Endless Bonds Copyright © 2016 xXMopelXx All Rights Reserved.

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"So what's Paris like?" Oliver grunts, as he hauls boxes up the staircase.

My hip presses down on the lever so I can keep the building door open as he unloads my stuff from his car. My own hands are occupied with my suitcases.

"I'll tell you all about it when we're settled down."

"Jesus Christ, Cher," he intones when we reach the top of the staircase. "What's in here – God himself?"

I chuckle and open my new dorm room with the spare key we collected at the front desk. From what I last heard, my roommate is an eighteen-year-old college freshmen named Sara Lemming, studying business administration. She left me a note saying she's already settled in, and the empty side of the room belongs to me. I would have loved to stay with Tara but she's currently residing with her sorority sisters, and has no idea that I'm back in town.

Once everything is inside, Oliver helps me unpack my necessities as promised. Classes start in a week and I want to be fully-prepared by that time.

"Paris is amazing," I blurt out, after awhile of quiet working.

Oliver regards me with a grin from his perched position on my floor. He wields the knife in his hand as he lays sprawled on my floor, cutting open boxes. "Tell me more."

I continue placing my shirts and blouses in my new drawers. "Well, the weather is beautiful, the food is even better and the people... Oliver, they're incredible. Paris is incredible."

He hums in his throat and the sound of metal slicing through cardboard resounds in the air. "Even better than the people over here?"

Something about his question sounds like a little a test – like a little jab. A smile dances over my lips and I shake my head. "No. You know nothing beats here. Here is home. Nothing can compare to home."

I hear him shift and the floorboards creak. There's a softer quality to his voice as he whispers, "What else?"

I glance over my shoulder and tense briefly. Sitting there, with his inky black hair array, his clothing disheveled from the long ride to campus, a fierce intensity burning in his golden eyes from the genuine interest he expresses... All of those things cause a knot to form in my throat.

It's silly, but being here still feels surreal. Seeing one of my best friends after an absence of nearly two years has my eyes prickling all over again.

"What do you want to know?" I ask, smiling despite myself. I try hard to control my emotions. "It was simply wonderful. I fell in love with their literature, their culture, their music, with their patisseries and..." I fell in love with a boy who's now my fiancé.

"And?" he prompts, a teasing gleam returning to his eyes. He waves the knife around like a wand. "Did you find yourself a nice guy whose ass I'm going to have to kick?"

I burst out laughing, a real, started-in-your-belly kind of laugh. I throw one of my skirts at him.

"No," I lie. On instinct, I shift my left hand to the side so he can't spot the tiny gem on my ring finger. "No one for you to kick ass, Oli."

"Good." He looks like the perfect picture of a proud father as he nods curtly. In another parallel universe, I could imagine Oliver, standing behind a desk, polishing his shot gun as he questioned his – in this case, myself – daughter's boyfriend.

Oliver keeps slicing open boxes and I continue shoving my belongings where they seem fit.

I place the snow globe displaying a scenery in Paris, given to me by Pierre, directly on my bedside table. Whenever I prepare for bed at night, I remember to give it a quick shake or two to watch the sparkles glitter over the Eiffel tower.

Oliver clears his throat after a couple of minutes. Turning to look at him, I notice he stopped opening my boxes. Instead, he has a perplexed look on his face as he chews his bottom lip. "Cher?"

"Oli," I mirror, carefully hanging my fit and flare midi skirt inside my closet.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"Why are you back?"

I stiffen at the sound of his wistfully spoken words, pivoting around slowly. Pinning him with a confused expression.

He clears his throat - again. "I mean – why are you back home after so long? What...What changed your mind?"

My chest expands with a strong inhale and, for a second, I think Oliver will just laugh it off. He knows why I'm back. Does he need me to spell it out for him? "I missed everyone."

He nods solemnly. "That I know, but..."

"It's been hard you know," I rush out quickly. "I'm so far away and I can't be here for anyone and–"

"Is this about Tara and Quentin?" Oliver's voice falters.

His words shock the both of us and I feel the stable ground beneath me rock gently.

Oliver looks grave at the mention of his dead best friend whilst I inhale a little brokenly.

