Page 22 of The Way We Are

Savannah:That’s probably because you called her a bitch. Try being more suave with her.

My hearty chuckle bounces around the interior of my truck. Grinning, my thumbs frantically tap my reply.

Me:I don’t know how to be suave.

I stare at my phone like it’s moments away from giving the winning lotto numbers. Thankfully, Savannah’s second message arrives as quickly as her first.

Savannah:Lying has never been your strong suit, Ryan. Even while shredding me with hurtful, but unfortunately true comments, you still made me swoon.

I read her message three times, confused as to what she means. Is she referring to last night? Or something else?

Like she can sense my confusion, another message pops up on my cracked screen.

Savannah:I read your letters. They were beautiful. Painful, yet beautiful nonetheless.

Fear grips my heart. Even via a text message, I can hear the turmoil in her words.

Through shaky hands, I dial Savannah’s number and push my cell to my ear. Although I want to hear her voice, I’m shaking so much, I can barely hit the call button, much less the tiny letters on the pad of my outdated cell.

It feels like the earth circles the moon a hundred times before Savannah finally answers my call. Neither of us say hello; we just listen to the other breathe. My breaths are husky, strained with worry she’ll never forgive me for the horrible things I wrote in frustration. Savannah’s are short, sharp pants that reveal she's moments away from crying.

“Savannah, I’m sorr—”

“No, Ryan. Don’t you dare apologize,” Savannah interrupts, her tone dipping as she struggles to hold in her sobs. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I should have talked to you in person. I should have explained what I saw firsthand. But instead of doing either of those things, I blamed you for taking their side. By the time I realized their stupidity shouldn’t have affected our relationship, it was too late. The damage had already been done.”

I try to compile a response, but I can’t get my mouth to move. For months, I struggled believing Savannah threw away our friendship on a whim. But as the years rolled on, and no reason for her lack of contact came to light, I began to wonder if she did simply move on to greener pastures.

When Savannah remains quiet, I drag my phone away from my ear, anticipating our call will be disconnected. It isn’t. The timer is still clicking down at half the speed of my heart.

I push my phone back to my ear just in time to hear Savannah ask, "Can you meet me somewhere? Just like five years ago, this conversation should be happening in person.”

“Yes,” I reply in an instant. “When?”

Savannah exhales in a hurry. “Now?”

Acting like my heart usually races a million miles an hour, I reply, “Okay. Where?”

She coughs to clear the nerves from her voice before saying, “Umm...could you come to my house?”

Even though she can’t see me, I nod, confident she will take my raging pulse shrilling down the line as an answer to her question. Instinctively, my hand shoots up to my truck’s sun visor to secure the keys I store there. I stab them into the ignition and twist before reality dawns: my truck is fucked.

“My truck...” My words trail off when my engine unexpectedly roars to life. I thought I’d get the same dead chug it gave me last night. “...Works? What the fuck?”

The violent churning of my stomach smooths when Savannah giggles at my shocked reply. Her husky laugh is ten times hotter than the one she recorded on a mixed tape she made years ago. Instead of burning a compilation of her favorite songs onto a blank CD, she produced an entire radio segment, corny laugh-at-your-own jokes and all.

Brax, Chris, and I never laughed as hard as we did the night she forced us to listen to the three-hour long performance on a bitterly cold winter’s night. I’m glad she didn’t do it in summer, or we would have never survived her glare every time we laughed at the wrong section. Our response couldn’t be helped; she had recorded the entire skit at three times the speed. She sounded like a chipmunk on crack.

I wait for Savannah’s laughter to settle before asking, "What did you do?" My tone is half-playful, half-annoyed.

I'm stoked my truck is back in working order, but I'm peeved I didn't get to witness Savannah in her element for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. Cheerleading Savannah is every teen’s wet dream, but the visual of her getting dirty under my hood...Fuck!My dick turns to stone just at the thought.

After adjusting my crotch, I glance over my shoulder, seeking a break in the stream of traffic clogging the streets of Ravenshoe.

I find an opening at the exact moment Savannah informs me, “I taught Chris it isn’t just boys who know mechanics. Girls are just as crafty.”

“You called Chris?” The happiness in my voice can’t be contained.

I love that she called a member of our old group for help. It’s better than her asking Axel and his douchebag friends. I’m also relishing sparks of the old Savannah remerging. After watching her exchange with Axel last night, I was worried the girl I used to know was long gone. Now I’m not so sure.

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