The Night We Left

We sat on the couch crying together at the last scene of My Girl. A movie about love, loss, and the admirable acting skills of Macaulay Culkin. Our racking sobs were so loud, neighbors probably thought there was something horrific going on in that shore house.

It was a bittersweet moment, a sad ending to a sad movie, but a beautiful memory in an ever so beautiful friendship. It was our first weekend alone at a rented shore house. Two teenagers feeling the salty ocean breeze through the open window, waiting for the inevitable parent/guardian to show up and take us to the boardwalk.

Even though the Jersey shore is typically packed, it felt like it was emptied that day, just for us. Being seventeen makes those moments feel like that, sometimes. Like it’s just you and the world.

There was no traffic on the road to get down there, and the wind was refreshing but not overbearing. We listened to our favorite songs in the car, with our elbows resting out of the window. We recapped our day at school, catching up on each other’s drama since we only had one class together. Rachel and I could always find something to talk about. There was never an awkward pause or a weird bout of silence, only excited energy and lots of laughter. I have always loved having a best friend.

After our cathartic cry session later that afternoon, we found ourselves a snack and strolled out onto the porch of the shore house. Taking selfies, laughing, enjoying our last few weeks of vacation before the last year of high school started. We started talking about our plans for the evening, like what games to play on the boardwalk, what we were going to wear, and if we would see anyone from school. Talking about the “what if” was always so exciting, the prospect of finding a schoolmate or crush outside of town was alluring.

Everything was so simple, but also couldn’t be more complicated.

My best friend called her dad to see what his ETA was, as he was the parent coming to take us around for the night. I was so grateful to be invited, just to get to be there with them. After a few minutes of no response, we took a stroll around the condo and decided where we wanted to sleep.

“Come sit by the bed, I can braid your hair in the meantime.” Rachel offered as she sat down on the shell comforter and pointed towards the floor. We filled that hour with giggles, a spritz (or five) of perfume, Katy Perry on Spotify, and a pre-boardwalk fashion show.

Once it was nearing dusk, Rachel gave her dad another call. The dialing call was interrupted by a separate one incoming on her phone, from her mom.

“Hey, you girls need to drive over to your Grandma’s in Wildwood. As soon as you can.” Rachel tilted her head towards me, leaning the phone over so we could both listen. She asked why, and her mom gave a few curt responses, telling her we didn’t have a choice.

We got in the car and left the windows open, thinking we would be back there soon.

Rachel drove us the quick ten minute ride, and we pulled up on her family’s rock driveway. Rachel’s mom pulled up behind us in her car, and we both stared at each other. What was she doing there, two hours from home? On our beach weekend?

I took one look at her mom’s face in the rearview mirror, covered in tears, and looked across the car at Rachel. Every good feeling we had felt that day, that Summer, was blown away by the wind and into the backseat.

Her face was also covered in tears.