I swear this isn't a rip-off of a John Green novel.
Fang and Max. Max and Fang.
That's how it's always been.
Ever since the Ride family moved next door to the Walker family and became super close. When Mrs. Ride went into labor with her husband in Washington D.C., it was my mom who scooped eighteen-month-old Fang into her arms and drove her best friend to the hospital. My mom and I lingered in the dull, white waiting room of the hospital for hours, biting our nails (Well, my mom bit her nails. I was playing with blocks in the corner by shoving them into my mouth and biting those. But toddlers have different coping mechanisms, ok?) until Mrs. Ride came out in a wheelchair, carrying a small, white bundle.
"Look, Nicholas," my mother breathed as she picked me up so I could get a better look at the bundle. It was nothing to look at- all I could see was a small pink face, with its eyes closed and its thumb in its mouth.
"Just five minutes ago, she was screaming so loudly my ears are still ringing," Mrs. Ride said, laughing. "Good thing she tired herself out."
My mom adjusted my on her arm and responded, but I had stopped listening to the conversation and was busy staring at the tiny person in front of me. Something about that face made me smile, pull out the yellow block from my mouth, and offer it to the baby, dripping with drool and covered with teeth marks. As if in response, her eyes opened and she stared at me.
And I swear her face also curved into a smile.
My mom ruined the moment (first of thousands, I promise) by taking the block from me. "Aw, Nick's offering Maxine a toy," She winced at the bite marks and drool. "Wow, someone's very good at biting. Look at those fangs!"
I tried to take it back from her. It wasn't her block, it belonged to my new pink friend. "Mama," I whined, squirming in her arms.
She finally understood, thank God, and offered the block to Mrs. Ride. "I think Nick here really wants Maxine to have this."
I stopped squirming the instant the yellow block went into Mrs. Ride's hands. "Your first toy, Max!" The baby gurgled in response, and she smiled at me. "Yes, I think these two are going to become best friends."
Except now it's not Fang and Max. It's just Fang. And it feels wrong.
When I got into Cornell I felt like the luckiest guy ever. My dream school, the one that I had fantasized about for years (in a totally sexual way, of course). But I didn't tell Max, who thought I was going to the nearby UCSD.
When I committed, I didn't realize it would mean moving across the entire damn country for nine months at a time.
When I got on the plane I didn't realize how heavy my heart would feel.
When I saw Max's face, screwed up in sadness and anger, I didn't realize I'd want to change my mind and turn the plane right around. They don't let you do that, by the way. Something about "deadlines" and "professionalism" and "terrorists."
Anyways, now I'm standing in my tiny box of a dorm in Dickson Hall, waiting for my orientation to begin. My phone beeps, and I sigh, finally gathering up the courage to check it. In the midst of congratulatory texts from my family and friends, people trying to keep up with Snapchat streaks, and Facebook notifications (no, I don't care that Brigid Dwyer is interested in a Coldplay concert!) I see a single text from Max.
You promised me you'd be around forever.
"Oh man," I whisper, clearing my notifications so I can look at my wallpaper, a picture of Max and I smiling together right after we had both gotten our braces removed. At the age of 11, I was finally free of the enormous canines that had netted me my nickname, but thanks to Max, the name stuck forever. Emotion floods through me as I realize how much I miss my best friend.
I've made a huge mistake.