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Don’t change, Ryen wrote in a letter once. There’s no one like you, and I
can’t love you if you stop being you. I guess I shouldn’t say that, but I’m a
little drunk right now—just came back from a party when I saw your letter
—but what the hell? I don’t care. You knew I loved you, right? You’re my
best friend.
So don’t ever change. This is a big ass world, and when we leave our
small towns, we’re going to find our tribe. If we don’t stay true to ourselves,
how will they recognize us? (Both of us, because you know we’re in the
same tribe, right?)
And even if it’s just the two of us, it will be the best.
God, I loved her. Whenever my worries or anger got the best of me, she
always said just the right thing to put everything in perspective. There were
times growing up that I felt aggravated or tortured by her letters, especially
when she’d talk about Twilight or how Matt Walst was just as good of a
lead singer for Three Days Grace as Adam Gontier—I mean, what the
fuck?—but I never felt bad after reading a letter from her.
Never.
I hear spray hit the car, and I open my eyes, finding her in front of the
truck, blurry through the water she’s shooting onto the windshield.
Why did she never take the advice she so readily gave me?
I keep my hands locked behind my head and watch her, moving around
the hood and fanning the hose up and down, spraying every inch. I notice
some of the paint coming up and running down the truck as she tries to
remove as much shit with the hose as possible.
She then releases the handle, stopping the flow, and drops the gun to the
ground. Grabbing the hem of her loose black shirt, she pulls it over her
head, revealing a thin white tank top with glimpses of a dark pink bra