Friend Is a Four Letter Word by Steph Campbell Page A

coats, ties and baby toys. Things that were not really missed and easily replaced—with a newer, better version. And that’s exactly what I became.
    It’s in this moment, where the train traveling on the tracks is matching the tick of my turn signal that I think of Quinn. And one of the last things she said to me when we talked last. When I heard her bickering with Ben, who was in the background laughing. I told her she sounded happy.
    She said, “I am. For once I really am. Things can change.”
    I need to be that damn train.
    And suddenly, I know exactly what I need to do.

 
     
     
    I slide my key into the lock and hold my breath as I turn it. Then curse under my breath as the front door creaks open wide enough for me to slip into the dark house.
    I half expect Mom to be sitting in the entryway with balloons and a congratulations banner. What will she say when tomorrow she wakes up and not only am I not engaged to Nolan, but… I’m leaving town?
    I am.
    I think.
    Damn it! I wish there was an easier way to figure this all out. A map, a guidebook, some kind of sign from heaven above to let me know what I should do. Right now, I just need the comfort of the familiar, of my room.
    Thank God the house is dark and silent. I tiptoe up the stairs to my room and lock the door behind me.
    In the bottom drawer of my desk there’s a stash of tiny bottles of liquor. I haven’t dragged them out in months, so I waste no time unscrewing the first cap and draining the bottle of its cheap vodka. It burns going down, but in the most delicious way. In the way that screams, “I’ve missed you, old friend.”
    I uncap another.
    My suitcases are all in the storage closet and I’m not about to go back down the hall and lug them into my room. I have an old duffle bag that I got from some Walkathon fundraiser crammed in the back of my bedroom closet. I guess that’ll work. I have to pretty much scale the shelves to reach it and nearly take them all down with me when I lose my footing. I freeze where I land on the plush carpet, listening for any movement downstairs.
    When I’m sure the sound of my fall didn’t wake my parents, I start filling the bag with clothes in between sips of gin. The gin may not mix well with the vodka I just sucked down, or maybe it’s just that I haven’t had anything to drink in so long that I’m a lightweight now… because I feel much drunker than I think I should.
    I climb up onto my bed and decide to rest for a minute, try to get my head straight. I can’t count the number of times I snuggled in this bed dreaming about what I would do with my life if I were just brave enough, just strong enough. I’d go to sleep sure that I’d be able to follow through on all the promises the night held by morning.
    But the morning would come, and I’d stay put, unhappy and feeling like a phony in my own life.
    I think about my parents, my adoption, my non-relationship with Nolan, my non-relationship with Carter… is there a single thing about my life that’s real, that I can count on?
    I decide to push all the crap away and focus on the liquor coursing through my veins and the small comforts I can always turn to when I’m freaking out.
    For example, my bed. My bed is heavenly. Full of feather stuffed pillows and plush blankets that I sink into. I push the piles of clothes off of my bed with my feet and stretch out. I wonder where I’ll sleep where I’m going. I probably won’t have a nice bed like this for a while.
    Unfortunately, thoughts like that make it really hard to relax.
    My purse is on the edge of my nightstand so I grab at it, dumping the contents onto the floor. I have to do some circus like movements in order to scoop my phone off of the carpet without leaving my bed, but in the end, it’s worth it.
    It’s late. Too late to call any of my friends—not that I have a ton of them to choose from.
    Nolan is about my only local friend, really and I think I may have just killed that.
    I scroll