Brunswick airport, sitting in the crowded terminal with all the other theme park bound families. I had been trying to keep my gaze down at the magazine in my lap, but every once in a while I would glance up and take in the vision of the kids, just like me, their mothers double checking through their backpacks to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything.
It made me miss my mom even more, knowing that she had never gotten to see me experience Mickey and Co. It had been something we had talked about as a family for years. But dad could never seem to get his vacations in tandem with my mother‘s, so we ended up having to backburner the trip. And then, there I was, finally taking it, but without her. It was a very bitter pill to swallow. And I couldn’t help but feel slightly resentful of my father for that. Rationally I knew it wasn’t his fault, but the twelve year old grieving child mourning her mother wasn’t really using her more rational side back then.
I remember, as I sat stewing about my father’s devotion to his job and resenting the families I was surrounded by, I felt a warm hand slide into my own that had been sitting limply in my lap. I glanced down, though I already knew who it belonged to. When I looked up at her she had a sympathetic half smile greeting me. She squeezed my hand once more, increasing the hold she had on it, and then went back to reading her Teen People, never releasing her grasp on me. And for the thousandth time I thanked God that she was my best friend.
Once we had gotten on the plane, because of the way the trip had been booked, and Brooke getting a ticket a few days after my father had bought ours, we ended up having boarding passes for seats about ten rows apart. My dad, not wanting Brooke to have to sit by herself on a crowded plane, took her seat and let us sit together. She immediately called dibs on the window seat, knowing that I was scared to death of the thought of flying to begin with, that the last thing I should be doing was staring out of the window. I didn’t argue, although the lady sitting to my left on the aisle looked less than sociable, so I just made sure to lean as far into Brooke as I could. Garnering a few smirks from my best friend, but I didn’t really care, nor was I honestly paying that much attention.
I was doing fine, keeping the panic bubbling discretely under the surface, my knuckles turning a nice pale color as they gripped the armrest. Until we started speeding up for take-off. Taxi-ing the runway was cake compared to that. As we climbed into the air, at what felt to me like a freaking 90 degree angle, I gave up all pretense of calm and switched my grip from the arms of my seat to Brooke’s wrist. I started panicking. More than panic really, hyperventilating, sweat beading on my forehead, voicing all sorts of horrific visions of the plane plummeting back to the ground, in graphic detail, and loudly. For the fifteen minutes or so that it took for the plane to reach it’s desired altitude and finally level off, I was a bundle of raw nerves, with Brooke rubbing my arm up and down, listening to me prattle on and on about how we were going to die. By the time she finally managed to calm me down I had left deep fingerprints into the underside of her wrist and the lady next to me had unbuckled herself and moved to one of the emergency exit seats.
And I haven’t grown any more fond of it since. Although I’m calmer now, enough so in fact that I managed to tease Brooke about her anxiety when we went to Texas a few years ago. It was mean, I know it was, but I had no idea that she was a nervous flyer. I never would have guessed considering how at ease she seemed when I was freaking out. When I called her on it she made some lame excuse about being too caught up in the prettiness of Ben Affleck in the issue of some random entertainment rag that she had been reading that she didn’t care about being thirty thousand feet up in the sky.
It wasn’t until much later that I realized that she had put her own fear and nervousness aside to try and make me feel more at ease. And I think once I figured that out I fell in love with her all over again. Of course it’s only been a rather recent development that I even feel comfortable enough with the idea that I’ve loved her, in some form or another, almost my entire life. At 18 years old, it’s a very odd situation I‘ve found myself in. Knowing something and accepting that same thing are sometimes on completely different ends of a spectrum. Thankfully, I think I might be meeting in the middle of my curve here.
With a begrudging nod to Lucas.
I really hate the fact that he could pick up on it. I’m not entirely sure why either. Maybe it’s because it makes me wonder for how long he knew. Luke never really elaborated much, and I was too much of a mess, and still subletting my nice little Egyptian riverside property to really want to ask for details. But if he was aware of my feelings for my best friend for a while, and he still pursued BOTH of us, I really don’t like the implications. I’d like to think he’s a better man than that. I love Lucas, I may not be in love with him, but I love him just the same, in my own convoluted sort of way. And the idea that he could have just overlooked something as complicated as this particular little situation , just to get some piece of either of us, is not something I want to think about.
