No Sleep[over]Mature

No Sleep[over]           

            This time last year, I didn’t know any of you. Until my senior year of high school, I avoided church youth groups. I was publically humiliated in my middle school youth group, and an unnatural aversion to large groups of teenagers quickly set it.

            For this group, I was careful. I filled out the “Connect Card” in the church bulletin and asked to be contacted by a youth leader. A few weeks later, I received an e-mail. The following weekend, I cautiously entered the church basement and was immediately swarmed by a dozen hugs.

            You all loved me from the start, without even knowing me. Now that I know each of you, I’m even more thankful I felt prompted to get connected.

            It’s been a year since those hugs, and that night has become one of my favorite memories. I felt accepted for the first time in a long time.

            We met up the weekend after finals for a sleepover. Eating bites of white chicken chili between giggles and snuggling on the couch during “story time” was a fantastic way to end the weekend. At least, until Annie shared.

            Her suite mates went to high school with me. Her suit mate was my golden haired girl, and my “annoying drunk” friend stumbled into her room in the middle of the night, naked.

            I didn’t want to believe it was him, but deep down, I knew it was. She claimed she didn’t see his face, but I showed her a picture anyway. I didn’t get an answer, so I texted my golden haired girl, and she confessed.

            “We got him drunk,” she said. “He had never been drunk before, so his tolerance was really low.”

            I asked her why he was naked.

            “He said it was more comfortable,” she replied.

            I asked if anyone had fooled around with him.

            Her response made me want to throw my phone: “We both kissed him.”

. . .

             That night, I had to take off my watch because it was a birthday present from Griffin. At 3:30, the shades were drawn, no light. I could hear the watch ticking, and I wondered if his heart was beating faster than the hands when they kissed him.

            How much did they give him to drink? How much did he accept?

            I wish I had heard this from him, not from her.

            I broke the watch because I couldn’t stand the feeling of the leather around my wrist. It chafed, made my bones ache, and I had to take it off. I wish I could’ve disposed of the mental picture as easily, but I couldn’t seem to chase it away. Their mouths on his were burned into my brain, and I wondered where else they touched him and how it made him feel.

            I always wanted to be his first, but they stole the first two. 

The End

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