Chapter Text
Written by @caramel.conann on YouTube — Grace/Bran ⊹˚☽
wilson
It’s been forever since I last saw Brando. The last clear memory I have of us together is when we graduated high school. Now we’re both in college, and I haven’t heard much from him at all.
Maybe he forgot about me…
No. No, that’s stupid. He’s probably just busy. College is more important than me, obviously.
I just wish I could tell him how I really feel.
My phone suddenly buzzes.
I literally gasp. It’s Bran.
Bran: Hey Wilson, do you wanna meet soon??
Meet up? My heart starts racing. I’m already planning to go back to the suburbs soon anyway. I’m going to see him. I want to.
Wilson: Yeah, sure! I’m actually coming back to the suburbs for the summer. I think I’m leaving tomorrow!
Bran: Sweet! I’ll talk to you about it tomorrow. Cyaa <333
The “<333” drives me insane. God, I love this boy.
Wilson: kk byeee!!!
I flop onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking about Bran. That stupid “<333” won’t leave my head. He’s basically sending me kisses—hello??
I fall asleep, but my mind never really shuts off. It just keeps replaying his name.
---
I wake up with my hair a mess and start packing fast. I almost forget to brush my hair and do my skincare. My phone dings.
It’s Bran: “Can’t wait to see you today!! <3”
He used “<3” again. I type back quickly:
“Can’t wait to see you too, love you Bran <3”
The second I hit send, my heart drops.
“Love you, Bran <3.”
Who says that to their best friend?!
I slam my suitcase onto my face. “OW.” That actually hurt.
On the way to the suburbs, I think about the postcard I sent him. It had bluebonnets on it, written in blue gel pen—his favorite color.
It said:
Brando,
I’m coming back to the suburbs for the summer. I’ve missed you. Kinda. Not a lot though.
P.S. I may have borrowed your brown racer jacket for the rest of the year. Thanks.
— Wilson
What if he’s happy I’m coming back?
What if he’s pretending to be happy?
I guess I’ll find out.
I listen to my playlist—half the songs are ones Bran recommended. Only because I wanted new music. Totally not because of him.
When I land, I check my phone.
Three missed calls. All from Bran.
I call him back immediately. He answers in less than two seconds.
“Hey Bran!”
“Hey, where are you right now?”
“I’m here!”
…Why did I say that? That makes zero sense.
“Where is ‘here,’ Wil?”
“Oh—sorry,” I laugh nervously. “I’m at the airport.”
“The one like thirty minutes from my house?”
“Yes! That one!”
“Okay,” he laughs. “I’ll come get you. Just stay there.”
“Like I can go anywhere,” I mutter, rolling my eyes even though he can’t see me.
He laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I’m on my way.”
“Alrighty, bye!”
“Bye, Wilson.”
Waiting for him feels like five hours. When I finally see him, I run straight at him. He’s smiling—like, the biggest smile I’ve ever seen.
I throw my arms around him. He laughs at how hard I hug him. My head rests on his shoulder, and he runs his fingers through my hair. God, it feels so good.
“I missed you, Wil,” he says.
“You missed me?” My heart jumps. “I missed you too. God, I love you so much.”
He looks at me for a second—longer than a second—then looks away. His face is red. Is he embarrassed?
We get in his truck, and I notice all the wishbones.
“Hey Bran?”
“Yeah, Wil?”
“What’s with all the wishbones?”
“I guess I have a lot of wishes.”
I laugh. “But… doesn’t it ever make you sad?”
He looks confused. “Why?”
“Because someone always gets the short end of the stick.”
He goes quiet after that. The whole ride is silent.
I have to break it.
I see a spider near the truck and get an idea. “AH!” I scream.
He looks terrified. “Wilson, are you okay?”
Then he notices. “Wil… are you scared of spiders?”
“No! They’re cute,” I sigh. “I just got jump-scared.”
He smirks. “Yeah, sure.”
He grabs my hand. “But if you are scared, that’s okay.”
Then he bursts out laughing. I giggle. “I told you, I’m not scared of spiders!”
“Yeah, yeah. Love you for that, Wil.”
Love you…
No. He just means it platonically. He has to.
“So,” he says, “anyone you’ve found attractive lately?”
The boy I find attractive is literally driving the car.
“Oh. Not really,” I say.
He looks a little sad.
Maybe I’ll tell him soon. Maybe this summer.
He changes the subject. “I work at an ice cream place now.”
“Ooo,” I say without thinking, “nothing better than a hot guy who works at an ice cream place.”
Oh no. I called him hot.
“What did you say?” he asks.
“Nothing!” I say too fast.
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure!” I snap.
He notices my tone and gently takes my hand, rubbing his thumb over my knuckles. I look away.
God, I feel awful.
Why do I think about my best friend like this?