Me deciding Addy was right. That my generic emails were piss-poor and forced as fuck. I came to the drunken conclusion that social media would alleviate my guilted obligation.
Brooks, youfuckingidiot.
Exhaling loud enough to make me cough, I hover the mouse over the search bar before tapping my index finger. I open the web page and log in without issue.
A small red box appears in the top right of my screen, and I can’t click on it fast enough.
The picture on her profile is taken of her back. Her (bare) feet planted firmly on a grassy hill, a white lighthouse artfully framing the right side of the photo. Henley’s arms are stretched outward, her head tipped back, facing the bright blue sky. She’s dressed simply in a pair of cutoffs, a white shirt, and a black wide-brimmed hat, her hair flying in the direction of the wind. She looks perfect.
I click on the picture.
“Byron Bay, New South Wales, Australia,” I read aloud.
The top of her profile has a box that reads “Message.” I click on it.
Brooks: Australia, hey?
She responds immediately.
Henley: It’s beautiful. Have you been?
Brooks: No.
I start typing an apology but delete the words, knowing nothing I can say will fix what I did.
Henley: I’ve missed you.
I sigh in relief. She said it first. My heart regulates, slowing from the racing gallop it was caught in only moments ago.
Brooks: I’ve missed you, too. I’m so fucking sorry for Glasgow.
There. I said it. I brought up the moment that I thought had shattered our friendship forever.
Henley: It’s in the past, Brooks. Please, let’s just forget it. Did you speak to Addy?
Forget it?
Forget the overwhelming need I felt to claim her, to kiss her, to own her?
Forget the obvious way in which she clearly wanted it too?
I’d happily forget her rejection, but forget what passed between us? Never.
Brooks: Engaged!!!
I ignore my own psychotic thoughts.
Henley: Crazy. Good crazy.
Brooks: Definitely good crazy.
Henley: Where are you?
Brooks: China.
Henley: I was there a few months back.
Brooks: Addy mentioned.