𝐈 𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐡 𝐰𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬

𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐨

But you're holding me
like water in your hands
-Phoebe Bridgers

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙

I'm in Tenny's dorm, waiting for him. Bailey let me in on his way out; he has a golf tournament away from the University, today. His new friend is going to watch him play. I smile, thinking of Bailey blushing and hitting golf balls.

Pittman is quiet. Tenny's room is quiet. I run my hand along his desk. Everything is so orderly; all of his books organized into a stack, except for one. To the Lighthouse, the book I bought Tenny for Christmas. It's laid out on the desktop. The spine is worn, the cover is bent. It looks like he's gone back to it a thousand times, before.

I trace the title with my fingertip.

The door creaks open. It's Tenny; a backpack slung over his shoulder. His eyes widen slightly when he sees me, and he's tossing the bag to the floor, rushing to meet me. "Hey," he says, slipping his arms around my waist, and pulling me to face him. "What are you doing in here?"

He hugs me tighter, so that my face burrows into his neck. He's placing his mouth to the top of my head. "I wanted to see you," I say, and it's muffled against the heat of his skin. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," he says and he lets me come up for air. I lean against his desk; I see his eyes searching my face. I wonder if we've taken a step back. I frown.

"I wanted to talk to you about the party," I explain. "If you just told Frankie that we'd go to shut her up, that's fine—"

"What? No." He grabs onto my hands. "I want to go."

"Really?" I ask, and he nods. "Okay..."

He kisses the back of my hand. "I want to be better, for you."

I wrinkle my face. "Tenny, what are you talking about? You're already good." He's looking at me, with his story-book eyes, and I see the younger Tenny. The one with a toothless smile and bruises down one arm. The one who told me he wouldn't have gotten them if only he minded better.

And I want to hurt Red for ever making Tenny think he was anything other than good.

"You deserve someone better than good," he says. "You deserve someone better than me." And now I'm the one searching his face. Looking for some deeper meaning, as if his freckles will merge together and tell me what made him say this, today. But that doesn't come.

So, I kiss him. I tell him, "But Tenny, I want you."

I pull him by the arm, to his bed, and make him sit down beside me. I kiss him again, crawl onto his lap, so that I straddle his waist. His hands run up my back. I feel his heart thumping through his shirt—it isn't calm like the last time we were on this bed.

His kisses aren't as restrained, either. It's like he's trying to be, but he's losing that war.

I pull away, look at his face: cheeks flushed and eyes wild. "I want you, Tenny," I tell him again, but this time I mean something else. I want him, I want to feel him on me, again. His mouth is parted, his breaths are shallow, but there's hesitancy in eyes. "Don't make me beg," I say. "Because I will."

His eyes drop to my lips, then back to my eyes. I watch his jaw tense, and because I know him, I know what he's thinking. He's weighing his options. But he's going to give in, because he's Tenny, and I'm me. And he'd do anything for me.

He presses his lips back on mine, and he's given up on restraint. A heated rush. His lips on mine, his tongue tracing mine. He presses an arm against my back to flip me over; my spine pressed into the mattress, him hovering above me. He's breathing heavy, he smells of laundry soap and cigarettes. I pull his shirt off, over his head.

He trails kisses down my neck, his hands unbutton my jeans. I wriggle out of them; they fall to the floor. They're the only thing that's out of place in this room: that, and the book laid out on Tenny's desk. His mouth comes back to mine.

I'm pulling at his hair, and then I'm pulling off his pants. I feel him tense; I run my fingers over his ribs, over his heart, over my name.

"I want you," I say, one more time. This time, he only nods.

I suck in a breath when he enters me. He buries his hands in my hair, tries to screw his eyes closed, but I place my hand on his cheek. "Look at me," I tell him, and so he does. His gaze is full of lust, and maybe love. Dark eyes, heavy lids.

He moves like he was made for me—I trace the scar above his eyebrow. I count the freckles over his nose. I run my thumb over his lip, he kisses it, puts it in between his lips. He buries his face into my neck, I can hear his ragged breaths, feel them, warm against my skin.

"Fuck, Vio," he groans, and I say his name back. Over and over, again.

He's not gentle anymore. He knows I won't break. He thrusts into me harder and faster, like it could be the last time we touch. But I know that it won't be. I tell myself he know that too.

I dig my nails into his back, pressure builds, low in my stomach. Growing and growing, until I'm falling over the edge. I come undone for Tenny, as Tenny comes undone for me.

I'm trying to catch my breath, staring at the ceiling as Tenny places kisses into the crook of my neck. His curls tickle my skin, I wiggle away from him. When he looks at me, he's smiling. A real, Tenny smile that reaches his eyes.

"I love you," I tell him.

And he stops smiling. He's searching my face.

"Tenny, I mean it—I really love you," I say, and he sucks in his bottom lip, stares at my eyes. "You don't have to say it back; I just want you to know."

He frowns, cups my face in his hands. "I've always loved you, Vio," he says to me. "I never stopped loving you." And there's a part of me that always knew that.

Tenny kisses my forehead, he lays beside me. I fold into his side; it's where I am meant to be. I put my head on his chest, and listen to the beat of his heart. And I know that I'm his, and he is mine. And I love him more than I've ever loved before.

I try to think of a time I've ever felt safer—of a time where I've ever been happier.

But nothing comes.

For this reason, I think of Emily. I think of what she told me about happiness—how it doesn't mean it's time to stop digging. To stop working. To stop writing. So, I look back at Tenny, and it's because I love him, and because we're happy, that I have to say this.

"Tenny, I'm sorry for what I said that night..."

...
Author's Note:

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