kind of sloppy. But then you stopped dressing that way after . . .” His voice trails off.
“My mom died.” I look down at my hands which are on the table. “Yeah, after it happened, I stopped caring about what I wore or how I looked. It just didn’t seem to matter anymore.”
He reaches across the table and holds my hand. “I wish I’d done more for you after the accident. I really do.”
“What would you have done? You were 15. Like you said earlier, kids that age don’t know what to do when something like that happens.”
“I could’ve—” His eyes dart to the side as he thinks. “Maybe written you a song?”
“You write songs?” I can’t help but laugh.
He laughs, too. “No. I can’t even sing. But guys in movies always write girls songs and it makes the girl happy so it sounded like a good idea.”
“Brad, you didn’t need to do anything for me. And you shouldn’t still be worried about it 10 years later.”
“We all have regrets, Morgan. And that’s one of mine.” He looks right at me as he says it.
He’s still holding my hand and I haven’t pulled away. I don’t want to. I like the feel of it. We’ve never held hands before and yet for some reason, it feels familiar.
Our food arrives and the waiter pours us more wine. During dinner, Brad and I continue to reminisce about our old neighborhood, our school, and people from our class. He tells me a little about his internship at the food company. His friends. What he does for fun in Chicago.
Hours later, we’re the last people at the restaurant. The employees are sweeping the floor, probably wishing we would leave. But I don’t want to leave. I like talking to Brad. I’ve told him things tonight that I haven’t told anyone else. Like that thing about thinking I was a burden to my dad after my mom died. I just recently admitted that to myself. And now I’ve told this guy from my high school who I used to only know from his reputation.
“I think they want us to leave,” Brad whispers, eyeing the guy next to us who’s wiping tables and putting flipped-over chairs on them.
“Yeah, we should go.”
Brad comes over and helps me put my coat on. As we leave, the owner introduces himself and tells us to have a nice night. Brad thanks him for letting us stay so long.
When we get outside, snow is falling. It’s a heavy snow with big white flakes. It’s just like the snow that fell the day my mom had her car accident.
I suddenly feel a heaviness in my chest and feel like I can’t breathe. This happens sometimes when it snows like this. And I hate it. I hate that I still react this way. It’s been 10 freaking years, Morgan! Get over it already!
Brad is standing at the car holding my door open. “Morgan, are you coming?”
I can’t get in the car when it’s snowing like this. I know it’s stupid but I can’t do it.
I’m feeling out of breath and I’m starting to sweat, even though a cold wind just blew past me.
“I think I’ll just—” I try to take a deep breath so I can speak, but it feels like my lungs are collapsing and I can’t get any air in. I think I’m having a full-on panic attack. Why the hell is this happening now? This is so embarrassing.
Brad shuts the car door and meets me on the sidewalk. “Morgan, what’s wrong? You look like you might get sick. Was it the food?”
I shake my head. “No. I just can’t—”
He’s staring at me, waiting for me to explain. But I don’t tell him what’s wrong because I don’t want him, or anyone else, knowing I have this irrational fear of big, fluffy snowflakes. The thing is, other type of snow doesn’t bother me as much. I only have this reaction to a particular type of snow. The type that happens to be falling right now.
Brad sees me watching the flakes fall to the ground and says, “The snow.”
I slowly nod, surprised that he figured that out. For all he knew, I could’ve been thinking about anything, but he knew I was thinking
“My mom died.” I look down at my hands which are on the table. “Yeah, after it happened, I stopped caring about what I wore or how I looked. It just didn’t seem to matter anymore.”
He reaches across the table and holds my hand. “I wish I’d done more for you after the accident. I really do.”
“What would you have done? You were 15. Like you said earlier, kids that age don’t know what to do when something like that happens.”
“I could’ve—” His eyes dart to the side as he thinks. “Maybe written you a song?”
“You write songs?” I can’t help but laugh.
He laughs, too. “No. I can’t even sing. But guys in movies always write girls songs and it makes the girl happy so it sounded like a good idea.”
“Brad, you didn’t need to do anything for me. And you shouldn’t still be worried about it 10 years later.”
“We all have regrets, Morgan. And that’s one of mine.” He looks right at me as he says it.
He’s still holding my hand and I haven’t pulled away. I don’t want to. I like the feel of it. We’ve never held hands before and yet for some reason, it feels familiar.
Our food arrives and the waiter pours us more wine. During dinner, Brad and I continue to reminisce about our old neighborhood, our school, and people from our class. He tells me a little about his internship at the food company. His friends. What he does for fun in Chicago.
Hours later, we’re the last people at the restaurant. The employees are sweeping the floor, probably wishing we would leave. But I don’t want to leave. I like talking to Brad. I’ve told him things tonight that I haven’t told anyone else. Like that thing about thinking I was a burden to my dad after my mom died. I just recently admitted that to myself. And now I’ve told this guy from my high school who I used to only know from his reputation.
“I think they want us to leave,” Brad whispers, eyeing the guy next to us who’s wiping tables and putting flipped-over chairs on them.
“Yeah, we should go.”
Brad comes over and helps me put my coat on. As we leave, the owner introduces himself and tells us to have a nice night. Brad thanks him for letting us stay so long.
When we get outside, snow is falling. It’s a heavy snow with big white flakes. It’s just like the snow that fell the day my mom had her car accident.
I suddenly feel a heaviness in my chest and feel like I can’t breathe. This happens sometimes when it snows like this. And I hate it. I hate that I still react this way. It’s been 10 freaking years, Morgan! Get over it already!
Brad is standing at the car holding my door open. “Morgan, are you coming?”
I can’t get in the car when it’s snowing like this. I know it’s stupid but I can’t do it.
I’m feeling out of breath and I’m starting to sweat, even though a cold wind just blew past me.
“I think I’ll just—” I try to take a deep breath so I can speak, but it feels like my lungs are collapsing and I can’t get any air in. I think I’m having a full-on panic attack. Why the hell is this happening now? This is so embarrassing.
Brad shuts the car door and meets me on the sidewalk. “Morgan, what’s wrong? You look like you might get sick. Was it the food?”
I shake my head. “No. I just can’t—”
He’s staring at me, waiting for me to explain. But I don’t tell him what’s wrong because I don’t want him, or anyone else, knowing I have this irrational fear of big, fluffy snowflakes. The thing is, other type of snow doesn’t bother me as much. I only have this reaction to a particular type of snow. The type that happens to be falling right now.
Brad sees me watching the flakes fall to the ground and says, “The snow.”
I slowly nod, surprised that he figured that out. For all he knew, I could’ve been thinking about anything, but he knew I was thinking
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