My vision begins to blur. "I've been a shxt of a friend, you know," I tell him, barely choking out the words with the emotions threatening to close my throat. "While I was so busy working on myself, I forgot that I had friends and family waiting for me to return. I wasn't there when Tara needed me after Q-Quentin's d-death. Jesus, Oli, I wasn't even there during his final days or his funeral."

He gets up quickly and crosses the room, wrapping me up in his arms. We're both shaking now. "Hey – Hey. It's alright. Deep breaths. Deep breaths."

"Tara told me later he asked about me when h-he was in his d-death b-bed." And the waterworks begin. Once they started, I couldn't stop them.

There's an emptiness - a void - in my heart that can't completely be cemented. Because I let down my Mom when I fled to Paris. I let down my best friends. And I led down Quentin. My other best friend.

"I-I'm back because I...I need to come back. I-I n-need to face my p-past. I need to v-visit Quentin's grave. I-I," I sob loudly in his chest and Oliver only holds me tighter.

"I need t-to apologize to him," I cry hard. "I...I n-need to s-see him."

"Shh," Oliver murmurs into my hair but there's a raspy quality to his voice. He runs his hands up and down my back. "He knew, Cheryl. He knew why you left. He knew why you couldn't come back. He knows, Cher. And he forgives you."

I bury my face in Oliver's neck and he signs. The tears are starting to dry up but my heart feels like it's being split wide open as memories of Quentin drift in my mind.

Quentin laughing in the driver's seat. Quentin walking to my house every morning to pick me up in fourth grade. Quentin sharing his lunch with me when Jared and Oli would act like bullies and eat my lunch. Quentin staying awake late at night talking to me on the phone because he was crushing on a girl. Quentin staying awake late at night to hear me crushing on some guy. Quentin. Quentin. Quentin.

I let down Quentin. The softest, most gentle guy I know. Knew.

And then I whisper in the midst of those racing memories, "But I don't forgive myself, Oli."

* * *

There are more reasons as to why I'm back.

Along with being homesick, I need a reality check. Things are moving too quickly between Pierre and I. While I love him with everything inside of me, I crave a bit of my old life back. Meaning the people in it.

One of the people is Tara.

Whose door I happen to be standing outside of, might I add. One of her sorority sisters let me into the house and now I'm trying to muster the courage to knock on her bedroom door.

Cheryl Anderson, you're stronger now. No one hurts you. No one lays a hurtful hand on you. You're not that girl anymore. You're different. You're changed.

With the mental pep talk still fresh in my mind, I call her cell phone.

I jolt when I hear her ringtone blaring from the other side of the door. Two rings later and she picks up.

"Cher?" I hear her confused voice through the receiver and through the door.

"It's me." I say lamely. I can't stop fidgeting. "Hey."

"Hey yourself." More rustling of fabric. I hear the floor on the other side creaking as she paces in her room. "Is everything okay; what time is it in Paris?"

I clear my throat loudly - loud enough for her to hear. Suddenly, the sound of all movement ceasing from the other side of the door echos.

"Cher?" she drawls. It's as if she picks up on the little clue, but doesn't want to come to terms with the possibility that I'm here, in the flesh, standing on the other side of the door.

I suck in a sharp breath and toy with the strap of my Chanel bag. "I was wondering if you wanted to do lunch today?"

"I don't understand," she laughs awkwardly and it brings a smile to my face. I missed the sound of laughter. "Are you alright, girl?"

"Open your door."

Silence drifts between us. One beat. Two beats. Three beats. And then the door flings open.

I'm greeted with the sight of my frazzled looking best friend. Her blond strands hang haywire around her pale face and her eyes look like they are about to bulge out of their sockets. She is wearing ripped sweatpants and a white tank top.

"Cher," Tara whispers like she's seeing a mirage.

A force inside of me is propelling me to close the distance and hug my best friend like I haven't hugged her in a year.

Instead, I parrot back, "Tara," just to humour her.

But there's not humour. A broken sound snakes past her lips and she chokes, covering her mouth with her hand as a sob wracks her body. I've only seen Tara cry once in my life, so this is alarming. I'm at a loss for words and I don't know what to do.

"How? Why?" she demands through tears. "When? Oh, my God."

"I guess I missed you too much." I smile despite the emotions overwhelming me. I've cried enough for one day. "Where's my hug, bitch?"

She launches herself at me and we cry, laugh and hug each other for what feels like a year.

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What do you think happened to Quentin? xo