Page 7 of Last Round

I had this fantasy of coming home after I’d been gone so long, how I’d need a minute to find our house. That I’d get lost in the ever-expanding neighborhood. But, nope. When I stepped out of the cab, it stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of the street, bottom half painted a dark green with the upper portion a dingy white. The rest of the neighbors have made updates. Maybe not drastic, but you can see new siding, upgraded fences. Not Sean.

Stepping into my old room, it was like I never left. If it wasn’t for the fresh linen scent from the carpet deodorizer my brother loves to use when he vacuums or the fact my linens didn’t make a cloud of dust when I lay down, I’d think he hadn’t opened my door in years. He said that I’d always have a place to come back to, which I appreciate. I just assumed it would be a pull-out couch in the office and my room would be redecorated with exercise equipment.

Nope. As I lay in bed and stare up at my ceiling, Tom, Travis, and Mark look back down at me. “Don’t judge me,” I say to my Blink 182 poster. “It isn’t like you guys haven’t returned to your roots either.”

For as much as everything seems the same within the walls of my childhood home, outside, everything feels different. It’s more than just friends getting married or having children. Or the fact that several have moved away, whether it’s to a new town or different state altogether. No, it’s something else that I haven’t been able to pinpoint.

Perhaps it’s me who’s changed. I’m not the same girl who took off when she couldn’t handle the torment of living each day seeing someone who would never see her. That clueless teen ran away from it all. She saw and experienced things I wish she never had, and has returned home with her eyes a little less bright with scars below the surface.

I reach up and unplug my phone. It vibrates on contact.

Great… Who’s texting me this early?

Inhaling a deep breath, I prepare myself. I didn’t tell anyone I was returning home. Then, out of the blue, I just messaged saying:hey, let’s all meet at the bar. As if I hadn’t ditched them all while the ink on my high school diploma was still wet.

Last night went well… until I got thrown on a confusing rollercoaster known as Killian Murphy.

The screen wakes up, and I let out a relived exhale as they are all from Rebecca. Or, better yet, Bex, my BFF from the life I thought I left behind. Not that we haven’t stayed in touch over the years, and she’s visited me while I was living in New York. It’s just that, no matter how many social media apps are developed, it seems impossible toreallykeep in touch with someone. It’s different when they aren’t down the road and able to come over when you need them.

Nothing on my newsfeed is real, well, not completely. It’s only half the story, the good part. The stuff you want everyone to see. To the outside observer, it appeared as though I was living the high life in New York: glamorous parties, athletes, a gorgeous condo, picture-perfect meals. To my Instagram followers, I was living a dream.Thedream. While, in reality, it was a nightmare with shiny wrapping paper and a bow.

Bex: OMG! Please tell me I didn’t imagine that Killian was totally flirting with you.

No, he wasn’t. Yes, he was laying on the Murphy charm, but it wasn’t to the real me. It was to whomever he had mistaken me for. The alcohol was strong on his breath. If he ran into me a few drinks earlier, that would’ve never happened.

Me: You need to lay off the LPRs. He was def not flirting with me.

Bex: Do not blame this on the liquid panty removers. I know what I saw. And that was K.O. ready to go to pound town with little Miss Olly. I told you long ago all you needed to do was grow out the hair and flaunt those assets. The reason Killian didn’t notice you back then was because you were too busy blending in, trying to be one of the guys.

No, it’s because he’s twelve years older than me. Even though the age of consent in Minnesota is sixteen, at that time, he was twenty-eight and in the media spotlight, at the height of his professional career. Legal or not, the mere suggestion of him messing around with a teenager would have made front-page news, and not in a good way. Since he’d been living with me since I was six, there would have been a ton of speculation about when our relationship started and if he groomed me.

As sad and frustrated as I was back then, as a less-hormonal adult, I get it. There was no teenage makeover that would’ve gotten me what I wanted, and if it did, I would’ve destroyed someone I cared deeply about.It’s why I had to leave. Because even when I was eighteen and he was out of the limelight, he still didn’t want me. It was time to move on.

Me: Sean really needs to change the name of that drink.

Bex: Why? It’s accurate.

Bex: Don’t change the subject. So, did you????

Me: Did I what?

Bex: Ride the rainbow?

Me: WTF is that?

Bex: I forgot you’ve been gone. That’s what the girls call fucking Kill, riding the rainbow.

Me: Yeah, I don’t need to hear any more about that. But, no, I did not “ride the rainbow.”

Bex: (emoji of pouty face)

Me: He was drunk. The second he realized who I was, it about made him vomit.

Bex: Stop being overdramatic. It probably caught him off guard. I mean, you’ve changed a lot. I almost didn’t recognize you. Long hair and tits can do that. BTW, were you a late bloomer or did you go under the knife?

I don’t dignify her with a response. She’ll draw her own conclusions. As horrified as I’ve felt over this exchange, I can’t help but smile. I’ve missed this.

Bex: What am I saying? Late bloomer. Sure, you’ve got a decent handful now. But if you were going to go artificial, might as well go Pam Anderson. Make those babies really pop.

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