⁀➴ 𝚏𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚋𝚏!𝚌𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜 𝚡 𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚊!𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛
⁀➴ 𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜
There are seven days in a week. You know there are seven days in a week. You’re painfully aware there are seven days in a week. The weekdays were among the first things your little mind was taught, right alongside the alphabet and how to count to ten.
Seven days. One hundred and sixty-eight hours.
And you felt every single one of them.
Saturday couldn’t come fast enough.
You find yourself sprawled across the couch, phone in hand, scrolling through Indeed without ever actually applying to anything. You watch movies, take walks with your mom, help her cook all the meals you grew up eating, but your phone burns in your hand every time you pick it up.
You swear you can feel the heat of it beneath your pillow at night. Pretty soon, you’re convinced it’s going to grow a mouth and tell you to just text Chris already.
Embarrassment rushes through you every time you open your text thread with him. You glance over your shoulder each time, convinced that somehow, someway, a news anchor is going to appear in your bedroom, microphone in hand, broadcasting you to the entire state of Virginia.
DUMB GIRL CHECKS HER PHONE FOR THE 100TH TIME TO SEE IF DAD’S BEST FRIEND HAS TEXTED.
You knew he wouldn’t text you because he had nothing to text you about. You were his best friend’s daughter, and that’s all you were to him.
…And you were fine with that.
Your mom always kept scrapbooks, and you loved that about her. In an age where most parents just pulled out their phones and slapped a Snapchat filter over every milestone, she made sure there was something you could actually hold. Every year had its own album, tucked neatly into a labeled storage box.
You hadn’t looked through them in years. Honestly, you hadn’t even thought about them.
But for some reason, you found yourself pulling the box out anyway.
You look at yourself as a newborn, all tiny limbs and alien-like features. Your parents look impossibly happy bringing their brand-new baby girl home. They dressed you in pink.
You skim through the years 2002 to 2005, watching yourself grow up across the bright pink and yellow pages of the scrapbook. You watch yourself eat your first slice of birthday cake, sit on Santa’s lap, and throw a fit at your fourth birthday party because, apparently, you were absolutely terrified of the poor guy dressed up as Blue from Blue’s Clues.
It always freaked you out that photographs were snapshots of time—that you could look at a single picture and peek into a moment that had long since passed. You saw moms trying to grow out the pencil-thin eyebrows they’d survived the nineties with, and kids crammed around a park picnic table with not a single iPad in sight.
Everybody in those photographs had no idea what their lives would become.
They didn’t know if they would move away.
Some would end up divorced, some would have to make very hard decisions, some would be happy, and some would not.
They weren’t thinking that, someday, these would be just memories. They were living in the moment.
You look at yourself in a Rapunzel dress. Plastic heels on your feet and a toothless grin. Your parents practically had to beg you to take off your dress.
A photo with your mom’s handwriting scribbled neatly beneath it.
Virginia, 2009. New friends!
Your heart climbs into your throat as your clammy hands tighten around the scrapbook.
A quick glance over your shoulder.
Your dad and Chris are sitting beside a fire, arms slung around each other’s shoulders.
The same birthmark along his jaw.
Except all of it was brown.
He would’ve been twenty-three in this picture.
He’s smiling so hard his eyes nearly disappear, a Busch Light dangling loosely from his hand. He looks impossibly happy.
It was strange seeing him like this. You’d never seen him this young before.
Your logical brain knew Chris hadn’t always been thirty-nine. He’d been ten with missing teeth. Sixteen with acne. And now, in this picture, he was twenty-three, drunk with your dad around a bonfire.
Chris stands behind the grill in red, white, and blue swim trunks. It had to be the Fourth of July.
He’s helping your dad unload kayaks.
Chris flips off the camera with a fishhook lodged in his middle finger.
He’s wearing the same stupid shoes.
The phone that’s been burning a hole in your back pocket finds its way into your hand.
You zoom in on the picture, snap a photo of it, and send it before you can stop yourself.
you’ve been wearing these ugly ass shoes since 2014????
You laugh to yourself as you stare at the text thread, waiting for those three little dots to appear.
You nearly jump out of your skin, locking your phone so fast you’d think there was porn on the screen.
“Jesus, Mom,” you breathe. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Not long. Just got in here.”
She lowers herself onto the floor beside you, glancing down at the scrapbook.
“Yeah.” You clear your throat. “I was bored.”
Your mom leans in, scanning the pages.
“This one starts in 2009?”
“Uh…” You flip back to the cover, pretending you have no idea what years it covers. “Looks like it.”
“Chris is in these ones a lot. Your dad met him in 2009.”
“…Yeah,” you finally say. “He’s, uh… he’s in these ones a lot.”
Your mom smiles to herself.
“He always fit right in.”
You nod, pretending to study another page.
She pushes herself to her feet, brushing the dust from her jeans.
Her eyes flick to the phone still resting in your hand.
The corners of her mouth twitch.
“If that’s who you’re texting.”
She disappears into the kitchen.
They ain’t the same shoes, smart ass.
Suddenly, none of your jean shorts fit right, and you hate every single top that you own. You need something suitable for…
Something practical. Something that makes sense.
