My Best Friend's Ex (Edited)

Part 26 (edited)

I point to myself. "That's me, a freaking troll wart. No," I shake my head, "I don't even deserve the distinction of being a wart on a troll's body. I'm the rotten, crusted-over, split toenail on a Bergen. A BERGEN."

My voice elevates, which causes Adalyn to try to tamp down my anger by using her hands to "bring down the noise." "Your Troll references are frightening sometimes. That movie is for children."

"But it's so good. Snub of the century during the award season." Upset, I push my tray to the side, not feeling the Chinese food. "I'm such a horrible person, Adalyn. I was so mean to him. I told him to act like an adult."

"What?" Adalyn is actually surprised by this. "Why would you say that? Did he burp in your face and ask you to tell him what he had for dinner?"

"Ew, no. Gross, Adalyn. Has anyone ever done that to you?"

Leveling out her arms along the table, she gives me a knowing look. "Emma, I grew up with seven, yes, seven brothers. There wasn't a night that went by that I didn't get burp faced."

"I don't know how you're still alive now."

Looking off to the abyss, she nods. "I can't believe they're still alive, actually. After the night they cut my hair, drunk as shit, they should be kissing my feet they're dicks are still intact." She shakes her head and glances my way. "But that isn't what we're talking about right now. I want to know why you told Colby, the beautifully damaged man, why he needs to grow up."

"It's so stupid. I really think I lost my mind from his silence." I'm just not used to people dealing with problems like that. With Adalyn, we simply cleared the air and moved on. Aren't guys meant to do that?Adalyn doesn't let me get away with anything. "Spill it." "I told him to grow up because he only has two mugs in his house. Two mugs, Adalyn. How is that even possible? I mean, when I was in middle school I think I had more mugs than him. He's a grown man and has two mugs; it's just unheard of." I try to defend myself but even on my ears my words sound hollow.

"Oh, Emma." Adalyn shakes her head in disappointment. "You fucked up."

"Yeah, I fucked up big time." I don't need Adalyn telling me the kind of sorry excuse of a friend I am, I can see it plain as day. Tampon fireworks, ughhh.

I don't even bother finishing my meal. I pack it up in a to-go box, and say my goodbyes to Adalyn, who asks me on my way out to sneak a picture of Colby naked for her. Nope, that's never going to happen.

The drive home from campus is miserable. Usually I take this time in my car to decompress, to blast my music and enjoy the little drive back home before I have to start studying, but this trip is full of replaying the conversation I had with Colby this morning over and over in my head.

Yes, he's been ignoring me; well, not ignoring, just quiet. And yes, that was annoying, but did I really have to criticize him? The man who took me in. The only one of our friends who had bought their own house. Gah. He probably hates me now.

The more I think about it, the more I feel sick to my stomach. He's had it hard. And then there's his place, the room he won't let me go into, and the empty place he's come home to every night. It's desolate and empty. That has to be a reason he feels no urgency to make it a home, why he doesn't even bother to furnish the rooms. He's content with how it is and that makes me even more sorry for the way I behaved. He didn't deserve my judgment or criticism.

When I pull into the driveway, I spot Colby's car parked off to the side. He doesn't bother parking in the driveway any more since he's usually leaving before me in the morning. I should be the one parking on the side not him. The guilt keeps piling on.

Because he's the nice guy he is, the light is on out side the door, giving me visibility to the door. He's always considerate.

When I open the door, I notice immediately how quiet the house is. Usually I can hear the faint sound of Colby's TV coming from his bedroom, but I hear nothing. I check my watch and notice it's only a little past eight. He must have an extremely early morning if he's already asleep.

The house is dark besides one light above the sink, illuminating the kitchen and spotlighting a set of mugs on the counter top. My heart seizes in my chest. Oh, what has he done?

Stacked up like a pyramid is a set of seven teal mugs, one for each day of the week, labeled appropriately in cute cursive. Sticking out below them is a note. With trepidation, I set my backpack on the counter and pick up the note, my hand shaking uncontrollably. I quickly unfold it and read Colby's signature chicken-scratch handwriting.