I glance at the clock, surprised to see that my departure time is fast creeping up on me. I throw a couple more pairs of jeans into my suitcase before zipping it up and reaching for the phone at the same time. I can’t drive myself to the airport, especially since I have no idea how long I’m going to be gone. I can only imagine what kind of parking fee that would rack up. Never mind the fact I just got myself a nice expensive ticket the other night when I dropped Brooke off. Nope, a taxi is the only way to go.
Not having any idea where the phone book is, or if we even have one for that matter, I immediately 411’d, quickly trying to remember the name of the local cab company here in Tree Hill. Just as the operator was asking me for the listing, I heard a hesitant knock on my door. For just one tiny split second, I thought it might have been Brooke. But as soon as the thought entered it flew right back out of my mind. The fact that I don’t think she’s ever knocked before bouncing into my bedroom, telling me in no uncertain terms that whoever it was could not be my best friend. I didn’t even bother thinking about the three thousand mile teleportation that would have been required for her to magically appear at my doorway.
I turned around, my cordless still pressed to my ear. And came face to face with someone I’d wondered if I’d ever see again.
I honestly have no clue what I’m doing. I mean, I literally must be going out of my mind to be even considering this. But that hasn’t stopped me from feverishly packing a couple of suitcases, emptying out most of my drawers in the process. According to Brooke I shouldn’t even be packing anything.
Yeah, as much as I love the girl, it’s a rare day when I actually listen to her when it comes to spur of the moment, must be out of your mind, ideas. And it’s bad enough that she’s talked me into flying across the country on a few hours notice. No way am I not taking anything with me.
Never mind that I hate flying. It’s my least favorite form of transportation. When we were down in Texas for cheer camp a few years ago, Brooke literally had to hold onto my hand the entire flight. It’s something that’s been an almost ritual for us over the years. Every time I’ve been on an airplane, Brooke has been sitting next to me.
The first time I ever flew was back when we were twelve. My father was apparently getting desperate trying to cheer me up after my mother passed away. I guess he figured two years was a long enough mourning period. So he sprung for a week in Disney World. He was shocked when I steadfastly refused to go unless he let Brooke come with us. By that time she had become my living and breathing security blanket. I really should have worried about how dependant and attached I was to her, but I guess at twelve and in the throes of an amazing amount of grief, I didn’t care. In retrospect it was on the selfish side, but Brooke never seemed to mind. If anything, she hovered even when I didn’t ask her to stay with me. Her presence was comforting, the only thing that really could give me that feeling back then. So why would I have wanted that to go away.
Dad got it. At least I think he did. And after all, the trip was to try and get me out of the dumps, and Brooke was the only person in the world that was capable of getting me to cheer up at all those days. So after some begging and lots of pouting, he let Brooke tag along with us. It was no surprise that her parents didn’t care one way or the other, and they even gave her quite a chunk full of change to pay her own way for everything.
So there we were, waiting at the New Brunswick airport, sitting in the crowded terminal with all the other theme park bound families. I had been trying to keep my gaze down at the magazine in my lap, but every once in a while I would glance up and take in the vision of the kids, just like me, their mothers double checking through their backpacks to make sure they hadn’t forgotten anything.
It made me miss my mom even more, knowing that she had never gotten to see me experience Mickey and Co. It had been something we had talked about as a family for years. But dad could never seem to get his vacations in tandem with my mother‘s, so we ended up having to backburner the trip. And then, there I was, finally taking it, but without her. It was a very bitter pill to swallow. And I couldn’t help but feel slightly resentful of my father for that. Rationally I knew it wasn’t his fault, but the twelve year old grieving child mourning her mother wasn’t really using her more rational side back then.
I remember, as I sat stewing about my father’s devotion to his job and resenting the families I was surrounded by, I felt a warm hand slide into my own that had been sitting limply in my lap. I glanced down, though I already knew who it belonged to. When I looked up at her she had a sympathetic half smile greeting me. She squeezed my hand once more, increasing the hold she had on it, and then went back to reading her Teen People, never releasing her grasp on me. And for the thousandth time I thanked God that she was my best friend.
