My Girl

I don't eat the pretzel

I'm sitting on my bedroom floor across from Lucy, a bag of pretzels half-finished between us. We're playing "never have I ever," which was her idea, and each time one of us has done the thing, we eat a pretzel, which was my idea. 

"Never have I ever... been drunk," she says. I shake my head. I wish I could say yes to that one, but alas, we're good girls.

"Never have I ever kissed a boy." Luckily, I'm not some sob story who's made it to sixteen without ever being kissed. I'm just hella gay. 

Lucy eats a pretzel. She's never actually had a boyfriend, but there's been lots of little flings at parties or summer camp or whatever. 

Then she smiles at me, her messy red hair falling in her face as she leans forward. "Never have I ever been in love."

I blush and try to hide it. It's three in the morning and a part of me thinks I have to eat the pretzel or otherwise the god of "never have I ever" will abduct me and force me to be tortured for eternity. Because, yeah. I have been in love. I am in love.

I'm in love with the girl right in front of my face. 

But I can't have her. 

And it hurts. It burns.

Do you want to know what it feels like? It feels like when you take a massive sip of a super strong coffee and you get that dry feeling in your mouth. Being in love with your best friend when you're sixteen feels like drinking hot sawdust. 

I don't eat the pretzel. I just shake my head and ask if she's ever been skinny dipping, or something.

A little while later, she yawns and says we should get to bed. We share my double, which is a tight fit, but I secretly enjoy that, because I fall asleep inches away from her round, freckled face, lulled into the darkness by the sound of her breathing. It feels so good, and it feels awful.