Better With You

by Corinne Caraway

By the time the leaves began to change, I could tell my boyfriend was lying to me about how he was spending his time. I hadn’t seen you much since we sat next to each other in Intro to Comm, but I still knew where to find you on Friday nights. While he was off somewhere with someones I had yet to meet, you strummed your songs on a back patio bar in the middle of downtown. I always loved your music, but I know you were surprised to see me sitting there in the front row, clapping against the half empty beer in my hand. 

You’d stopped asking me to come listen last Spring. You smiled at me anyway. 

Every spinning dance turned slow, early morning road trip, mix C.D. exchange, and whisper of something more than friendship hung in the air while you decided what to do next. You knew me too well to know I wouldn’t have come if something wasn’t wrong. And I knew you too well to know you would never pass up an opportunity to fix it. Thankfully you hadn’t changed as much as it felt like I had. 

You turned to address the rest of the scattered crowd, probably feeling like you owed them an explanation for what was coming next. Afterall, these friends of yours were still relatively new, and the next song would not be from your normal indie rock catalog. There is a song by a boy band from an afternoon TV show we were both too old and angst ridden to enjoy that we sang once in your car between bursts of surprised laughter. I’m not surprised how loudly I laughed when you started picking it out on your guitar. Dedicated to me, the one you never got to love but maybe wish you could have.