Once we had gotten on the plane, because of the way the trip had been booked, and Brooke getting a ticket a few days after my father had bought ours, we ended up having boarding passes for seats about ten rows apart. My dad, not wanting Brooke to have to sit by herself on a crowded plane, took her seat and let us sit together. She immediately called dibs on the window seat, knowing that I was scared to death of the thought of flying to begin with, that the last thing I should be doing was staring out of the window. I didn’t argue, although the lady sitting to my left on the aisle looked less than sociable, so I just made sure to lean as far into Brooke as I could. Garnering a few smirks from my best friend, but I didn’t really care, nor was I honestly paying that much attention.
I was doing fine, keeping the panic bubbling discretely under the surface, my knuckles turning a nice pale color as they gripped the armrest. Until we started speeding up for take-off. Taxi-ing the runway was cake compared to that. As we climbed into the air, at what felt to me like a freaking 90 degree angle, I gave up all pretense of calm and switched my grip from the arms of my seat to Brooke’s wrist. I started panicking. More than panic really, hyperventilating, sweat beading on my forehead, voicing all sorts of horrific visions of the plane plummeting back to the ground, in graphic detail, and loudly. For the fifteen minutes or so that it took for the plane to reach it’s desired altitude and finally level off, I was a bundle of raw nerves, with Brooke rubbing my arm up and down, listening to me prattle on and on about how we were going to die. By the time she finally managed to calm me down I had left deep fingerprints into the underside of her wrist and the lady next to me had unbuckled herself and moved to one of the emergency exit seats.
And I haven’t grown any more fond of it since. Although I’m calmer now, enough so in fact that I managed to tease Brooke about her anxiety when we went to Texas a few years ago. It was mean, I know it was, but I had no idea that she was a nervous flyer. I never would have guessed considering how at ease she seemed when I was freaking out. When I called her on it she made some lame excuse about being too caught up in the prettiness of Ben Affleck in the issue of some random entertainment rag that she had been reading that she didn’t care about being thirty thousand feet up in the sky.
It wasn’t until much later that I realized that she had put her own fear and nervousness aside to try and make me feel more at ease. And I think once I figured that out I fell in love with her all over again. Of course it’s only been a rather recent development that I even feel comfortable enough with the idea that I’ve loved her, in some form or another, almost my entire life. At 18 years old, it’s a very odd situation I‘ve found myself in. Knowing something and accepting that same thing are sometimes on completely different ends of a spectrum. Thankfully, I think I might be meeting in the middle of my curve here.
With a begrudging nod to Lucas.
I really hate the fact that he could pick up on it. I’m not entirely sure why either. Maybe it’s because it makes me wonder for how long he knew. Luke never really elaborated much, and I was too much of a mess, and still subletting my nice little Egyptian riverside property to really want to ask for details. But if he was aware of my feelings for my best friend for a while, and he still pursued BOTH of us, I really don’t like the implications. I’d like to think he’s a better man than that. I love Lucas, I may not be in love with him, but I love him just the same, in my own convoluted sort of way. And the idea that he could have just overlooked something as complicated as this particular little situation , just to get some piece of either of us, is not something I want to think about.
I glance at the clock, surprised to see that my departure time is fast creeping up on me. I throw a couple more pairs of jeans into my suitcase before zipping it up and reaching for the phone at the same time. I can’t drive myself to the airport, especially since I have no idea how long I’m going to be gone. I can only imagine what kind of parking fee that would rack up. Never mind the fact I just got myself a nice expensive ticket the other night when I dropped Brooke off. Nope, a taxi is the only way to go.
Not having any idea where the phone book is, or if we even have one for that matter, I immediately 411’d, quickly trying to remember the name of the local cab company here in Tree Hill. Just as the operator was asking me for the listing, I heard a hesitant knock on my door. For just one tiny split second, I thought it might have been Brooke. But as soon as the thought entered it flew right back out of my mind. The fact that I don’t think she’s ever knocked before bouncing into my bedroom, telling me in no uncertain terms that whoever it was could not be my best friend. I didn’t even bother thinking about the three thousand mile teleportation that would have been required for her to magically appear at my doorway.
I turned around, my cordless still pressed to my ear. And came face to face with someone I’d wondered if I’d ever see again.