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"He appears in my dreams sometimes," I mumbled, tapping the end of my pencil against the top of my sketchbook as Soda sat beside me, staring at the ceiling like it had secrets. "Curly says it's weird, since... I'm dreaming about another guy that ain't my boyfriend."
Soda turned his head. "Don't he think everything is weird?" He asked. "You can't control it, honey, it's just a dream, don't let him control your life. This is just a small relationship, y'all ain't married."
I stopped tapping the eraser, bringing my eyes up to stare at the silver rings keeping the papers together. Johnny’s face flashed in my head, the scar on his temple, stretching to his cheek, his eyes that were too dark to the point where you didn't see his pupils. He kept popping up in my dreams again, but they were nightmares to me now. He was dead, and had been for a while. I needed to move on. "Sure," I mumbled as I thought about Curly, going back to scribbling. I've lost count of how much time I've wasted, forcing myself to like someone.
"Pony," Soda continued on, "you know me and Dar' don't really like Curly."
"I know."
"You don't seem happy with him. You were so happy 'round Johnnycakes–"
"Don't," I interrupted, squeezing my eyes shut as they watered, "please don't." Soda fell silent and looked back at the ceiling. He crossed his ankles. I opened my eyes and shook my head. "You guys don't... see a good Curly, you're biased. I've seen a good kid, he can be sweet and nice!"
Sodapop sat up pretty quickly, looking at me. I avoided his eyes. "He can be?" He repeated.
I scratched out a small doodle I did. I had lost interest in art recently. "Yeah."
"So he's mean sometimes?"
"I mean, he's a Shepard, so... sure."
"To you?"
I tapped the eraser against the page again, resisting the urge to bite my nails. "No," I whispered, knowing I was lying to my brother and myself. Curly's personality and words popped up in my head, what he'd say when I tear up over Johnny for the fifth time that month, telling me to get over it, they weren't coming back. It reminded me of Darry sometimes. Or he'd comfort me. At least, try to.
Soda tilted his head. "Is he mean to you, Pony?" He asked.
"Nope." I went back to scribbling, trying to get at least something... artful on the page. "I mean..." I hesitated before shaking my head. Soda didn't respond for a minute, pulling at the bedsheets. Then, he turned to look at me again.
"Neigh?"
"Hm?"
"Does he holler at you?"
"No."
"What does he do, then? You don't talk 'bout bein' romantic much, you don't behave like a couple."
I stared at the shapes I sketched in, grip slightly tightening on the pencil. I thought about Johnny again, and I closed my eyes, pressing my forehead against the silver rings. I miss him. I want him back. I feel empty. I feel like an open sewing project, not stitched up. Then I thought about Curly. I'm not happy. "He doesn't..." I trailed off again, doubting what my heart wanted to say, "nevermind." I pulled my head back.
"Ponyboy," Soda whispered, slightly pleading for a straight answer.
"We share food and drinks," I mumbled, "and we talk, and I bring up Johnny, and he rolls his eyes and tells me to get over it." I slightly whispered the last part because my voice was breaking.
"Oh, heck no!" Soda exclaimed. "Honey, he ain't good! You're allowed to grieve, he's bad news."
I drew a few lines. "It's been a few months. I should move on from Johnny and Dally. They're not comin' back, Soda," I mumbled. My vocal chords tightened. "He's not wrong."
Sodapop grabbed a pillow and tucked it under his head, hugging it as he laid down on his side. I heard a faint 'Jesus Christmas.' "What else does he do, Pone? You're holdin' stuff back," he asked.
I didn't answer. I didn't know what to say. I felt tired. "Johnny never liked Curly. He never liked how loud he was when we talked. He said he reminded him of his parents. He got 'bad vibes.'"
"Don't change subjects," Sodapop quietly pleaded.
"Curly doesn't listen a lot. He got in a fight once and didn't like it when I said don't get in more. We argued," I admitted, trying to draw a horse, but it looked more like a stupid Picasso drawing.
Soda stared at me. He reached over and plucked the pencil out of my hand. I stared at the paper, resting the side of my hand against it. "When you argue, what's it like?" He asked hesitantly.
I felt like a kid trying to be consoled by their parents, and now I'm thinking about our parents, and the lump in my throat is back. "Upset, angry, I guess," I summarized. "It ain't unhealthy, we don't break up, we say sorry and make up. He... tells me a lot of the truth. Says I need to stop being stuck in the past most of the time."
"So he gets upset at you a lot, honey," Soda said, his tone gentle.
I stayed quiet for a bit. I put down my sketchbook and laid down, pulling the blankets over myself after turning off the light. "I'm tired, Soda. 'Night."
"Goodnight."
I didn't close my eyes, just stared at the wall. Soda got out of bed, I know because the mattress shifted when his weight left it.
So he gets upset at you a lot.
I miss Johnny. I think I'd do anything to give him one more hug, maybe spin around with him, watch the sunset one more time. He's in the sunset now. He gets to see it every night.
I felt a headache form when a few tears started to slip out of my eyes.
I don’t think it'll be okay. I don't think I want to be with Curly. I want to be with Johnny.
I want Johnny back. He wouldn't holler at me for grieving. He wouldn't scoff when I cry. He'd hug me every time, maybe tell me a joke.
Soda came back and lazily draped an arm around my shoulders.
I don't think there's a cure for the loneliness I feel, forcing love is a temporary solution.
I miss the dead, and I want to join them.