My best friend, Brooke, possesses what I like to call a persistent personality. Once she has something set in her mind, there's no talking to her. It's virtually impossible to win an argument against her. Even I, the world's most animated debater, can't compete with her. Trust me, I've tried, and failed miserably every time.
For the most part, I can deal with it pretty well. After being best friends with her for fifteen years, I've learned how to ignore her annoying personality traits. But, on the morning of my flight, blocking out her incessant nagging proved to be a much more difficult task than normal. Perhaps it was the sleep deprivation. Or maybe, it was the fact that I didn't want to get on that plane in the first place. Whatever the reason, my defenses were weakened, and I was subjected to her rambling at the ungodly hour of five AM.
"I'm telling you, Hayley. You're going to meet a guy there." Brooke smirked at me, and I wanted nothing more than to smack it right off of her face.
"Shut up about that, will you? It's getting old," I snapped. I leaned over the sink and splashed lukewarm water onto my face, ridding it of the Neutrogena face wash that I used religiously.
"I can see it now," she said, completely ignoring my request. She pushed herself up onto the countertop and pressed her back against the mirror. "You'll come home in two months, disgustingly in love with the boy of your dreams. But don't worry. I won't say I told you so."
"Yes, Brooke," I said irritably. "That's exactly what's going to happen. Except you forgot to include how we're going to get married, have two point five children, and live happily ever after." I scoffed. "What a load of shit."
"Oh, come on," she said, rolling her eyes in frustration and sighing, Brooke-style. "You don't believe in true love? Not even a little bit?"
"No. I do, however, believe in giving up when you're fighting a losing battle," I said evenly. "So drop it, all right?"
"Fine," she said, heaving another overdramatic sigh. "For the record, though, I am so going to gloat about how right I was when you come home."
I looked at her, an incredulous expression on my face. That persistent personality was shining through, all right. I picked up my damp towel and chucked it at her, a satisfied smirk spreading across my lips as she emitted a shriek of disgust.
I don't cry. I see crying as a sign of weakness. My mother, however, seems to derive a twisted form of pleasure from blubbering at every available opportunity. She's been crying for two years over her divorce from my father. And when I told her that I was going away for college, she cried for, oh, five days straight. Approximately.
She's been telling me for two years that it's all right to cry. Like I'm afraid to or something. Like I'm holding back tears in the first place. Please. I don't cry because it's completely pointless. What does it solve? How does it help with your problems? How does it make you feel better? Naturally, my mother doesn't understand this. She had practically begged me to shed a few tears as we said our good-byes in the airport earlier that morning.
"Oh, Hayley," she had said, overcome with emotion, "I'm going to miss you so much."
I, in turn, had hugged her loosely and replied in a completely steady voice, "I'll miss you too, Mom."
"Oh honey, it's all right," she had assured me. "Release your emotions."
I had smiled and hugged her a final time before departing for my gate. She had given me that disappointed look, the one I was so accustomed to receiving from her. And, as I normally did, I ignored it. I had left her standing there, just before security, tears rolling proudly down her face.
That had been hours ago. Now, as I sat on my nonstop flight to Tree Hill, I was busy pushing all thoughts of my mother out of my mind. Thinking of her tearstained face and her disappointed words would only annoy me further.
I glanced out of the window--yes, my father had gotten me a window seat, in first class, no less--and watched as tiny dotted cities turned into vast expanse of country. Though flying unnerved me slightly, it amazed me all the same. I could see things I normally wouldn't have been able to had I been driving there. It was breathtaking, watching the world pass me by.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a cool female voice said through the intercom. "As today's in flight entertainment, we are proud to be showing the Grand Final of Basketball, starring The Tree Hill Ravens."
"You've got to be kidding me," I groaned, prompting the teenage girl sitting beside me to roll her eyes. I ignored her and continued complaining, just to spite her. "It just had to be Basketball. The one sport I can't stand."
"Do you mind?" the girl snapped from next to me.
"Actually, I do," I said as I glared at her. "I, for one, do not wish to be subjected to such mindless idiocy."
"Well, it's not exactly up to you to decide what entertainment is featured, is it?" the girl retorted, tossing her clearly professionally straightened hair over her shoulder.
"No, I suppose it's not," I said, sighing. "But I can complain, which is what I fully intend to do."
If looks could kill, I would have dropped dead on the spot at the glare the girl sent my way. She eyed me with such dislike that I could almost feel the anger radiating from her. I rolled my eyes and turned away from her, instead focusing on the screen a few feet above my head.
The first twenty minutes of the game passed by uneventfully. I became so bored that I found myself dozing off. As I lingered in the grey area between sleep and consciousness, Suddenly some time later a loud shriek from the girl next to me yanked me away from my half-sleep.
"OMG… WE WON" she shrieked again.
