This school was filled with pretty boys sporting "bad boy" attitudes. She went for that. It'd be no time at all before one of them swept in, shirtless and ridged with hard muscle, nothing that jiggled.
Why are you with him? They'd ask, then they'd point out his weird face, his fat hairy toes. They'd show her symmetrical smiles and good looking toes. They'd know how to play instruments, would always say the right thing at a party, never ask stupid questions. Then she'd ask why she was with him…
He worried until she kissed the worries away.
"I'm yours."
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Words never hurt before. What made them hurt now?
Standing in a dorm-house kitchen, crying, shouting—didn't know what'd started it anymore; just a bunch of small stuff, from adjusting to a new, scarier world away from childhood. Things were supposed to happen suchly. With none of it lining up the world felt lost, spinning out of control. She said stuff, secret stuff she'd been sitting on for a little while. Now he was upset, said his own secret stuff.
Could've seen it coming—when three good words hurt, the bad words killed.
They found two that healed.
"I'm sorry."
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The professor lectured on and on about economics. Carly's eyes drooped, sprang back open. A heavy body slid into the seat next to her, late. Knuckles rapped the chain on her wrist.
"That's a nice bracelet," he said lowly, panting.
"Thanks, some guy got it for me."
"Some guy?" he asked.
"One of many, but I keep him around because he's sweet."
"He sounds like one-in-a-million."
"Nah, he's a dime a dozen, really."
"Oh," his face fell.
"I was kidding, Gibby."
"Oh," He laughed. She kissed him. From behind, Freddie groaned, peeled their faces apart. "I'm trying to pay attention!"
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She came in January, a month early. Gibby dropped everything and was at the hospital for the delivery, invited Carly to join him. She felt weird at first, an intruder. But Gibby's excitement soon rubbed off on her. When they could see her, all the Gibsons stood in a row, crying as they welcomed the cutest, tiniest baby girl to the world. She couldn't help but cry a little herself. Gibby held his infant sister so gently, looked at her like she was so precious, talked to her so sweetly, that Carly wanted her to be theirs.
Their Gibby baby.
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Finals were killing her, the stress making her crazy. Insomnia. Panic attacks. She didn't care to go through another year of this, even after a break. Screw pre-law and college altogether. She'd literally only picked it because she'd had no idea. Nothing seemed appealing. Nothing but comedy.
Didn't need a stupid diploma for the show.
Spencer supported her, kind of. He'd AT LEAST finished four years. Gibby supported her all the way. Dropping out was scary, picking the harder of two roads, but she slept through the night and smiled for most of the day now, his professional web-show host.
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She was hosting her very first Thanksgiving diner. Sam helped with the cooking at first, but then fell asleep. Everything was going well, Carly wasn't even stressed, so wasn't being bossy. A nice change, further proof dropping out of college was right for her. She laughed, ran from Gibby's tickles. A big crowd was invited, classmates, dates, family. Most had arrived when someone asked what was burning.
The ham.
Carly cried, not just because of failure, but embarrassment for failing in front of people. He found her in the pantry, squeezed in, made her laugh with a Too Soon joke.
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They slept with the curtains wide opened, so they could see the stars. Just three of them over the dark shapes of trees lining her apartment building's parking lot, but three chances to make wishes wrapped in each other in the moonlight painting the sheets, her skin, silver. They were young, but alive. They were still learning, but understanding fast that no one else fit so well.
He imagined moonlight actually felt like her skin. Here in the secret magic of it all she made the confession, softly in his ear, "I want to make a baby with you now."
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She said waiting seemed pointless. He said she'd never had much patience. She didn't know what he meant by that. He said never mind. She demanded explanation. He groaned, looked her in the eye, "We're too young. It's pointless."
"How can a baby that's ours be pointless?"
That's not what he meant. That's what he said. He wasn't ready, that's what he meant. Well she was. He was sorry, still not ready. She said staying was pointless now. He said she was overreacting. She left. He let her go. Pointless to make her stay, if he couldn't make her happy.
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It was instinct to hate the thing that hurt. He didn't want to hate Carly for leaving, but he sometimes did when he missed her laugh or literally started talking to her before realizing she wasn't next to him. He hated himself, but sometimes he needed something warm to hold onto. Someone said that life came down to one of two things, sex or money. It was sex for him, had been since he was fifteen (yeah) and he didn't know how to survive the crappy stuff without sharing himself with someone.
He wanted no one else but Carly, though.
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It was legitimately the worst summer of their lives. He couldn't sleep without her skin under his hand. She hated rolling over to find space in the bed next to her—no mountain of Gibby keeping away creepy things in dark corners. She wasn't afraid, just felt safer with him.
Daylight hours were even worse, no one to laugh with, no one to finish her fries. Staying apart was hell. She admitted it first, with a daisy and a hopeful smile. He admitted it the most with kisses and an early lunch break to thank her properly for the daisy.