Perfect Snow (Seasons #1)

Chapter 12: It'll Fade

I know, somewhere in the very back of my mind, that I should start the truck and drive it back to pops. I may be sitting in it, but I feel like I got run over by one.

I punch the wheel repeatedly, growling through gritted teeth. I can taste the salt of my anger in the tears that run down my face. I don't care. I grip the wheel tightly until my knuckles are as white as bone, and repeatedly bang the back of my skull into the headrest. When I run out of steam, I just sit there stewing in my misery. I didn't expect it to crush me like this. It feels like I'm underwater and I'm losing the battle to breathe.

I am not sure how long I stay that way, staring mutely out at nothing. The lot clears up after some time, sans a handful of cars that will stay there until late in the night when their commuter owners will return to reclaim them. I once read a story about a dog that went with his master to the train every single day, waited for him to return in the evening, and walked him home when he did. The dog loved his master so much that, one day, when the master had a heart attack and died at his office, the dog remained at the train station, perpetually waiting for his master to return, until it passed away.

I turn the key in the ignition and pull out of the parking lot. I am barely aware of where I'm going or what I'm going, driving on autopilot. I blink and I'm on the road back into town. I blink again and I find myself entering the local pub. Its owner, Mr. Abernathy, strolls down the bar to where I sit down. He's wiping a chipped glass with a rag that's seen better days. "Hello, bud. Your pops is a good friend, but you know I can't serve you for a few more years," he shrugs.

"I know. Can I just sit here for a bit?" I ask. I almost tell him it's because I need to be somewhere dark and gloomy right now, but I think better of it. He takes one good look at my face and puts the rag down. Frowning at the wretched sight I must be, he wordlessly turns around. I must be quite the sight. Ten seconds later, a soda lands in front of me. I eye the glass indifferently. I have no desire to eat or drink ever again.

A few minutes later I am surprised by Preston's form sinking onto the stool next to mine, but then I vaguely remember texting him at some point that I'm headed into town. He asks for a soda, too, and sips it quietly, waiting for me to speak. I stab ice cubes with the straw for a long while.

"She's gone," I say, my voice sounding as empty as my insides feel. "That was it."

"I know it doesn't seem that way right now, but you will get over it eventually. We are young, and have our whole lives ahead of us," he says, attempting a cheerful tone. It makes me hate him, and it must be showing on my face because he changes his tune instantly. "I'm sorry, man. This suck."

"Better," I say wryly.

"I heard she didn't want to stay in New York?"

"She'd already made up her mind." Long before we'd met.

"But that was before she met you," he tries, looking at me like I'm a limping puppy on the side of the road.

"Maybe. It doesn't matter anymore. Her flight leaves tonight." I take a sip of my soda and wish it was something stronger. A bottle of Captain Morgan behind the bar catches my eye. Even he looks sorry for me. I debate if I can sneak a bit before Mr. Abernathy notices. Eh, not likely.

"So, what you're saying is, there's still time," says Preston.

"Did you not hear me? She left! She's gone, and she's not coming back," I say, my voice cracking. A couple of patrons few seats down give me a look. "I'm not even drinking," I glare at them.

"Okay, hey. Calm down, sit down," says Preston, pulling me down onto my chair. I didn't even realize I'd gotten up.

"This sucks," I conclude, and resume stabbing the ice in my glass until the soda sloshes out.