I turned my head up and stared, bored, at the screen. There stood a dark haired boy, wearing the Tree Hill Raven's jersey, holding the cup, smirking at the camera. I then turned my head over to the girl sitting beside me, a horrible feeling settling itself within my stomach. I would be hearing about this for awhile.
I scowled, but amazingly remained silent. It was simply unheard of for me to ever hold my tongue, but in this case, I honestly had nothing to say. I was completed bored to the point where I was rendered speechless.
The girl--who I learned, was named Rachel remained silent after her little outburst for the remainder of the flight. Amazingly. She seemed satisfied knowing that her team had won.
Finally at sometime that afternoon, my flight arrived at the Airport. As I maneuvered my way down the narrow aisle, (keeping a safe distance from Rachel) I realized that with the small time difference, it felt like I had been flying for nearly an entire day straight. Damn jetlag.
After squeezing my way through the horde of passengers reuniting happily with their loved ones, I finally made it to baggage claim. I stood at the conveyor belt, watching it go around three times before accepting that my bag wasn't on it. I closed my eyes and began practicing my deep breathing in an attempt to keep my temper under control.
"Hayley!" I heard his voice clearly above the din of passengers mulling about, talking amongst themselves. It was strong, sharp, and loud. Just how I remembered.
"Hayley!" he called to me as I turned to face him. My father looked leaner and a tad ridiculous with his dyed blonde hair. A pair of designer sunglasses rested atop his head, and I had to resist the urge to cringe at his appearance. He looked positively stupid.
In one hand was my suitcase, (which I was sure had been lost) and his free arm was wrapped around the waist of a tall, thin, brunette woman. One look at her told me that she was everything my mother was not.
I walked toward them slowly, already sickened by their bright, excited smiles. I had a strong desire to slap my father hard across the face for bringing his girlfriend with him. With the mood I was in, I probably wouldn't be making a spectacular first impression with his Skinny Brunette.
I noticed that Skinny Brunette seemed a bit nervous as I approached them. Perhaps I was being overly critical, but I already disliked this woman. In my mind, she was the reason why my mother's eyes, once so vibrant and full of life, were now cold and hollow. To me, she was the reasoning behind my mother's sleepless nights, spent crying hopelessly into her pillow. The logical side of me knew that I was being petty and ridiculous, but the angry, resentful side of me believed that I was making perfect sense.
"Hayley, darling, you look beautiful!" my father greeted me, setting my suitcase down and removing his arm from Skinny Brunette's waist just long enough to hug me.
Despite myself, I hugged him back, inhaling the familiar scent of his cologne. That smell had always comforted me. In the years since he'd been gone, I had found one of his old shirts that still hung thick with the scent of his cologne. Although I'd never admit it, I'd hold the shirt close to me whenever I missed him, his scent wafting through my nostrils, offering me temporary comfort.
After a few moments, he pulled away from me and slinked his arm around Skinny Brunette's waist again. She was smiling at me, flashing her perfectly straight, sparkling white teeth. I made no effort to return it.
"Hayley, this is Olivia, my fiancée," my father said with a tentative smile. It was obvious that he was nervous, scared of my reaction to her.
I merely stood there, staring at her, making no attempt to introduce myself. My father stared at me stupidly, clearly surprised by my behavior. Olivia, however, decided to take matters into her own hands.
"Hello, Hayley," she said, that annoyingly perfect smile still plastered onto her face. "Your father has told me so much about you."
"Has he?" I replied, my voice laced with resentment. "That's lovely to know, even though he has no clue what's been going on with my life lately." I glared at him, then turned back to a stunned Olivia. "Unfortunately, I can't say that my father's told me much about you. That, however, can be partially blamed on the fact that he hasn't talked to me much in the past two years."
My father's jaw had dropped slightly at my words. I ignored him, though, and observed Olivia a bit more closely. She was dressed in a short denim skirt that showed just enough leg, a baby blue tank top that was low cut enough to accentuate her chest, and a small denim jacket draped casually over her shoulders. She adorned a pair of heeled sandals on her feet, which were the same color as her tank top. Her face, which was now contorted in an expression of absolute shock, was covered in heavy makeup, and her curly brown hair hung loosely around her face.
My initial impression of her had been right. She really was nothing like my mother.
"Hayley," my father said in a soft tone, though I could hear the surprise that was laced within his voice. "You know very well that it was never my intention..."
"Just forget it," I interrupted, holding up my hand as emphasis. "Let's just go."
My father, still familiar with my temper and stubborn mind, nodded slowly. Olivia shot him an incredulous look, which clearly conveyed her disapproval at my lack of respect, and the way my father had handled the situation. I glared at her just as my father began leading us out of the overcrowded airport.
"Right, then," he said, clearing his throat loudly. "Let's go home."
Home. Like this place would ever be my home.