Always

“No, you’re not!”

My phone suddenly fly out of my hand. “Hey!” I sit from the laying down I did just moments ago. “Mo, I know you’re upset with me but please don’t take it out on my phone, okay?”

Morwenna “Mo” Hattersley has been my best friend since as long as I can remember. Our fathers were college best friends became partners in Jackson and Hattersley and partners, a law firm they’ve built together for nearly three decades. Our mothers instantly became friends after they met our fathers, had had so many double dates, girls days and nights sent them on the fast train to become best friends too.

And now they're like our extended family. Shared birthdays, celebrations, holidays and vacations.

Morwenna and I, we were truly what people say the opposite faces in the same coin. Being the go-getter, you-only-live-once kinda girl she is, Mo will be the one girl you find bungee-jumping, zip-lining, or do anything adrenaline-related (because adrenaline rush was so addictive, her words not mine, that crazy girl). And every the fashionista, her obsession on fashion world and celebrities is bordering unhealthy. Mo will be the first to know updates on fashion, celeb gossips, and what-oh-so-in on the internet.

But the unhealthy obsession was what make her good at what she's doing as a professional shopper.

Meanwhile I, on the other hand, well, I am me. I, of course, chose to spend my free time hiding behind the pages of romance novels I love so much. Or, laying on my hammock in my parents’ backyard, under the sun, listening to some ballad or acoustic songs with my headphone on. Or, had snuggle fest with Boo, my giant brown teddy bear a give from an ex, binge-watched Netflix on the couch.

I still did those, but instead of in the backyard, I have a hanging hammock chair which I put in the corner of my room near the floor to ceiling glass window with the central park view. And I didn't bring Boo with me when I moved out of the house.

I binge-watch Netflix snuggle buddy-less and without the 'chill' part. (You know what I mean). Sigh.

She was the blonde to my brunette.

The skinny to my curvy.

The super model goddess to the plain me.

“Whatever! But you, Bryanna, have to pinky swear me you won’t be there!”

Her and her pinky swear. I'm shaking my head in my head.

Yeah, she was the fun to my nerd, all right.

We're in my room. I am sitting cross-legged on the bed, wearing my respective pajama--thread bare, very old gray t-shirt with holes, I admit, and flanel pants with smiley face all over them. In the meantime, Lady Bryanna is wrap in black silk dress.

It’s crystal that Mo doesn’t like my plan. She’s not only doesn’t like it, she hates it with all of her. Look at how her stilletto ruins my rug with her pacing. That’s how she tried to control herself before she’d go ballistic on me.

“But, Mo, I have to do this. I need to do this. Then I’ll be done.”

At least, I can promise her that.

Hearing the resign in my voice, her pace slows. I know her intention is good, she don’t want me to get hurt, again, but she have to understand that I have to do this, for me. For me so I can get my closure and move on with my life. For me because I don't want to have any regret. For me so I can say my goodbye.

What she don’t know is--at least not yet-- that from now on, everything won’t be the same anymore.

No matter what.

****

*Six months ago*

I close my eyes, massaging my forehead hoping the headache these sheets on my desk brings would lessen. It’s only ten in the morning and my head feels like ready to explode. This past couple months, I’ve been slaving myself on this project for a brand new hotel downtown. I can’t complain, though, the paycheck will be worth it.

“Hey, girl, whatsup?” I answer the call after checking the picture on the screen.

“Happy birthday!” she yells, literally in my ear so I have to drag the phone away because I want to keep my eardrum safe.

“Mo, this is the third times you shout it in three hours. And for the third times, I want to say thank you and ask you to stop,” I tell her half-amused half-serious.

“And here I am, committed to give it to you twenty-four times. It’s your 24th birthday, girl.”

Don’t I know it. “Will you stop if I ask you nicely?”

“Of course not!”

I roll my eyes. Sometime I think exaggeration is her middle name. “Okay, you know I’m deeply moved by your action, your dedication to remind me of my birthday, but please, Mo, please, instead of calling me, please just text the rest of the congratulations. You know I am in the middle of working my ass off for this project. Please?” I wonder if she can see me through my pleases.

“Oookaaay,” she sing-songs. I can hear the amusement in her voice. “See you at Stewart’s then. Don’t be late. Bye!”

She hung up on me.

****

Stewart’s is a popular bar downtown we’ve been regularly visiting since the early age of drinking. Besides the warm and comfortable vibe, Bradley Stewart, the owner, has consistently have a live music performance three days a week for their evening crowd. As a former rock-god slash bar-owner, Brad wants to provide good food and good music, the two important things in life, he said, at the same time. He wants his place to give those new musicians out there a fighting chance in reaching their dreams, a point to start, to nurture their talent, to introduce themselves to the world.

Now that Brad was planning to retire and finally going to give his wife a vacation he promised her forever ago, he started to include his son, Lincoln, in running this place, who happens to be my older brother’s best friend.

Morwenna and some of our college friends are already waiting when I get to the table. Misty, Claire, Glenn and Ben stands and gives me their congratulatory hugs and kisses. Glenn even doing the curtsy when he grab my chair. “Have a seat, milady.” He winks before setting on the chair beside me. Always the flirt.

As if on cue, Brad comes to the table singing Happy Birthday, soon my friends joining him and we attracts another patrons’ attention which then joining them as well. One of the server, Tris, trailing behind with a mad stack of what I guess are banana pancakes, a candle in the middle. I reaches Mo’s hand and mouthed thank you.

This was our ritual, having birthdays here, but even a ritual could always get you emotional, you know. With teary eyes and tender heart, I blow the candle. “Thank you so much, you guys.”

“Special treat for my special girl.” Brad hugs me. “Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday, little Jackson,” Lincoln parrots. Well, it doesn’t surprise me I don’t notice him standing near. Lincoln always come and go as he please.

“Well, hello there.” Is heard through the speaker. “Next number is a special request for our birthday girl. Happy Birthday.”

I look at the stage. “Is he new?” a question ask to no one in particular.

“Yeah, he came by and saw me two weeks ago. Asked him to sing a few, thought he was good and he’s been performing for two days,” answers Brad who’s still standing behind me. Lincoln who had stood beside him before is nowhere to be found.

“Just listen to him. I asked him to play something special as your present. But I don’t know what song he will play. Guess we’ll see. Hope you like it. And again, happy birthday, Sweetheart.” He kisses my temple. “I’ll leave you to it, then. You guys have fun. On the house tonight.”

Before I could protest, he waves his hand bye and head back to his office.

The sound of guitar playing fills the room.

'Let’s dance, little stranger, show me secret sins'

With the stage front and center, a foot higher than the rest of the cafe, it’s easy to spot the person whom the really smooth voice are belong. Sitting on a stool, an acoustic guitar in hand, his fingers strums the strings effortlessly.

'Won’t you dance with me, in my world of fantasy'

'Won’t you dance with me ...'

I look at him and there are the most beautiful set of blues. I look, he looks and from the first time those beautiful ocean eyes grabbed my hazels, I feel something flutter inside me. I don’t know what, but it compells me to just stare at him.

And listen to his sweet voice.

And I think he knows what is happening in me, because he smirks.

And my oh my ... that little smirk.

Here comes trouble.

****