Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #55

Clair is not in the mood for a party. Before you even ask her about it, you can feel annoyance rolling off her, can feel it in the set of her shoulders and the hard line of her lips. And when you bring it up that Jay invited you both, she frowns.

"C'mon, M., let's just stay in. I don't want to walk to Dinkytown."

Had you not made up with Jay recently (shame still licks your insides when you think about how you acted. God, you were an ass.), you probably would've agreed with her outright. But there's something contrary in you, something restless that makes you say, "I'm going to go. You can have a night to yourself if you want, though."

The words feel like a dagger, twisting between you. Sharp.

"What am I supposed to do then?" Her eyes cut to you; her fingers twisting into claws, then fists. "If you're going, then I guess I am, too."

Silence. Not the comfortable kind you're used to, but something you fear, something you know to be wary of. (The silence of a forest when a predator pads through the shadows. The silence of a funeral procession. The silence of ice, of empty houses, of bruises. The silence before endings and the silence of empty spaces.)

And it envelops you both as you choose something sparkly (Clair's favorite top of yours) and put on the eyeshadow she likes and lend her a pair of your heels. All these small apologies to make up for that break-up silence.

"I'm sorry," you say, "I just want to do something different." (Lights and noise and elevated heart-rate and alcohol and adrenaline and the mystery of a night undiscovered.)

She smiles, a knife cutting through her freckles. "I know." She bites her lip, examining the dress she's holding. "I'm sorry too."

You let out a breath and elbow her. "C'mon. I'll race you to T-Hall."

"You're on."

The race is half-hearted, your heels and the ice making it impossible to navigate the sidewalk without slipping. And with the entrance of T-Hall is so close to your own dorm, neither of you is out of breath by the time you get there. (The color is high in Clair's cheeks, though, and her eyes glint in the fluorescents. With your hair tumbling out of place, it must give the illusion of high spirits, of actually running through the night.) The two of you shiver just inside the doors until Lacy lopes down the stairs to meet you, followed shortly by Sam, Jay and Nick.

Sam grins at the pair of you. "Well, well, well. Looks like Nick's connections've finally paid off, and brought the gang back together again."

"So you're going to take back all the shit you said?" Lacy arches an eyebrow.

"Not a chance," Nick cuts in. "It's the only thing he's got going for him."

Sam punches Nick in the ribs and Nick grins, darting away from his fists.

"Nick's connections?" Clair asks Jay, and you both lean towards him and away from the others (who've all earned a disapproving stare from the CA behind the front desk.)

Jay jerks his head towards the door, and Sam salutes him, peeling away from Nick. "Yeah. Some Carlson guys are having an anti-Valentines party and invited us. Well, him, but you know how it goes."

But, if you really think about it, you don't. When's the last time you went to a party? You can't think of one. You can't think of those throw-away invites, the casual you-should-comes that get tossed out at the end of conversations. It's sort of alarming.

When you walk outside and have gone a few blocks from the dorm block, Lacy casts a glance over her shoulder. A lazy grin works its way across her face and she digs in the small purse she brought with her.