You could throw on an old T-shirt and a pair of jean shorts.
But there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look cute while fishing. Right?
You rush down the stairs in Daisy Dukes and a plain red tank top. “Moooom, do you know where that Budweiser, like, crop top is?”
Chris is already sitting on your couch, camo pants on, a gray t-shirt, and a baseball cap that’s always on his head.
His eyebrows lift as his eyes drop to your bare legs.
Your cheeks warm before he even says anything.
“You’re gonna get bit the hell up out there, kid.” He shakes his head. “You gotta put some pants on.”
“Gonna be real itchy soon.”
You’ve lost count of the number of times you have swatted mosquitoes from your legs. They’re red and burning.
Chris casts his line and looks back at you, smirking and shaking his head.
He tosses you the calamine lotion without any ‘I told you so’s.’
You remember quickly why you hate fishing so much. You’re absolutely god-awful at it. You watch Chris fish, how natural it looks to him, how relaxed he is. How his arms flex every time he casts his reel. You try to act like you know what you’re doing.
“So, how long have you liked to fish?” You look over at him.
He swallows, and his Adam's apple bobs in his throat.
“Since I was little, my old man would always take me out. He used to say it helped him clear his head.” He rolls his shoulders back. “He was right.”
“Do you guys still fish together?”
“Nah.” He clears his throat and blinks. “Old man's been gone a couple of years now.”
“Hey, it’s alright.” He looks over at you now. “We all gotta go some day.”
You’ve always been a curious person. You’ve heard the phrase ‘curiosity killed the cat’ more than you’ve heard your own name. It’s like your mouth has a mind of its own, the question racing up your throat, passing any reasoning along the way.
“Alive and well.” He smiles widely.
He watches you struggle to cast your line.
His chest presses lightly against your back as he reaches around you, adjusting your grip on the rod.
His hand guides yours through the motions.
Your fingers tighten around the handle.
You aren’t sure you’ve heard a single word he’s said.
“Shit,” he whispers, breaking you out of the spell. “Fuckin’ raining.”
It starts to come down hard, bouncing off the lake in front of you. “You go to the truck, I’ll get everything.”
“Chris, I can literally help; it’s just rain.”
He rolls his eyes and smiles.
“You’re hardly even wearing clothes. You’ll get soaked. Get to the truck.” He tosses his keys.
You race to his truck. The rain doesn't let up, coming down so hard you have to shield your eyes to see. Your cowboy boot squelches on the ground, and then your ass is meeting mud.
You hear Chris coming up behind you.
He sets the fishing gear down.
You should be embarrassed.
You should tell him to stop laughing.
You should tell him to help you up.
That laugh feels familiar.
Laughing so hard that his eyes squint just like in the scrapbook.
You got that laugh out of him this time.
“Hey! It’s not fucking funny, Chris.”
He starts walking closer to you.
“I’m sorry,” he covers his mouth, trying not to laugh again. “Y’okay?” He crouches down so he’s eye level with you now.
“Oh, I’m perfect. Never been better.” You giggle.
Chris shakes his head and smiles.
“Look at you, a mess.” He taps your knee with his fingers. It feels like fire. “Covered in bug bites and mud.”
Chris pushes himself to his feet and extends a hand.
His hand feels big in yours.
“Fuck,” you groan, looking down at yourself. “I’m covered.”
You reach for the passenger door.
“Whoa, whoa.” His eyebrows lift. “Where ya goin’?”
He opens the back door, digging around.
“Think I got a water bottle back here somewhere…”
“Your truck’s already a mess,” you laugh. “Figured a little mud wouldn’t hurt.”
He glances over his shoulder.
His eyes narrow, but there is a ghost of a smile on his lips.
The water slides down your legs, taking some mud with it.
“And not my fault you decided to take me fishing without checking the weather.” You grin.
“Usually better about that.”
“...Been a little distracted lately.”
You don’t ask what he means.
You’ll let yourself live in the space where you could pretend he meant you.
Almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
“C’mon,” he says, clearing his throat. “Before we both get pneumonia and your dad kills me.”
The heater in the truck is turned on immediately, and you feel like you can let out a breath. Chris gave you an old sweatshirt of his that he found in the backseat of his car because he noticed you were shivering.
The truck smells like wet earth, rain, and Chris’s cologne.
The only sounds are the soft hum of his engine and the rain tapping against the truck's hood.
Your face hurts from laughing so much today.
Chris flicks on his turn signal, easing into the parking lot of a tiny gas station.
“Figured I owe ya some kinda snack after your little fall.”
“Uh… any kind of candy.” You shrug, feeling shy suddenly.
He nods before going to shut his door.
“I think Virginia’s waters are better than Georgia’s.”
For a second, he just looks at you.
“Was hoping you’d think so.”
The door slams shut, and Chris disappears into the gas station.
You put your head in your hands and let out a little squeal.
This was going to be a problem.
𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎… hehehehehehe 🤭 i promise i’m taking my time on purpose. it was really important to me that they built something real before i started ruining their lives 🤕
